Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

People said that cities were full of energy, of human soul –that's why they had such a vibrant nightlife. Not every city on the planet was New York, but few of them were ever entirely asleep: there were always at least a few humans about; running, playing, commuting, thriving, living.

At the turn of the century, with so many leaps and bounds in technology, urban centers should be –and frequently were– undead hotspots, as vampires flocked to feed on the exuberant and abundant victims therein.

Alucard was ambivalent on all that. True, prey was abroad at all hours, as opposed to the prior centuries when every peasant and boyar cowered inside their wooden buildings as soon as the sun went down, fearful of what might stir in the night beyond; but there was so much light. Piercingly bright streetlamps, neon signs, fluorescent overheads, headlights from cars –it was enough to give any self-respecting nocturnal predator a headache. More than that, the noise, the noise from the aforementioned vehicles and a dozen others like them, the omnipresent, distant wailing of police sirens that replaced the far more melodic howling of wolves in centuries past.

In short, most modern cities throbbed with life, but it was a life bound up in so much mechanical artifice that the benefits almost canceled themselves out. As always, when humans were distracted with their shiny new innovations, they turned their backs on the dark and what awaited within. Vampires were creatures of the past, and the modern populace had eyes turned to the future.

The Police Girl had not seemed to enjoy his thoughts on the matter, but then again, she was young enough that her past seemed like her present. Let her live through a few technology booms of her own, and she would understand just how "cynical" and "pessimistic" he was being.

Perhaps she was more perceptive than he gave her credit for… after all, his temper had been somewhat short, lately. He toyed with his targets less, drank his blood recklessly, and spent most of his time either sleeping or pooling at Integra's heels as a seething trail of shadows, a practice she found more irritating than abhorrent, as he knew better than to dare to actually impede his Master as she walked.

The source of that irritation throbbed persistently in his left hand, a radiating, all-consuming ache that beat to a pulse he no longer possessed. The glove on that hand was no longer a deceptively pure white marked with the sharp red lines of the seal –on the contrary, the fabric seemed burned and blackened, like someone had shoved a red-hot poker through his palm and it had burned the pristine white of his glove, before melting the charred remains into his bubbling flesh. In truth, something very like that had happened.

Scowling, Alucard lifted the offending hand, staring at it with jaundiced crimson eyes as he flexed and clenched his fingers. The perfectly round hole through his palm had healed, inasmuch as there was no longer a hole, but the flesh and skin was still blackened, utterly at odds with the rest of his pallid, bloodless complexion. He could move his fingers in any way he cared to try, but it sent white-hot flares of pain down his arm in a way that had rapidly grown irritating, and now, after weeks of enduring it, had shifted all the way into being an aggravation.

True, he was more than used to pain –he thought of it fondly, as a matter of fact. Throughout all his years as a vampire and a man, physical pain had been his only constant. Oh, the sources were different, but having his fingers shoved into candle flame as a punishment when he was a child evoked the same agony as those first few times he had stretched his fingers out into the sun. It was a constant, and as the nearest thing to an immortal as the world would allow, he did so treasure his few constants. Pain meant little to him.

But the source of the irritation was how it endured. Even for a human, an injury like this would've begun to heal, to scab over by now –but it hadn't. The blackened swaths on both sides of his hand, spreading almost to the fingers and wrist, remained stubbornly unchanged no matter how much he drank, no matter how many times he reformed that arm, no matter how he tried or Integra even ordered him to heal.

Of course it would. It was a wound inflicted with a divine artifact –he could almost feel God's wrath burning minutely into him with every flare of pain, whispering cursed, cursed. He was unhallowed and undead, and Alucard was honestly lucky to be alive –well, subjectively so– at all after touching such a relic, never mind almost entirely physically unchanged.

More than he could say for the priest.

Alucard's eyes flicked over to the other occupant in the room, sprawled over one of the admittedly impressive beds. Alucard didn't sleep as humans would, obviously, but even so, he was somewhat impressed that the hotel had managed to offer the two of them mattresses that wouldn't stop short at their knees. He kept to this form because he rather liked it, but he could acknowledge that both he and Anderson were excessively tall.

Alucard's lips curled back disdainfully as he considered the priest, revealing his sharp fangs and white teeth. As a vampire, he had gotten off lightly –a scorched hand, a lingering pain; nothing. Anderson had borne the brunt of it.

