Sir Integra Hellsing was not a woman to be kept waiting. She had no problem with exerting patience when the situation called for it, but time was a precious commodity: she had very little of it to spare. And yet, here she was—here she had been, for nearly two hours—stuck in a mundane room that looked more like a clinician's front lobby than a high-ranking Vatican office.
Already she'd catalogued every aspect of the room, from the number of tiles in the drop ceiling to the obnoxiously loud analog clock. Tick. Tick. Tick. A muscle in her eyebrow twitched to the beat. Save her and Walter, the lobby was entirely empty. A secretary sat behind a plate glass window at the front of the room; her blonde bob swayed to the rhythm of her rapid-fire typing.
Shaking back her sleeve, Integra checked her watch with a frown. The first hour had passed with relative peace, but now she was beginning to grow impatient. However, she dared not give either voice or expression to her complaints. Office or not, this was still enemy territory. While she was sure they were safe physically, there was always the danger of a hidden camera or bugged furniture. A cheap tactic, to be sure, but nothing was too low for that weasel of a bishop.
Keeping her face carefully neutral, she peered up at the small television mounted above the secretary's window. It was an old, outdated set, sorely in need of color correction; the newswoman's skin was a gaudy shade of mustard. With the sound muted she spoke to no one, hands waving and lips flapping wordlessly. It cut to commercials and she shifted in her chair, wincing as the faux leather let out an earsplitting squeak.
"I wonder if all Italians take their time?" The question was calm, almost serene, but she knew Walter would catch the hidden complaint.
"Hmm? I'm sure that's only a generalization," he replied coolly, his lips barely moving. He'd taken a magazine from the rack earlier and now had it open on his knee, reading an article about horses. She'd chosen French over Italian, but her butler was a regular polyglot. He always relished a chance to brush up on his skills. "At least the flight home isn't unreasonable."
"Yes… although I'm surprised that Her Majesty agreed to this assessment." Assessment was, in her opinion, far too polite a word. It was a farce, plain and simple. When told that she'd be subjected to a "Vatican-mandated psychological appraisal", she'd protested quite heartily—albeit, not to the Queen. No, it was Sir Walsh who'd taken the brunt of that tirade, rolling one of his cheap cigarettes between his teeth as she cursed and banged about her office. He'd let her exhaust herself before reminding her (in no uncertain terms) that she was duty-bound to follow Her Majesty's orders through to the letter. In this case, that meant clearing her schedule and booking the next flight to Rome.
"A show of good faith never hurt." Walter gave her a longsuffering sidelong glance, crow's feet wrinkling further. "When there's nothing to hide, that is." The office door opened with a digital chime and a pair, male and female, clomped into the room. Walter turned back to his magazine, rustling the pages pointedly before admiring a classy Rolex advertisement. She followed his lead, feigning interest in the muted news program while keeping a subtle eye on the newcomers.
The pair were dressed identically in olive nylon waders and heavy utility gloves. Tool belts, hung low on their waists, added definition to otherwise shapeless hips. The man was tall with thin shoulders and a sparse mustache; the woman's frizzy black mane was pulled back from her angular cheeks. She popped her chewing gum, idly shifting her weight from one foot to the other as the man removed one glove to knock on the secretary's window.
"Jacopo!" The secretary's smile was somewhat robotic as she slid the glass aside. "Come posso aiutarti?" The man answered her quickly, gesturing first to his partner and then somewhere above their heads. Her smile vanished as he spoke, eyes on the verge of rolling. "Okay," she sighed, picking up the phone.
Integra watched the exchange before realizing that the woman was watching her, and just as closely. Their eyes met, each sizing the other up before her deep brown ones slid away lazily. She thumped her partner on the shoulder, speaking quietly, and Integra might have ignored them had she not caught the clear "Hellsing" at the end. The man's head moved a fraction of an inch, twitching in her direction; he paused, tongue working in his cheek, and then barked a sharp retort. Even with the language barrier Integra could recognize an order—to shut up, perhaps, or to be more discreet.
"Those two are…" Integra flipped through her admittedly limited knowledge of Vatican operational districts. "Andrews?" The woman looked up from her feet at the sound. She smirked, head and shoulders bobbing in the mocking parody of a bow. That answers that, she thought with some annoyance. Even if they're not part of Iscariot, they still have attitudes… why am I not surprised? She continued to observe them intermittently, trying to visualize the dossier given to her by the Vatican intelligence officer.
