"Walter, stop fidgeting."

Integra took one last drag of her cigar, dropping the glowing end onto the asphalt and grinding it to dust beneath her heel. The thought of seeing Maxwell's smug face twice in the same month had her craving the succor of her cigar case; however, smoking was expressly prohibited on Westminster grounds. She prayed that this one last indulgence would be enough to last the meeting. "There. Satisfied?"

"With all due respect, ma'am…." Walter glanced anxiously at his pocket watch. "Sir Irons—"

"—will wait. We're early as it is," she snapped, her foot tapping a sharp staccato against the sidewalk. Although nothing had been explicitly stated, it was clear that this meeting was in regard to her evaluation results. It was delusional to believe otherwise, with a private committee room set aside for them at Westminster and Her Majesty attending the proceedings. To make matters worse, Sir Irons had informed her that the Pope would be in attendance as well.

Walter made no reply, but his imperative gaze was more than enough. She turned reluctantly from the fresh air, leaving the beautiful day behind as she made her way into the building. The grand foyer was dim in comparison, and entirely devoid of life. Their footsteps echoed off the intricate tile as they moved towards the committee rooms; sunlight filtered through the broad windows, casting patterns over the floor and offering further tantalizing glimpses of the rare, cloudless sky.

They found Sir Shelby Penwood fastidiously wiping his brow before a large mirror in the eastern corridor. As usual he was both unassuming and slightly off-putting, with quivering jowls and the scent of patchouli, laced with faint hints of sweat and cognac. Integra always found herself pitying him; he reminded her of a shaking terrier, built for a life of hunting and yet frightened of his own shadow.

It was shocking to think that he had been her father's best friend and confidant. Integra was sure that, had Sir Penwood's mannerisms not suited her tastes, she would have detested him from their first meeting. Thankfully, she found him to be manageable despite his many faults. He was a coward, to be sure, but he was also highly intelligent and possessed a wry sense of humor. He shared in her love of fencing and chess, although his advancing age kept him semi-retired from the former.

Most importantly, it was Sir Penwood that often took her side against the infallible Irons during Conference meetings. That, and the fact that he was her godfather—which, she supposed, gave him some small claim over her good graces. All in all, he was her favorite out of all who sat on the Round Table. Her dread of the upcoming meeting was a little more bearable with the knowledge that he would be at her side… though she doubted he'd venture more than a word or two while in the Queen's presence.

"Sir Integra," he sighed, quickly tucking his handkerchief back into the front pocket of his suit jacket. "Walter," he added with a deferential nod. "I trust you're both well."

"We are, thank you." She fell into step beside him as they walked down the long corridor. "I hope that Lady Katherine is well?"

"She is—aside, of course, from being highly disappointed at not being invited to accompany me today." Penwood sighed again, the edges of his thick mustache moving with the force of his duress. "I've told her time and time again that these meetings are for Round Table members only, but… well, you know how she can be," he summarized, shrugging in clear defeat.

"Unfortunately." Integra hid a smile. Her godmother was both fierce and headstrong, qualities her husband lacked. If there had been any way to elbow in past Sir Irons, Lady Katherine would have been the one striding into the committee room, chin up and shoulders squared.

"Three times this morning—three!—she made me promise that I would remember everything said today. "Classified material be damned! If it involves our Integra, I want to know!"" he parroted, mimicking Lady Katherine's thicker accent. "I ought to induct her as my successor and enjoy an early retirement." He fished again for his damp handkerchief. "God knows she'd be the one to get the gears moving in this bloody— I say, Irons! How on earth did you beat us here?"

"Please don't concern yourself, Sir Penwood." Sir Irons rose from his place at the table to greet them, gesturing for Walter to close the door. Tall and gaunt with washed-out features, he looked more like the villain from a Dickensian novel than he did the picture of a benevolent leader. Integra had never been able to fully sort out her feelings for him. In one moment, she recognized him as a man of great wisdom and forethought; in the next, she cursed him as England's oldest fool. At the present, however, she was inclined to be ambivalent. Any ally against Iscariot was better than none.

"I planned to be here as early as was feasible," Sir Irons explained. "I wanted to look over what little information we already possess." True to form, his notes were stacked in neat piles on the table. "I assume you both read my debriefing memos? I would like us all to start on the same page." For once, Integra wasn't the only one to roll her eyes at the comment.