True, the man was asleep now, but Alucard could hear it –the hissed, rasping quality of Anderson's breaths, the stuttering of the strong heart that exactly matched the pulses throbbing across his hand. Anderson had a shirt and a blanket covering his slowly heaving chest, but Alucard could smell it, the scent of purifying fire and burning flesh crawling into his nose and burning him with its holy power. He could remember what he had seen, tendrils of flesh searing and burning under the shocked eyes of foe and friend alike when they were taken in for examination later, twisting and crawling outward like vines from Anderson's heart.

Stupid, idiotic fool. He'd told him not to do it.

Alucard supposed though, whimsically, that he was just as foolish in his own way. After all, when words had failed, he had moved to stop the priest himself by force, flicking across the shattered rubble and torn bodies like a bolt of black lightning as he had tried to stop that terrible plunge of the holy Nail.

Success had come wrapped in failure: he hadn't managed to stop the priest, but he had gotten his hand in between Anderson's vulnerable chest and that terrible/blessed Nail. The Nail had then plunged through his hand and into Anderson's chest, and the results of mixing vampiric essence with a holy relic had been both predictable and excruciating –for both parties involved.

He had screamed, Anderson had screamed, every familiar in London had screamed as they burst into ashes in the wake of the purifying flames that had sprung from the Nail, an incandescent inferno that ripped across the battlefield in a moment, probably doing half the work of exterminating Millennium for them as searing flames jumped from unholy to unholy in a maelstrom of God's punishing wrath.

Alucard miraculously –and he used the term with full irony– hadn't been consumed by flames alongside the other monsters. He had instead been consumed with an exquisite agony unlike anything he had ever experienced, instinctively snatching his hand away with a screech, and Anderson's startled, slackened grip had let him go as the Nail slid free of the priest's bloody chest and Alucard heedlessly flung it away from his hand, cradling the injury and staring at his smoking but miraculously still-present flesh.

The damage was already done, of course. Anderson had attempted to use the Nail to transform himself into a monster of God, and though Alucard had prevented it from fully sinking into him, holy power still soaked the priest's body, accompanied by the blood of an elder vampire carried directly into his heart –his virgin's heart, as Alucard was later occasioned to discover. They may both be men, but blood was blood and infection was infection –Alucard's vampiric essence seethed through Anderson's veins, instinctively seeking to corrupt and turn him.

That would've been a mere blip on Anderson's radar –the man could regenerate, after all, so he'd barely be affected under normal circumstances– but the holy power raging through his body had a target in that blood, and it burned him, searing the priest from the inside out as the lingering traces of Alucard's blood were ruthlessly hunted down inside Anderson, turning veins to ash and making the priest sweat and shake as he was constantly, continuously incinerated from within, then reassembled under his own power.

Alucard's blood did not give up so easily as that, after all –as poor, dear Mina's corpse could attest. Even as his blood was burned out, it replenished, feeding an endless cycle of pain as it surged through Anderson's veins, corrupting the hot, human blood that flowed there as ethereal, white-hot fire raced in its wake.

Compared to what Anderson was enduring, a blackened glove and a token ache were barely noticeable. Anderson had expressed his opinion on that earlier, loudly and with great vehemence: of the two of them, the vampire should be suffering the most from a holy relic, not him. Alucard should be a pile of ash, not mildly inconvenienced.

His idle comment of "Perhaps this is what God thinks of our respective blasphemy." had not gone down well, earning Alucard a bayonet through the eye socket. At least the priest could still aim, even in his torment.

Speaking of which, Alucard heaved a silent sigh and tilted himself up out of the armchair he had been brooding in. His footfalls were silent over the carpet, and he was fairly certain Anderson would have a few things to say –at increasingly high volume– if he was ever awake to see the vampire looming contemplatively over his bedside like this, watching his slowly stuttering chest with a tilted head and a neutral expression.

Nominally, Alucard was supposed to be "looking after him," though the elder vampire wasn't exactly sure of who was supposed to be looking after whom, given as the whole reason they had been banished to this hotel in the first place was because undoing –whatever it was– that had been done to them required tampering with the seals, and no one, not his Master, not the Vatican, and not the shattered remnants of the Round Table, wanted Alucard within a thousand miles of the scientists picking at –and picking apart– the seals that bound him firmly to the control of the Hellsing family.

Admittedly, he was tempted. Even after she had tasted blood and consumed her first soul, the disparity in power would make it easy for him to command Seras to spy upon the researchers and deliver that information to him. For the first time in over a century, the possibility of freedom was trembling at his fingertips, with just a touch of ruthlessness and betrayal needed to snap the magical chain between him and Integra Hellsing. Nominally, the distance between him and the estate would keep him from that possibility, but mere distance wouldn't stop him if he was truly determined.

