Tag: Hellsing

Here’s a short something based on the dream I had. I’d like to call it the Wallachia League AU. Just something to test if I could make it work. Hope you all enjoy! (I’ll also reblog this in the morning since it’s so late right now).

My name is Claude Grey. It was the 22nd of April, 2032.

I had to bring her coffee. That would be the seventh time that day.

        To be fair, it has been a really long day. A very long day. Her Majesty’s Loyal Peacekeeper, Sir Integra Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing, had been overseeing one of the largest anti-terrorism crackdowns in half a decade.

        Four werewolf dens in London’s “Full Moon District” had been raided. Producing, amongst other things, forty illegal assault weapons fully-loaded with silver ammunition, a cache of explosives, illegal drugs, illegal anti-surveillance hardware, plans of attack, stakes, crosses. Including their leader, a prodigiously-tall, silver-haired and red-eyed individual who refused to speak no matter the pressure we put on him.

        I’d seen him before, both in and out of work, but I politely held my tongue at the meeting when he and his cohorts were paraded in front of the precinct. The display was all part of the farcical dog-and-pony show to make it look like the city of London, capitol of His Majesty’s great United Kingdom, actually gave two shits about the Mysticals living within her borders. Realistically speaking, these men would be quietly released in the dead of the night in about a month, sans their illegal armaments, and allowed to continue whatever they had planned so long as they don’t get caught and they don’t involve humans.

        Mysticals, of course, being the name collectively assigned by the governments of the United Nations forty years ago to refer to any and all individuals who would formerly be considered supernatural. It included, amongst others, vampires, werewolves, wraiths, zombies, fae, dryads, naiads, centaurs, kappas, djinn, selkies, cyclopes, banshees, and dullahans.

        The majority of normal humans don’t give a damn about any of them, or they favor the more “peaceful” species, the ones who don’t traditionally require feeding on humans.

        Vampires, werewolves, and all of the more “dangerous” ones in the public eye?

        They get spat on. Hated. Hunted.

        Y’know, vampires and werewolves aren’t legally allowed within two kilometers of London’s city center? And that vampire nightclubs and werewolf dens are statistically four times as likely to come under surprise inspection as any other Mystical hangout? Or that murders involving only Mysticals don’t get investigated?

        And it’s not just the United Kingdom, it’s the same everywhere, save for the countries further north. The U.S., Germany, South America. Russia’s the worst.

        Sir Integra is more level-headed than most. All she wants to do is make sure nobody blows anything up.

        So here I was, at nearly midnight, bringing coffee to a woman who’s been running off a mixture of caffeine and sheer force of will for nearly five days. The Loyal Assistant Watchdog to His Majesty’s Loyal Peacekeeper. That’s what they call me. I feel some of the respect people reserve for Sir Integra got rubbed off on me by association.

        I set the cup down on her desk, keeping a cup in my own hands. I had offered to stay behind to fill out paperwork as usual, so my day was running just as long as her own.

        “Here you are, Sir. Yemeni, two-“ I started, but she interrupted me.

        “Yes, yes, two sugars, two spoons of cream, like always. Thank you, Mr. Grey.”

        I nodded dutifully. “Sorry for the interruption, sir. I’ll get back to work.”

        And I had to. There were three three-inch-thick stacks of paperwork on my desk, only half of which had actually been completed. It was all the same paperwork, to be filled in triplicate. One hand-filled copy to be kept on-site, one hand-filled copy to be sent out to His Majesty’s government, and one hand-filled copy to be sent to the headquarters of the Royal Mail Service to be copied and distributed nationwide to all departments of the Royal Counter Mystical Terrorism Service.

        I normally listened to music when I had this much work to do, but I knew Sir Integra would take offense to that. Especially seeing as it was just us here, that evening. Any movement I made out of line would be objected to, and I hoped for a promotion in the future, so I couldn’t afford to have any blemishes on my record.

        Then my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled the thin, encased rectangle from my pocket, as slyly as possible, to see who’s bothering me. The name on the screen catches my eye.

        “Evangeline.”

        “Hm?” Sir Integra looked up from her desk. I realized I said the name out loud. “What was that, Mr. Grey?”

        “It’s a phone call, sir. My, uhhh… My girlfriend. I have to take this.”

        She visibly grimaced. “Fine, Mr. Grey. But I’ll need you to return to work the second you’re done, understood?”

        “Understood, sir.”

        I made my way out into the precinct’s hallway, away from prying ears. I answered the call, keeping my voice low.

        “Look, I’ll have to make it quick. Now what reason could you possibly have for calling me right now?”

        “Is that any way to talk to your girlfriend, Claude?” Her tone of voice was dripping with sarcasm. Her tendency to find things like that out was starting to make me nervous.

        “Okay, ‘Evangeline,’ what’s wrong?”

        She giggled softly behind the phone. “I just wanted to say sorry ahead of time, Claudey-waudey~!”

        My eyes went wide. I growled into the phone. “The fuck did you do?!”

        “You’ll find out soon enough~!” Her singsong-y voice was driving me insane. “I am sorry about all that paperwork, though.”

        “Ugh.” I hung up. The second I did, Sir Integra called me back into her office.

        Plastered all over the television was news about an attack.

        God DAMMIT.

        The Wallachian League, as they called themselves. The newest radical pro-vampire group in the country. They’d made themselves a nuisance for the past couple of years. Graffiti, hacking attempts, distributing their radical fliers amongst the various groups in London and the rest of the UK. Never had they escalated this far.

        A flaming dump truck had been sent into a house in Yorkshire. Not just any house, but the house of a Member of Parliament who was vocally anti-Mystical. The MP and his wife and children had burned alive in their beds.