"Even if we hadn't, we wouldn't tell you," Sir Penwood huffed, loosening his tie as he plopped into the rightmost chair. Integra sat in the center chair between them as Walter, ever mindful of his position, took his place just behind her left shoulder. "Are the others not planning to attend?" he asked, looking around the table in confusion. "There aren't enough chairs to go around."

"Walsh is here already, as well as Grey and Summerland. They've been seated in the antechamber at Her Majesty's request. When the others arrive, they'll be directed to wait there as well."

"The antechamber? Whatever for?"

"I can't say for certain." Sir Irons resettled his glasses on the edge of his long nose. "I'm afraid there must have been some miscommunication. You weren't meant to be in attendance either, Penwood. It was only after I conveyed a desire for the Head of International Security be present that they acquiesced." He motioned to the four chairs opposite their side of the table. "Circumstances being as they are, I thought it best that we keep our own numbers even. He may not be seated, but Walter still rounds out our side of things."

Despite his unflapped appearance, Integra knew Irons well enough to see that the supposed miscommunication—or change in directive—had unsettled him. There may have even been a spark of curiosity in his withered chest.

"You did bring only Walter to this meeting?" Sir Irons leveled his gaze at her, fingers laced on top of his notes.

"I did. Believe it or not, I am able to follow standing orders." She couldn't help but offer a mocking smile. "I trust Walter to handle any situation that may arise." Truth be told, she would have paid good money to see his razor thin wires slicing into Maxwell's face. Besides, her nerves were already frayed; heaven forbid she bring Alucard to a meeting where he wasn't needed. The vampire could slide through loopholes as easily as smoke through the smallest gap.

Sir Irons nodded, clearly satisfied with her answer. Sir Penwood, less affected by her blind trust in Walter, glanced between the two of them with a small frown. She was saved the trouble of any further questions when the door opened, allowing four people to enter in single file: one quite small, two average-sized, and one hulking over the rest. Integra, prepared to grace Maxwell with her usual contempt, found herself floundering at the sickeningly familiar sight of garish pastels.

"Good morning, everyone!" Chipper voice, white, blunt teeth, flamingo pink and powder blue—it was enough to send a shiver of revulsion down her spine. What is she doing here?! Miss Angela, in the flesh, bounced ahead of the men; her heels clattered on the marble tile as she made her way to the farthest chair from the door. She sat with eloquence, legs tucked beneath the chair and smile beaming across the table.

"G-good… morning," Sir Penwood managed, already groping about for a fresh handkerchief. Integra turned to the other Vatican officials, fighting back the urge to leap out of her seat and demand an explanation. What she saw frightened her far more than Miss Angela ever could.

Enrico Maxwell seemed a different man entirely, drained and more embittered than usual. Dark circles embellished the wire frames of his spectacles, the sharp edges of his cheekbones even more pronounced. His normally immaculate hair hung in thin, lanky tendrils down his back; the silvery locks were lackluster and dulled with a greasy sheen. He seemed utterly devoid of emotion as he took the seat opposite Sir Irons.

A placid, gray sort of man took the seat to Maxwell's immediate left. Integra vaguely remembered him from their ill-fated meeting at the museum, though they'd never been formally introduced. He wore a priest's traditional black garb, which only made his coiffed hair and thin mustache even paler in comparison. Thick bifocals caught the light as he moved, obscuring his watery eyes. Father… Ricardo, wasn't it? Rolando?

Paladin Anderson was the last to enter, eyeing the seat between the priest and Miss Angela with clear distaste. A moment's hesitation had him inching towards Maxwell's, as though he meant to follow Walter's example and stand behind it. Miss Angela's syrupy smile widened as she drummed the empty table next to her with manicured claws. Anderson bit back a sound, possibly a sigh of his own, before obediently squeezing into the space as best he could. Integra saw his eyes cut sideways at the Stepford psychoanalyst's feathered hat, a glimmer of pure disdain flickering across his expression quicker than she could blink.

"Well!" Miss Angela breathed, sitting with her hands primly in her lap. The guards in the corridor shut the doors with a resounding thud, leaving them locked in together. "Isn't this a pleasant morning? I have to admit, I've missed English weather. The Italian climate is fine, but I do prefer a sunny London day. Don't you?" When no one answered—though Sir Penwood looked unsure about the proper level of vehemence to adopt—her pink lips plasticized.