Section XIII was only the bookend of the Vatican's highly detailed system of Special Operations. Each section, named for one of the disciples, was a spoke in the smoothly running wheel of commercial Catholicism. Andrews, she vaguely remembered, were machinists by trade. Mechanics, plumbers, motorists—although, if she remembered correctly, they were in charge of official restoration as well. Did artists and sculptors also fall under that broad umbrella?
Even more intriguing was the thought that Andrews knew of her, and her organization. She had been under the impression that only Iscariot bothered to care about heathens and monsters. Of course, there was always the possibility of intersectional friendships… perhaps even more. Or was her picture a permanent guest on some Vatican-wide Most Wanted list?
Content to ponder the thought, she retreated into the confines of her tangled thoughts. She was so lost in her musing that she completely missed the whitewashed door on the other side of the room opening. The Andrews slipped through quickly, but as they did another woman stepped out from beyond the threshold. She stood with her hands behind her back, observing both Integra and her companion with a scrutinizing air. When she'd had her fill, she clapped her gloved hands twice.
"Miss Hellsing?" she chirruped, head tilting. Startled by the sound, Integra looked up and came eye to eye with what had to be the most pastel outfit she'd ever had the misfortune of seeing. The woman standing before her wore a power blue suit in the French style, the skirt's hem falling just above her knees to reveal brown hose. A lacey white blouse peeked through the gap between her lapels. A blue pillbox hat sat on white-blonde curls, two feather accents decorating the brim.
"I'm Sir Hellsing," she finally answered, rising from her seat. Walter followed her, rolling up the magazine and tucking it neatly beneath his arm. The woman smiled brightly at them, two rows of perfectly squared teeth gleaming against flawless pink lipstick. Perched gracefully on her heels, she sauntered across the room to shake their hands.
"Buongiorno, Bonjour, and Good Morning!" The woman fairly glowed with the force of her good mood. "My name is Miss Angela." Astonished, Integra had her hand shaken before she could even think of complaining about the about the wait.
"You're—"
"An Englishwoman? I am. It's always such a pleasure to meet my fellow countrymen in Roma! I'm afraid I don't have many opportunities to visit. And who do we have with us as a companion this morning?"
"Walter Dornez." The butler bowed politely. "A pleasure, ma'am." Miss Angela inclined her head as well, her smile widening even more.
"It's certainly nice to make your acquaintance, Mr. Dornez. Now—shall we?" she offered, waving one immaculate glove at the door. "I'm sure you're anxious to get started." Integra hesitated, glancing at Walter out of the corner of her eye. If he shared her confusion, he didn't openly show it. Planting her feet, she tucked her hands at her sides and unleashed the full force of her best authoritative gaze on the newcomer.
"I was led to believe that this was to be a psychological evaluation. When will I meet with the psychologist?"
"The—? Oh!" Miss Angela clapped a hand to her cheek, mascaraed lashes fluttering as her pink lips rounded in surprise. "I do apologize! I should have made it clear beforehand. You see, I am your evaluator."
"You?" She could hardly believe it. The bubbly attitude, and the odd appearance… it was as far from clinical as one could get. This Miss Angela looked—and acted—more like an idealistic Cold War era housewife!
"I can understand your confusion," she simpered. "You see, Bishop Maxwell did express his wishes for a lower-ranking psychologist. But his superiors—as well as mine—insisted that only the best would do. After all, we want the most accurate results available, don't we? It's in both our interests… Section XIII and the Hellsing Organization's, I mean." The joy returned tenfold. "And they did ask for the best, so here I am!"
"A lower-ranking psychologist?" Walter repeated, puzzled. Miss Angela nodded, pin curls dancing around her cheeks.
"By that, I mean a regular psychoanalyst. Do come along." She gestured at the door. "It will be just as easy to explain as we go." She opened it for them, ushering them into an unadorned beige hallway. Down the hall, towards the lift," she ordered, pointing the way. "Anyway, Mr. Dornez—I am the head of my department here at Section VI. When asked to find a suitable candidate for Miss Hellsing's evaluation, my direct supervisor volunteered me for the job. I must say, I'm simply thrilled to pieces that he did."
"And just what are your credentials?" Integra asked, eyeing the lapel pin gleaming at Miss Angela's right breast. A silver cross, its base intertwined with two delicate feathers. Two feathers… is it too early to call it a motif?
"A Ph.D. in clinical psychology, for starters." Her broad smile never faltered once. "As well as various degrees and training in social, cognitive, and quantitative psychology." She laughed. "I know what you're thinking, so I'll tell you outright: I'm thirty-four years old. Don't let this young face fool you! I'm more than old enough to have a few university classes under my belt."