        “The Wallachian League is claiming full responsibility for this.” Integra talked after minutes of silence. I sigh softly.

        “They say their leader is Dracula himself.”

        “That’s what every vampire group claims. First it was the Tepes Union, then it was the Fangs of Freedom, then it was Count-down to Equality, the ‘Royal Vampiric Rebels,’ even the… Ugh… Vita-Vegan-Vampires. More likely it’s just some overblown narcissistic vampire who sees himself as Drac’s gift to the world.”

        Things were real quiet. For about two weeks.

        Then we got the news. Somehow, someone had gotten a hold of information that the Wallachian League was planning to bomb one or more of the trains leading into one of the U.K.’s power plants. Nobody was sure which one. If it was one of the coal or biomass trains, it would start one hell of a big fire. If it was one of the nuclear trains… I sincerely hoped it wouldn’t be.

        I snuck away to the alley behind the precinct. I had a phone call to make.

        “Evangeline?” I spoke into the phone.

        “Finally worried, Claudey-waudey~?”

        “I know you’ve all been talking about this, but you’re actually going to go through with it?”

        Her voice suddenly became fully serious. The most serious I’ve ever heard her.

        “Why wouldn’t we? You know we’ve got a message to send to them. Vampires aren’t going to let humans kick us around any longer.”

        “No, it’s not that at all. Look, I know you and Lucy can hold your own, just… Please be careful, okay?”

        “The job’s done. We set it up a while ago. I’d be more worried about yourself if I were you.”

        “Wh… Fuck you say?”

        “’Lucy’ found out earlier. Peregrin told us. The Royals have been monitoring all communication in and out of the Service for a long time. They know the both of you have been keeping the heat off of us.”

        “They… They know I’ve been helping you?”

        A different voice came onto the phone. Much deeper, far more serious.

        “Yes. We’ve already extracted Peregrin from Nottinghamshire earlier today. We’re coming to get you. It’s not safe there anymore. Don’t walk. Run.”

        I could hear shouting from inside the precinct. It seemed my phone call at such an inopportune time confirmed their suspicions. I had to go.

        My car wasn’t far away, but I knew it wasn’t going to work. Parked in the small car park under the precinct, they’d lock it down before I could even get in the vehicle. I had to beat a retreat on foot.

        Well, not really a retreat.

        The moment those same shouting voices exited the building, I broke into a sprint. The fastest, nastiest sprint I’ve ever managed in my life. Sir Integra’s voice broke out amongst the crowd.

        “Grey!” Gunshots punctuated her words. “Grey, you traitorous bastard!” More gunshots. “Don’t you run!”

        That wasn’t like her. My “betrayal” had to have seriously pissed her off for the normally-calm woman to just start shooting.

        I suddenly felt a force, like somebody had kicked me in the back, shoving me to the ground. It only stalled me for a second before I was back up and moving again.

        Dodge to the left, around the bollards and cars, under signs and ladders. Bob here, weave there. Use pedestrians as cover. They’re British, they’re not going to try and stop me.

        Every so often I had to stop and let out a few vicious coughs, which I attributed to just being so unaccustomed to moving that fast for any real length of time.

        And I swear, I had to have set some sort of record for on-foot speed. There’s no way I didn’t. Sticking to the back alleyways, I managed to get out of Central London in just a few minutes, still trying to hide from the authorities. But it was getting harder to move, I just couldn’t catch my breath. As I stopped behind a skip, somewhere in one of London’s more run-down areas, I figured out why.

        Investigating the strange, warm wetness running down my back, I moved my hand there. A thick, viscous wetness.

        “Oh ssssssshhhhfuck…”

        When my hand ran up, and felt the sources, I had to bite back a scream as immense pain shot through my body.

        “No… No, no, no… Nonononofucknonono…”

        Three bullet holes. One perfectly on the right side of my body. Right in my lung. The others in random spots in my back. They had scarcely missed my spine, but who knows what poor organs they had pierced. No exit wounds. I started coughing again, mixed with a choked sob or two.

        I couldn’t die here. I just couldn’t. But I also couldn’t risk moving, not with a bullet in my lung and two more god-knows-where.

        More footsteps. Coming closer. There was a soft gasp from a very familiar voice, and a low grunt from another familiar voice.

        I didn’t have to look up to know who it was.

        “Hey, Evan… Sorry. Hey, Seras. Hey, Alucard. I got, uhh… I got a bit messed up, I’m sorry to say.” I let out a pained chuckle. It hurt to laugh.

        To be perfectly honest, I couldn’t hear what they talked about as they conversed amongst themselves. I could vaguely hear Seras’ question, but heard it better once she grabbed my shoulders to demand my attention.

        “I said…” She repeated. “Are. You. A virgin?”

        “What? Oh…” I grumbled softly. “Yeah, of course I am. I’m scarce two years out of uni. Had no time for any of that nonsense.”

        I couldn’t really think straight at the time. Blood loss will do that to a person.

        Alucard piped up, his baritone voice grabbing my attention more easily.

        “It seems you have a choice, then…” He spoke. “Death. Or undeath.”

        Looking up at him, I spoke back. “Something about a Robert Frost poem, right? Two roads diverged in a wood, I took the one less traveled, that’s made all the difference?” I pushed my cracked glasses up on my nose. “I’ll take the road less traveled if that means I get to wake up again, tomorrow.”

        The decision made, they nodded. I felt a pair of glove-covered hands grasp my head and neck, watched through the corner of my eye as Seras opened her fang-filled maw. The last thing I remembered of that day was the sensation of her fangs clamping down on my neck.

  But I woke up again, the next night.