"Well!" she said again, her voice tighter. "I'm particularly glad to meet with you again, Miss Hellsing. I highly enjoyed picking your brain. In fact, I'd love to do it again sometime." Not on your life, you bitch. Integra swallowed, teeth clenched in an effort to keep her silence. When she still did not reply, Miss Angela's smile turned positively venomous.

"Now, Miss Hellsing… surely your father taught you basic courtesy? It's impolite to ignore your guests." Penwood stiffened beside her, the gesture traveling on the air itself rather than from direct contact. The tension thickened as Integra raised her eyes from the table, locking them with the woman's in a blatant challenge. Her tongue ran over her teeth as she fought the instinctive urge to be rash.

It would be unwise, she reminded herself, to pick a fight with someone like her. You have no idea how slippery her forked tongue might be. She felt the gaze of the other Vatican members, as well as Sir Irons and Sir Penwood, but she found herself unable to look away from Miss Angela's eyes. They were not narrowed, or dilated, or even particularly emotional; still, danger lurked in their depths.

"Eager as you may be, I am not interested in scheduling a follow-up appointment." Each word dripped with sarcasm. Rather than deter Miss Angela, her cold tone only served to fuel her further. Her square teeth gleamed all the brighter in the overhead lights, something toxic and nasty bubbling just beyond her mascara-laced lashes. "I am here to discuss my results, nothing more."

"Yes," she purred, adjusting an addition to her outfit—a silver watch, the clasps matching the pin on her lapel. "All in good time, dear." She looked at her seatmates, blonde curls bouncing as she snapped her head to the side. "Does no one else have anything to add? It's not very polite to sit here like sullen sods," she tittered, her light reprimand slathered in false cheer. The men looked at her with varying degrees of exasperation and incredulity. "Father Renaldo?" she prompted.

"Signora, I beg your pardon." He laced his fingers. "He that is void of wisdom despiseth his neighbor, but a man of understanding holdeth his peace."

"Amen," Maxwell muttered, sounding almost relieved.

"And you, Father Anderson? You've nothing to say?" Sitting directly across the table from him, Integra couldn't miss the way the paladin's jaw ticced. He caught her gaze and held it, his crooked frown pulling at the unscarred side of his face. She was surprised to find something akin to sympathy in his eyes—not pity, but a shared understanding that baffled her.

"No." He looked away, breaking eye contact with smooth disinterest. "I've said my piece already. It didn't do a hint of good." Impatience thickened his accent, stretching the syllables to their limit.

"We've spoken about this, Father." Miss Angela's voice was serene, but her nails clicked sharply on the table.

"You've spoken, I've spoken, Max—Bishop Maxwell's spoken. We've done enough speaking."

"I see." She turned her piercing eyes back to the opposite side of the table. "I do apologize, everyone. It seems that we're not keen on courtesy today. I thought that some of us would like to make a good first impression—"

"That would imply we've not met before," Anderson interrupted.

"You haven't, as allies." Maxwell looked across the table at Sir Irons, his expression suggesting that the very thought of being allies made him nauseous. Miss Angela clapped her hands together, tilting her head as though speaking to a group of kindergartners. "Our Holy Father is the same across the sea as He is in Rome. And His Holiness is so very anxious to make this… partnership work. So, I think that we should be as helpful as possible! Isn't that right, Father Anderson? Don't you teach the children at the orphanage that they must work hand-in-hand for the good of everyone?"

"Aye." The single sound, ground between clenched teeth, sounded about as unhelpful as a word could be.

"And you, Sir Integra? Do you see?" Integra didn't see, but she doubted Miss Angela cared enough to know that.

"I see only what's in front of me," she answered mildly, brushing an errant strand of hair back into place. "Nothing more."

"Ah. Yes." Miss Angela adjusted her hat, her smile faltering for the first time. "Your penchant for deflecting simple questions seems to have slipped my mind. She gives you a run for your money, Father Anderson."

"Maybe you should her ask different questions." Again their eyes met, startling her with their intensity. For all his apathy, Anderson seemed—oddly enough—to be on her side of the argument. Maxwell looked absolutely green now, glancing around Father Renaldo's head with a despairing scowl.