They stopped at the end of the hallway, where she called the lift. Opening an unassuming side door, she revealed a smaller waiting area complete with kitchenette and vending machines. The rich aroma of coffee drifted into the hallway.
"Mr. Dornez, I must ask you to remain here," she said politely. "We have coffee and tea available, and you'll find more reading material in the far cabinet. Please make yourself at home."
"Wait? Whatever for?" Walter asked, eyebrows lifting in mild surprise.
"We take our evaluations here very seriously, sir. In order to maintain an unbiased environment, only evaluators and patients are permitted past this point." Walter didn't move, and the smile tightened. "After all, nothing can be allowed to skew the results. I'm sure you understand." Her voice was chipper, but a subtle undertone flickered through each syllable. It was like a fish beneath the water's surface, discernable only by the odd flash of silver.
"It's alright, Walter." Integra nodded once. Good faith, she mouthed over Miss Angela's shoulder.
"Very well." He bowed once, dismissing himself before walking into the room.
"It shouldn't take long!" Miss Angela assured him, beaming as though nothing had happened. She shut the door, perking up when the lift doors opened for them with a chime. "Now then, Miss Hellsing—"
"Sir." Integra stepped into the lift. The fingers of one hand twitched behind her back, itching for a cigar. "It's Sir Hellsing."
"You're married, then?" The question caught her off-guard and, unthinking, she answered immediately.
"No, of course not."
"And until you are, I'm afraid you'll have to settle for Miss Hellsing. Official titles are quite lost on me; it comes with the profession." She smiled sympathetically, long eyelashes fluttering. A small coil of irritation flared to life in Integra's stomach; she looked away, watching the numbers on the panel as they continued to rise.
The lift slid to a smooth halt, opening to reveal an almost identical hallway to the one they'd left. She half-expected Miss Angela to open the righthand door and usher Walter back out of the waiting area, as though it were some sort of mind game. Miss Angela stepped out, cheerfully beckoning for her patient to follow as they walked down the tiled corridor.
Turning the corner, they reached a divided hallway. Taking the left side, Miss Angela led her down a hallway of virtually identical doors. A light was above each doorframe; some were dark, others lit red. This corridor was more populated; men and women in dove-gray scrubs and lab coats convened in small groups, sharing notes and speaking in low voices. No one glanced up as the pair passed by.
Stopping before a room with a darkened light, Miss Angela opened the door to reveal what appeared to be an examination room. There was the standard examination bed in one corner, covered in a fresh sheet of paper, and a lab bench against the far wall. A phlebotomy chair stood beside the lab bench.
"What is this?" Integra demanded, frowning at the scene. "This was supposed to be a psychological assessment. I wasn't made aware of any physical examination."
"It is a psychological assessment," Miss Angela agreed. "All Section VI patients are automatically prescreened with a thorough blood test. There's nothing to it, really—just a little prick." She pressed a call button above the light switch. "You can place your coat on the bed there, and roll up whichever sleeve you prefer."
"I didn't agree to this." Is this some strange ploy to get my DNA?
"It's standard procedure," she insisted. "It makes perfect sense when you think about it. Biochemistry has just as much to do with mental health as, say, environment. Gone are the days of lunacy and hysteria; we live in the modern age, Miss Hellsing. Our scientists have proven that an unbalanced mind simply cannot be fully receptive to counseling. Medicine to set the mind straight, and counseling to lead the heart—this is the way to happy, healthy individuals."
"I can already assure you that I am not mentally unbalanced," Integra spat. "And I know what your "scientists" are up to. I refuse to submit to any sort of biochemical experimentation." Miss Angela rolled her eyes.
"No one was planning to experiment on you, Miss Hellsing. Section VI has far more important things to do, to be sure," she countered in a clipped tone. "We are looking for statistics, not guinea pigs. Hormonal imbalance, blood cell count—in short, what you'd expect from your local doctor. Even the smallest infection could make a big change when grading the results of an evaluation. And, as I told you downstairs, we take our evaluations very seriously."
"And if I were to refuse?"
"Then you would have come all this way for nothing. I'm sure your superiors would be very interested to hear that explanation." She tilted her head, curls falling prettily around her shoulders. "Are you frightened of needles, Miss Hellsing? Is that what all this fuss is about?"
"I am not."
"Then…." Her voice went eerily flat. "Roll up your sleeve, please." Integra obeyed, unable to stop a scowl from twisting her features. What choice did she have, but to obey? It was as Miss Angela said: she was under direct orders from Her Majesty. Refusing would only waste everyone's time. At the least, she'd get a stern lecture on duty from Sir Irons.
