Sorry I've been gone for so long, my computer died a horrible and semi-permanent death and had to be resurrected. (sent back and repaired) Also in the second drabble, you can find the picture of (what I assume to be anyway) Pip's parents in the seventh OVA ending. Also also, I plan to do a grand Christmas update as a present to all of you, so check pretty much every story I have open and it'll probably have at least one or two more chapters. (Yes, even the Black Butler one.)
Prompt: Lucky rabbit's paw.
"So…um…eh…I-I'm Pip Bernadotte…"
The fifteen-year-old boy turned beet red as the other recruits snickered, looking at his feet and shuffling them nervously.
"Alright, leave off the little nipper! It's time to eat!"
He sighed gratefully as the older boys dove into the plates of food, and eagerly joined them, thanking whichever anonymous person had saved him from the further humiliation of stammering out his other facts.
Life at St. Cyr was…interesting to say the least.
Pip's grandfather had sent him here to "learn to be a real mercenary", but the only thing Pip had learned so far was that he was horribly embarrassed at talking in front of all the older, more experienced cadets.
Also that his age was not the normal one to be accepted into this prestigious academy.
He'd been here all of three days, and already he was having cramps in places he hadn't even known it was possible to get cramps.
Grandpa said that this academy was the best place to become a soldier (and a mercenary thereafter), and Pip was inclined to agree with him.
So far this was the strictest, most methodically, ruthlessly improving, and strenuous fitness and strategy course he had ever seen, never mind taken part in.
Pip sighed once more and fished in his pocket worriedly.
He tensed as his hand came up empty, and began fishing even more frantically in the empty canvas.
Where is it?! Where is it!?
"Eh, looking for this?"
He whipped around at the familiar voice.
It was the same kid who had saved him from another stammering fit.
In one hand he held a small white rabbit's foot.
"Oui! Yes, zat's mine!" he blurted, snatching it away from the elder male and clinging to it desperately.
"Is it important?"
Pip beamed and chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his head.
"Eh…it's my lucky rabbit's paw. My maman gave it to me."
His newfound ally grinned and plopped down beside him.
"Well, it's a good thing I found it then. So what you'd do to get stuck in this hellhole, my fine underage friend?"
Prompt: Freckles.
Pip squinted at the picture in the tarnished metal frame.
No use.
He sighed and spat on his palm, then rubbed the grubby glass until a vague face peered through the mirk.
Eh…close enough?
"Nah…" he muttered, rubbing his sleeve vigorously against the picture until the two forms were at least imperfectly picked out.
He held it up to the light with a critical eye, his tongue protruding slightly as he concentrated.
"Well, it'll have to do."
He tucked it in his pocket and trotted out into the early afternoon sun of Paris.
Sitting down on one of the many park benches, he inspected the picture in the better light.
A man with short, slightly curly strawberry blonde hair in a green polo shirt stood, his hand on the shoulder of a woman in a light pink long-sleeve shirt.
Her cropped hair was a light auburn, and her eyes were an impish green.
His fingers lightly traced them both, and an almost reverent sigh dropped from his lips.
He had his father's hair and his mother's eyes.
His father and mother, however, had one defining feature that had apparently skipped him.
Freckles.
His father had a light dusting of them, and his mother had slightly fewer, but darker.
Out of the many, many things he inherited, he kinda wished it had been that.
The freckles.
Not the bright green eyes from his mother.
Not the long, fine hair that was his pride and joy from his father.
Not the life of a mercenary.
The freckles.
Prompt: 3:28am.
Pip looked at the digital clock and sadly reflected that, a few months ago, 3:28 in the morning would've been an ungodly hour.
Of course, now, it was merely the middle of the work day.
He sighed and carefully readjusted his beloved cowboy hat, heaving himself out of his bed.
He'd been trying to catch up on lost sleep, but it seemed to have been useless.
At least the schedule was keeping him and the other men in shape.
At the first sign of darkness, they were to be out and in the mess hall, eating the surprisingly edible English breakfast. (The taste and consistency were occasionally off, but it was palatable even then, so he supposed he had no reason to complain.)
After which, they were sent to the training room, which certainly kept them fitter than they'd ever been. The use of some of Alucard's ghoulish familiars cemented the enthusiasm of the new troops.
After that delightful exercise, most of them were completely wiped, and it was time for a nap or whatever else you did in your free time.
Most chose to nap, or at least try.
Others decided to practice their marksmanship, thinking that it would improve their chances on the battlefield.
The few, the lonely, brave, (or perhaps psychopathic) few that were not terrorized by nightmares every time they closed their eyes, to the point that the extra sleeping time was required, or were confident enough about their marksmanship to not die on the field of undead battle, usually played cards during this time.
Pip made it a matter of political duty, as their Captain, to switch his routine so that he included himself in each chosen "free time" activity at least once per week. Today, it was sleeping.
He didn't particularly like or dislike this occupation; money was money and they were being paid big bucks to guard this mansion and England in its entirety.
He just wished it was a bit less stressful on the men.
Any good commander would tell you the same; the men came first, especially when the campaign seemed likely to stretch on and on and on for weeks, or even months on end.
This particular campaign had been stretching on for centuries, or so the elder vampire hinted in the few occasions he deigned to show himself to the lowly mercenary troops.
Pip (and some others) usually had an increased amount of nightmares the morning after, because of course they no longer slept at night like normal human beings.
He sighed again and shook his head.
For all that Sir Integra and the other Round Table members directed the fighting, it seemed that the vampires themselves were running how the war was fought.
They fought in the dark, and not in the light.