"I think, really, that—" What Miss Angela thought was rendered unimportant as the room's inner doors opened to admit the Queen and Pope. Both sides of the table scrambled to their feet out of respect, remaining rigid as the elders moved slowly across the room. Two seats had been placed at the head of the room for them, with space between for interpreters to stand. Maxwell's fingers twitched as his side as the Pope sat down in one chair; Sir Irons held his breath until the Queen was peering genteelly at them from her place of honor.

"Sir Irons. Sir Penwood. Sir Hellsing." She greeted each of them calmly. "And my honored guests. Welcome to England. I hope you've found everything to your satisfaction." Even Miss Angela seemed momentarily cowed by the presence of royalty, her pleasantly plastic smile offset by the nervous crease between her brows.

"Thank you, Your Majesty." Sir Irons voice seemed loud in the otherwise silent room. "…Your Holiness." The old man smiled and nodded politely. His interpreter was a young woman dressed in a lilac business suit; she stepped forward, clearing her throat as the Pope began to speak.

"His Holiness would like to thank you for your gratitude and hospitality. He also extends greetings to His Excellency Bishop Maxwell, Sister Vogt of the Echelon of Saint Peter, Section VI Father Renaldo, and Section XIII Supervisor Father Anderson." Her voice was clipped and robotic, tempered with an air of strictest professionalism. What section does she belong to? Integra wondered, eyeing the lilac thoughtfully.

"Your Holiness…." Maxwell bowed. Anderson kept his eyes politely downcast; Father Renaldo merely looked exhausted. With formalities taken care of, they all took their seats.

"If no one has anything to add, shall we begin?" the Queen stated, eyeing them all with equal censure. "Sister Vogt: I believe you have something to share?"

"Y-yes, Your Majesty."

"The floor is yours, whenever you're ready." The Queen settled into her seat with a soft exhale, one hand waving towards the head of the table.

"Thank you, ma'am." Miss Angela stood, carefully pushing in her chair before tap-tapping her way to the front. Hands locked behind her back, she let the silence linger to the point of discomfort.

"As you all may know, we as a group—" She paused, tongue flicking to touch the inner creases of her lipstick. "Forgive me," she chuckled, the sound both insidious and grating. "When I say we, I mean Section VI as a collective." Father Renaldo nodded deferentially. "As I was saying, we have dedicated a large portion of our resources towards the fostering of peace and understanding between ourselves and other government agencies worldwide."

"It was to that effort that we determined Ms. Integra Hellsing of the Round Table Conference in need of a routine psychological evaluation. This evaluation, I may add, is standard procedure for all sections of the Vatican Special Forces. Section VI administers the evaluation to each member of our own Church's illustrious organizations at several times throughout the course of their careers." The feathers on her hat bobbed in time with her words.

"I would like to pause briefly and thank Ms. Hellsing for graciously traveling to Rome so that we could test her within our own facilities. Of course, there was some concern—even amongst our own members—that our organization's rather… overt bias might skew the results against Ms. Hellsing's favor. We at Section VI are very thorough in our work, you see, and take every effort to keep all analyses impartial. That is why I was chosen to personally administer the evaluation."

"Now then." Miss Angela clasped her hands in subdued excitement. "I know we're all eager to discuss Ms. Hellsing's results. However, I would ask that Father Renaldo indulge me a moment. If you would be so kind?"

"Of course." Father Renaldo replied, rising from his chair. Is it possible to indulge one's supervisor? Integra wondered idly, brushing aside a lock of hair trapped beneath her glasses.

"Graze mille, padre." She waited until he had joined her at the head of the table before waving her hand at the room. "Father Renaldo was among the first members of the collective that would eventually become Section VI at the closing of the second World War. He is one of the few remaining members who can remember the entire history of the organization, as he lived it personally. That being said: Father, could you offer the Round Table some insight on the history behind Section VI and their testing procedures?"

"Absolutely." Father Renaldo cleared his throat, straightening the glasses on the bridge of his nose. "I first joined the Vatican Special forces as a commonplace psychologist in the aftermath of the Armistice of Cassibile in 1943." His voice was clipped and professional, as though he were reading off a debriefing report rather than speaking of his own experience. "I had prior experience working with both injured soldiers and displaced civilians; as a man of Christian faith, I used both the Holy Word and my own love for man to aid in their mental healing. I even managed to convert a few."