As she sat in the chair, there was a knock at the door; a gray-clad technician entered the room, carrying a phlebotomy kit. He nodded appreciatively at her bared arm, grabbing a stool from beneath the lab bench and pulling on a pair of gloves.
"Little prick," he murmured, clearly used to his job. Integra gave him her arm and was subjected to the fasted blood-drawing of her life; it was over almost before she was aware it was happening. He quickly wrapped her elbow in gauzed and scribbled on the vials with a pen before leaving as quickly as he came.
"Excellent!" Miss Angela tittered. "Now, once you've put yourself to rights, we'll head over to the evaluation room."
Excellent, she mocked internally, shrugging down her sleeve. I suppose the real fun can begin.
It could be said that the evaluation room was… comfortable. At least, in the barest sense of the word. The temperature was neither too hot nor too cold; the furniture was plain, but serviceable. The walls were a nondescript color, and the lights above the wooden table weren't harsh or glaring. And yet, despite all these creature comforts, Integra still felt on edge.
Perhaps it was not the room's fault, but that of her evaluator. At the beginning of the assessment, Miss Angela's frankly overbearing personality had given way to something concise, businesslike. That stark change was enough to send a current of unease coursing through her veins. It didn't help that she wrote constantly, even when the conversation had trailed to a halt. Integra's precalculated method for surviving the evaluation was to say as little as possible, and as a result the pauses between question and answer were long and awkward.
But still she continued to write, her pale eyes locked on the impassive face before her. There had only been a few questions spoken, enough to count on one hand, and yet nearly half a page was filled with her efforts. Integra had no way of knowing if what she wrote was of value or not; infuriatingly enough, her notes were in an unreadable shorthand. Perhaps the loops and scribblings were nothing but that, not words at all but instead a subtle attempt to throw her off guard. Or—and admittedly, more likely—she was writing of her patient's stress levels, the smallest change in expression, any possible giveaway in either tone or demeanor.
"I'd like to talk about your family life. What can you tell me about your mother?"
"My mother died when I was born." She schooled her face into a neutral expression, lacing her fingers on the table and wishing, again and again, that she had a cigar. Even if she couldn't smoke, it would have been something to hold.
"And your father? What is he like?"
"He is also dead." She stared not at Miss Angela's face, but at the notes on the desk before her. With each breath she strove to keep her guard up at all times, both in expression and emotion. In the past, in commendation and condemnation alike, she'd been rumored to have a heart made of iron. Now was the time to live up to those whispers. She could not fail; any ounce of vulnerability, no matter how small, would instantly be pounced upon by these Vatican hyenas.
"When did he pass? Recently?" Those records were public; anyone, even Miss Angela or Maxwell, could very easily access that information. Probably they already had, and this was a test of her honesty.
"No. He died when I was twelve years old."
"Oh? Let's see… you're twenty-eight now, so that would have been about sixteen years ago, correct?"
"That's correct." Miss Angela nodded, her hand moving with careless ease across the page.
"Losing your only parent at such a young age," she tutted sympathetically. "That must have been very hard for you." How was she supposed to answer something like that? Thinking it over briefly, she gave the most impartial answer she could think of.
"Perhaps."
"Perhaps?" Miss Angela repeat with a hint of amusement. "That's a somewhat callous answer, Miss Hellsing. Do you not recall your emotions at the time?"
"I recall them quite accurately, however… it's hard to answer a question so unspecific."
"What do you mean?"
"Hard means something different for everyone. I was certainly upset, if that's what you're implying. Likewise, it was a very tumultuous time in my life. But I wouldn't necessarily describe it as hard." There was a thoughtful hum, and the sound of renewed scribbling. No susceptibility, Integra thought with some satisfaction. The loss of a family member did not—does not—keep me from my duties. Are you writing that down too, Papist?
"Was it a sudden death, Miss Hellsing? A heart attack or car accident?"
"No. On the contrary, he was bedridden for months." Another pause.
"Disease, then."
"Yes."
"Which disease?" Integra was silent, weighing her options. Honesty? Or a gamble? When she didn't answer, Miss Angela prompted, "Cancer? Or are you unsure?" Taking the middle ground, she wracked her brain for the technical answer.
"It was… tuberculosis, I believe."
"Tuberculosis." Miss Angela lifted the fountain pen to her lips and tapped softly, gold in relief against bubblegum pink. They looked drier, more chapped than they had downstairs. "Tuberculosis…" she repeated in a slow, soft voice, her gaze searching. Integra knew what the psychologist was searching for; it was the same look she'd received time and time again as a young girl. The look that asked and surmised and knew all at once.
