Prompt: Jupiter.
Integra considered her cigar carefully in a rare moment of introspection.
What did it mean, to be a Hellsing?
She'd had it drummed into her since before she could prattle.
To be of the Hellsing blood is to be proud, persistent, unflappable, indomitable, capable, unescapable.
The noblest of noble families, the vampire hunters, strong and true as steel.
Like the Roman god of oaths, Jupiter.
Jupiter was the king of all the Roman gods, their own parallel to Zeus and the representation of their mighty empire.
He was their guardian, their safeguard, their shield, their faith.
A Hellsing must be the Jupiter of England, a secret but no less powerful Jupiter.
She had to protect her empire from its impure residents, it's unholy underground.
Sacrifices were offered, soldiers, equipment, weapons, money, offered by those who had no true idea of what she was, what she did, but knew, instinctively, in their heart of hearts, that she must be venerated and protected.
And Jupiter protected them all.
Prompt: Ballet shoes.
"Sir Integra! Sir Integra!"
Sir Integra Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing, age fourteen, turned, coming down with a huff on her painfully tight ballet shoes.
One of the commanders, whose name she could never remember, was pushing past her dance teacher, covered in blood.
"Ghouls have broken out in Suffolk! We're being massacred!"
As a Hellsing, her job was clear.
The fourteen-year-old child straightened her glasses and picked up her coat, gesturing to both stunned adults.
"Soldier, please escort this civilian to the medical bay and lock yourselves in. Make sure Mrs. Travering does not contact any other parties with her cell phone." she said rapidly, walking past the both of them.
"Send Walter around with a car; I don't care which one, just something with wheels."
Ten minutes later, Integra stepped out of a shining black auto, still in the ballerina shoes that she had not had the time to change out of.
Walter handed her a gun.
Her coat was already riddled with pockets full of silver, blessed ammunition.
Sir Integra Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing racked the slide and descended into a nightmare of death, blood, and ghouls.
Soon her pretty, pink ballet shoes were soaked in crimson, sticky blood.
Prompt: Spider.
Ancient, old, other.
Silky string, spinning outward into tiny strands, centered at the utterly, completely, still body of the spider itself.
Waiting for the kill.
The spider was patient; it had to be.
One leg extended and gently twitched a spiraling strand.
Level Zero Release, approved.
The spider stilled as the cloud of buzzing gnats struck the web, stuck, stayed.
The spider reeled them in to her hungry brood.
Another spider sat in another web, a male, hungry, bestial.
Its own gnats from its own web were reeled in as well, but strangely, it did not seem to care.
Tugged by the first spider, the two webs met, meshed.
Now there was a reaction.
Both spiders chittered angrily at the disruption of their perfectly woven web, creeping along the tangled strands in search of the perpetrator.
They found each other, found each other in the very epicenter of the tangled knots, and fought.
As in most cases of the species, the female, bigger and more deadly than the male, triumphed, and his carcass was left to rot in the remainder of his web as she cut her own free
And Integra Hellsing walked away.