"In the beginning I traveled strictly throughout Italy, going where I was needed. However, in the spring of 1944, I was called to Rome to assist the head psychoanalyst there with a… special case." He smiled kindly, the gesture seemingly directed towards Anderson. "My superiors were studying the combination of traditional therapy methods and new, cutting-edge technology. I found myself most intrigued with the idea of DNA testing—a methodology pioneered and perfected by Section VI decades before its use in forensic science."

"Time and time again, the results of the collective's DNA experimentation showed a direct correlation between the blood and the mind. Section VI was organized to devote study to this correlation, and eventually expanded to include all further advances in the sciences, both medical and mental. We are gathered as one faction beneath the mark of St. Peter, who holds both key and book. Likewise, we of Section VI hold the keys—and knowledge—of the mind."

"Amen." Miss Angela crossed herself reverently. "As we say in the office: Peters do not work miracles. Be it science or medicine, we work marvels." She rested a hand on Father Renaldo's shoulder. "Thank you, Father. You may take your seat."

"Of course, Signora." She waited until he was settled in his chair before picking up the dialogue alone.

"We are hard at work bridging the gap between physical and mental wellbeing; you could even say that we've harnessed a portion of life itself!" she boasted, her eyes lit from within by a greedy glimmer as she looked over the table. "Of course, we have not gone so far as to match Our Creator. With each new innovation we are often left with more questions than answers. In the field of life and death, we are but babes. Even so…." She sighed in solemn reverie. "But I digress. We have come here to speak of Miss Hellsing's evaluation, so let us move on to the main topic."

"As I said before, we administered a standard procedural evaluation that included both a physical blood test as well as a mental assessment. In the physical portion of our evaluations we often look for several things: white blood cell count, vitamin deficiencies, hydration levels… I'm sure you get the idea." Miss Angela pursed her lips in another schoolteacher grimace. "If any of these are not up to average standards, the mind is as much at risk, if not more, than the body."

"We also checked Miss Hellsing's DNA sequence— this, too, is standard procedure. Our most state-of-the-art machine can offer a full DNA profile in as few as five seconds. There's really no reason not to check, as I'm sure you'll agree." She paused, glancing around the room. "There are, of course, many practical reasons for this evaluation. For example, it would beneficial that we know of any hidden mutations that have gone undetected."

"Forgive my interruption," Sir Irons said gravely. His hands remained laced in front of him on the table, although the tips of his index fingers tapped impatiently against one another. "With all due respect: what has any of this to do with the results of Sir Hellsing's psychological evaluation? Did you happen to find any of these "mutations"?"

"Oh, no!" she tittered. "Physically, Miss Hellsing is the perfect picture of health. I mention this because, when we check DNA profiles, we also test for a specialized chromosome pairing."

"A chromosome… what?" Sir Penwood cleared his throat, flushing uneasily. "I'm not sure that I follow."

"The nickname for this pairing is Strand R… although that won't mean anything to you, I'm afraid." Anderson let out a slow breath, folding his glasses and twisting them between his fingers. His brow creased to the point that it might have been comical, had Integra not felt a deep-seated sense of dread trickling like ice down her spine.

"Section VI has been indirectly associating itself with Strand R since the early 1800s. However, it was only discovered officially in the 1950s. It is a highly recessive gene, with the dominant variant occurring in about 2% of the world's population. There's still much we don't know. What we do know is that dominant Strand R can only occur in children where both the mother and father have passed R-dominant chromosomes. If either chromosome is R-recessive, the chances drop from "infinitely small" to zero."

"I still don't understand what this has to do with—"

"Patience, patience!" Miss Angela's jaw ticced as her smile tightened. "I was getting to that point."

"In this case, the 'R' stands for Regenerative Property," Father Renaldo offered. "In our extensive experimentation, we quickly learned that only Strand-R dominant subjects have the natural ability to… to endure the process required to become a Regenerator. Thus the name."

"And if they aren't?" Integra asked. "What happens to the recessive subjects?" Father Renaldo and Miss Angela shared an expression of mutual sympathetic horror, but it was Anderson who spoke.