"It was AIDS." Her father had told her himself, once he was sick enough to keep to his bed, using terms that she could understand at that age. He'd always been a careful and thorough teacher; his pragmatic explanation of the disease that ravaged him was no different. If the diagnosis shamed him, she never knew of it.
By that point she had already reached puberty, and had been taught as much of reproduction and sex as any girl that age ought to know. It was well within her grasp to understand that this was the consequence of multiple partners, with no protection and no thought of transmission. A wild youth had cost her father his life; it had aged him before his time and made even the slightest cough potentially deadly. Integra had known, even then, that she would never make the same costly mistake.
"I see." She waited for the inevitable. "And do you—"
"No." Years of tests in childhood, hidden in the guise of routine physicals, had proved her clean. At least her poor father had been saved that grief.
"And your mother?"
"I have no idea. My father never said anything about it." It could be assumed, but assumption was never a good practice. Even if I did know, I wouldn't bother saying it. Miss Angela was already delving too deep into her thoughts, dredging the bottom of her mind in search of memories Integra didn't particularly care to see.
"Ah." The pen had resumed its mad scribble. "Were you close with your father? I suppose you were, being his only child."
"I loved him, if that's what you're asking." Miss Angela peered past her bangs, one brow arching.
"You would love him, of course. That almost goes without saying. He's your father," she replied. "But what made you use that term?"
"What?" A scribble, a smile. Something about that smile riled her more than the scratching of nib against paper. And yet, at the same time it almost beckoned her to talk, to spill more and more in an effort to make her go away.
"There's been no reason for me to think that you didn't love your father, Miss Hellsing. You've not spoken of past abuse—rather, you admit being upset when he passed. You speak of him in a civil tone, and its' clear that you hold respect for his memory. You must have spent a great deal of time together, and I can imagine he was encouraging, taking pride in your accomplishments, and affectionate—"
"No." The denial was out in the open before she could stop it. She'd spoken with more vehemence than she'd meant, the syllable harsh as it cut through the end of Miss Angela's sentence. The evaluator tipped her head in silent query. "He was not an affectionate man." A smile, two blinks… but no scribble.
"You aren't affectionate either." Integra didn't respond, and the scribbling resumed full force. She felt like a lab rat, caught in a scientist's gaze, and she hated it. Miss Angela turned to a fresh page, tapping the nib to the end of her tongue before starting anew.
"Again," Integra said suddenly, almost without thought, "I think that word means something different to everyone." It at least stopped the flow of ink on paper; the pen went up to tap at pink lips once more.
"Miss Hellsing," she asked, musing, "Who is it that you love?"
"Excuse me?"
"You must have people that you love." The statement caught her completely off-guard. Who did she love? There must be someone who qualified…. Walter, of course. And Cook, the manor chef and head of kitchen. They'd raised her alongside her father; their faces featured in all her earliest memories. But who else?
The Penwood family, perhaps. Sir Penwood had been her father's closest friend in life. He and his wife were her godparents; after her father's death, they'd stepped in to be guiding voices of reason during her most formative years. Sir Penwood was more of an uncle to her than her true flesh-and-blood uncle had been. He bought her new equipment when she asked and sometimes defended her more reckless actions to Sir Irons. His wife had tried to teach her about fashion and society, doting on her in a way that made her feel both cared-for and smothered.
She cared about them all, naturally, and if they were suddenly gone she would be distraught. But… love? What was love? Her father's quiet pride? Walter's unending vigilance? Cook's nutritious meals? A new helicopter? A suffocating embrace? She couldn't recall any of them telling her that they loved her. She'd always just… known, somehow, in the same way she'd known that breathing was good and pain bad.
Still… that was only how they felt about her. How did she feel about them? Did she love them? She had no way to be sure.
"I—I don't—"
"You don't know?" Miss Angela finished for her. "There's not one person in this world that you love?"
"I am… very fond of many people," she refuted, trying to salvage what she could of the question. Miss Angela waited for her to continue, but there was nothing more to say. She felt oddly empty, as though something had been taken from her stomach and the resulting hole was too large for the space it occupied. Her cheeks began to smart, a lump forming at the base of her throat.
"Miss Hellsing…" Miss Angela tapped the paper, smudging ink on the margin. An indefinable emotion flickered in her eyes. She seemed to be more lost in thought than anything. "Do you ever believe that your childhood was lacking? At least when compared to others."
"No," she answered with confidence. "Never."
She didn't care to admit there was no one else to compare it to.