"It mutates." His eyes bored into hers across the table. She met his gaze steadily, waiting for more. "The cells proliferate," he continued, his tongue curling around the word, "and then die faster than new ones can be created. Within a few hours, the body disintegrates… while you are still conscious."

"Not an easy way to die." Integra swallowed thickly, wondering just how many "subjects" had died so horrifically in the name of progress.

"There are pictures, case studies—" Father Renaldo admitted hesitantly. "However, they are quite… unpleasant. Graphic. I doubt anyone would voluntarily wish to view them."

"What matter does it make?" Integra shifted in her seat. "I would think one Regenerator more than sufficient. Surely there's no reason to keep a list of potential—" The word freak hung on the edge of her tongue, but she managed to bite it back before it slipped. "—potential subjects."

"I'm not immortal, lass." Anderson slid the glasses back up his nose and crossed his arms. "I've been getting by well enough for half a century, but it won't last forever."

"But—"

"We are running on borrowed time, Sir Hellsing." Father Renaldo sighed. "Father Anderson will need ample time to train his successor, whoever they may be. Our first Regenerator was already in mid-decline when we came across Anderson. There was simply not enough time for proper instruction, which led to several… difficulties. In order to keep past mistakes from happening again, we quickly realized that we would need a training period of several years—decades, perhaps."

"This was before my time, of course," Miss Angela added. "Pope Pious XII was concerned about the time needed to train a new Regenerator. And so, after a rather lengthy consistory, it was determined that the next Regenerator would be trained from birth for the role."

"And how does that work in regard to your vows of celibacy, Father?" Integra smirked across the table, unwilling to give up even the lowest of jabs. Anderson didn't take the bait, his expression impassive as he met her mocking gaze.

"The decree was issued after I became a Regenerator, but before I was ordained. I was never allowed to take the vows." There was a certain bitterness that made it clear the omission was not for lack of trying on his part. Father Renaldo smiled sympathetically, tilting his head in polite dismissal. "They're sidestepping God on a technicality."

"The proper word is 'dispensation'," Miss Angela corrected brightly. "Father Anderson isn't a member of the laity, of course, but as both a member of Iscariot and a Regenerator he understands the need to act according to his duty… as do we all," she added piously, gloved fingers resting over the officiate's pin on her lapel.

"Fascinating," Sir Irons drawled. "But again: what does this have to do with—"

"I explained earlier," Miss Angela interrupted, "that in order for the child to be R-dominant, both father and mother must also be R-dominant. While I realize that 2% of the world's population is still several million people, you'd be surprised how hard it is to find a suitable female donor. We were starting to believe that we'd never find the right person. That is, until… we did." Her lips stretched into another greedy smile, eyes locked on Integra's chair.

"W-what?!" Sir Irons sharp hiss cut through the otherwise silent room. "What on earth do you mean?!"

"In over thirty years of testing, Miss Hellsing is the first woman we've found with an R-dominant gene. She is… perfection," she murmured, as reverent as a miser fawning over coveted gold. "A beautiful specimen. A true rarity."

"Preposterous!" Sir Penwood blustered, fumbling for his handkerchief. "As if we would ever—as if you would be—Irons, tell them—"

Integra sat perfectly still, holding her breath as she waited for the axe to fall. She was aware of being on the cusp of a great precipice, and having been—at some point—pushed over its edge. For the moment she hung suspended, but the smallest movement would be enough to draw the world crashing down around her. Her lungs burned for air as she listened to the noise around her with growing confusion. She understood the words, the accusations, the demands, the placations, and she knew from their voices who was speaking at any given moment; however, their overlapping dialogues combined was no more than an unintelligible wave of nonsense and posturing. Had it not been for her white-knuckled grip on the arms of her chair, she might have been washed away in the deluge.

She took a breath.

"No." The protest was too soft to be heard over the cacophony of shouting voices. "No," she tried again, the sound still barely audible to her own ears. Anderson was the only one to pay her any mind; his eyes had not left her, even when the others began to rise from their chairs.

"—will not stand for this!" Sir Irons's voice cracked on a higher note, drowned out only by Maxwell's own grating snarl.

"Do you imagine that we were any happier to know the English sow was—"

"Bite your tongue, sir!"

"Have you nothing to say?" she asked Anderson, her voice hoarse and small. She was amazed to find that he'd managed to hear her at all, though perhaps he'd merely read her lips.

"Do you think it mattered?" he replied, not unkindly. With sudden clarity she realized her own position, as well as his.

This was the real reason they were here. It no longer mattered if science proved her sane, or a fit leader for the organization. In the eyes of powers far greater, she'd been reduced to nothing more than means to an end. Anderson clearly had been given more time to come to terms with the news. Any arguments he'd given them had fallen on deaf ears, and he knew instinctively that it would be the same for her. She understood his pitying glances now. Even if he hated her—even if he didn't—they were on opposite ends of the same sinking ship.

"That is enough." At the sound of the queen's voice, the room fell into an uneasy silence. Maxwell visibly ground his teeth as he drummed his fingers on the table. Sir Irons was whiter than the papers in front of him. Miss Angela stood calmly at the head of the table, her hands clasped in front of her as she waited for them to settle.

"Your Majesty… Ma'am." Integra cleared her throat, trying to fight the panic winding its way up her ribcage. "Surely—"

"Sir Hellsing." The Queen's voice was gentle, but firm. "I will only say this once. You are very much like your father in a number of ways."

"Y…yes, ma'am." Her collar felt far too tight, but she didn't dare loosen it in front of Maxwell. It was bad enough that weakness was written into the tightness of her limbs, the hard set of her jaw.

"Like you, he was uninterested in continuing the family line, though he had a brother living. Your father made arrangements for the Hellsing Organization to become a state-run agency following his death. I've heard rumors that you are considering the same thing. For several reasons—Alucard being the chief one—this is an unacceptable outcome. There must be a Hellsing in charge of the Organization for its continued function."

"Your father waited too long to sire an heir…." The Queen trailed off thoughtfully, and Integra felt her unspoken words sit like a rock in the pit of her stomach. And by accident, at that. "You must start earlier than he did. Nature commands it. I've spoken things over our allies in the Catholic Church, and we've come to decide that this arrangement is mutually beneficial for both agencies."

For the entire meeting, the interpreter had been speaking quietly, but rapidly into the Pope's ear. He now held up a hand, speaking in a slow, clear voice that held as much command as the Queen's. His speech was nearly as long as hers, punctuated by serene gestures as he motioned from Maxwell to Integra, and then between himself and the Queen. At every pause, the interpreter translated for him in her clipped voice.

"Rome and the United Kingdom may have their differences, but we are united by a common goal: the purification of our world from the denizens of Hell. This union would be as another knot in the rope between our agencies, strengthening the admittedly tumultuous ties between our worlds. We are in a new millennium; although we must refrain from the temptations of the material world, we must also remember that change is inevitable. I believe that this marriage is the start of a new and blessed era for both Vatican Special Forces and the Royal Order of Protestant Knights."

"Marriage?"

"Certainly, Miss Hellsing." Miss Angela arched a brow. "There cannot be children without marriage. I said it was a dispensation; that does not equal a pagan orgy." Mutely, she turned to the other members of her table. Sir Penwood wrung the handkerchief in his hands, brow furrowing and unfurrowing as though he were putting the matter to great thought. She looked past him to Sir Irons, finding his pale gaze and allowing him to see the unasked questions swimming in her own. For the first time in her life, he averted his eyes before she did. His lips tightened into a helpless scowl, hands fisted beneath the table. She read his thoughts easily.

I have nothing to say, no apology good enough to offer. I have failed you.

"It won't be instantaneous, of course." Miss Angela was still speaking. "There's a due process, it's very simple. And, since I've been appointed as your caseworker, you won't have to worry about learning any new faces." Oh, joy.

"Sir Irons, Sir Penwood—I would have you stay behind a moment, before joining your fellow knights in the antechamber. There are logistical matters I would discuss with you—on that note, Walter Dornez may remain as well. However, if there are no other pressing matters… I believe we may safely dismiss the rest?" The Queen looked around the room. The Pope nodded.

"His Holiness has nothing to add," the interpreter proclaimed.

"Well then: I thank you all for coming to this meeting, and I'm sure I speak for all present when I say I will look forward to working with you in the near future. I will be especially interested in your progress reports, Sir Hellsing." Her wry smile made her eyes twinkle. "Do not disappoint me."

"No, ma'am." Integra took another shaky breath, wishing only to be alone with her cigars and her thoughts. "I would not dream of it."