Hence, the dubious deterrent of the priest currently sleeping on the bed he was looming over. Anderson would theoretically be able to stop Alucard cold in his tracks before he got too close to the Hellsing estate and the team of researchers therein.

Then again, as the man was struggling even to sleep, Alucard was finding Anderson to be less of a threat than he used to be. Neither of them was exactly in peak form at the moment, Alucard because of the persistent pain in his hand, Anderson because the holy fire searing through parts of his body at irregular intervals. Even for a man with such an impressively high pain tolerance, reflexes were reflexes and nerves were nerves, and they reacted to such agony accordingly, making sound sleep difficult even when he was exhausted.

Alucard idly wondered if smothering Anderson with one of the nearby pillows would force his body into a shutdown at least somewhat resembling deep sleep, or if the holy power warping the priest's nature would change that. It was possible that "killing" Anderson –clinically so, at least– might be the last straw needed to fully warp the man into a monster, and Alucard found his fingers twitching away, clenching close and tight at his sides reflexively, like a child snatching their hands away from a burning stove.

He'd told him not to do it. Anderson hadn't listened. At this point, any further consequences would be consequences of Anderson's idiocy.

Alucard stepped backwards and sank down onto the other bed, primly sitting on the edge and clasping his hands between his slightly-spread knees, elbows resting on his legs. He had nothing to do but wait –it was in the deep hours of the night, the dead hours close to dawn, and even though he was fully capable of going for a nighttime jaunt of some description, orders held him here. Sir Integra had expressly commanded that he not leave Anderson's side without permission, and when the priest was unable to give permission, Alucard was not supposed to leave his side.

So here he sat, contemplating the folly of humans and vampires alike as Anderson slumbered fitfully, his heaving chest twitching or dipping occasionally as his breath rasped and flesh charred. He could issue mental commands to Seras or his familiars, what little remained after a few weeks of rampant feeding on leftover Millennium forces, but Alucard could not physically leave this room until Anderson awakened and told him otherwise.

Most galling, that.

Alucard had absolutely inhuman patience, of course, but it was an unfortunate truth that his thoughts had tended to be rather black for the past few weeks, and vampire or no, Alucard did not enjoy steeping in his own melancholy. Like any reasonable creature, he wanted to distract himself, but with his favorite distraction currently the source of his myriad displeasure –and also locked in desperately-needed sleep– Alucard was somewhat at an impasse.

He'd read, if he had the books, but with most of London still a desolate shell of its former self, all materials and goods were rather thin on the ground, with London's destroyed and the rest of Europe sending a flood of supplies to the thousands of locations destroyed by Millennium and its spies.

He toyed with the notion of slipping into Anderson's mind and baiting the man inside his dreams for at least some entertainment, but eventually dispelled the idea. Aside from any dangers of using his powers on Anderson at this point, the man's hold on sleep was in a fragile enough state right now that Alucard's mere presence might shock him out of it, and if Anderson lost much more sleep he was going to become all but useless even when he was awake.

The vampire's form loosened and collapsed, and dozens of red eyes blinked into existence, lazily peering out at the room in search of some kind of novelty, some brief moment of entertainment. Aside from the large beds, it was a room like any of the thousands of others in hotels and motels and similar such establishments across the world –cheap paint and tiling bought in bulk, minimal decoration, maximum functionality. There was a writing desk with no stationary and a cooler with drinks Alucard couldn't consume, with a blank space on another low table for a television screen and remote that was no longer there, undoubtedly scavenged for raw materials or some other helpful quality in London.

A shower wouldn't exactly be distracting, given as he had nothing to think about while enduring it. Hot water was also currently at premium, and Anderson would likely stake him out in the sun –or try to– if Alucard wasted it on a bathing activity he didn't need. His shadows could scour him of any debris or dirt, and vampires and running water never mixed well together anyways.

There wasn't even anything interesting on the ground, Alucard noted glumly as his shadows drifted back into the room proper, oozing under the beds and over the carpets, so bored and listless that he might've gained several minutes of entertainment just from flicking a discarded coin around on the floor.

He would definitely have to acquire some reading material sometime tomorrow, because if he had to face another long night like this one, he would not be responsible for the consequences. Peering into Anderson's dreams, even if he wasn't quite in REM cycle yet, was becoming ever more of a temptation. At least then Alucard wouldn't be bored, or even worse, contemplative. He didn't handle contemplation very well –it reminded him of too much.

Shadows drew upwards, like the reverse of water down a drain, twining together as lidless eyes rolled shut and a spindly, scarecrow-like form began to grow at Anderson's bedside. The shimmering darkness glided along Alucard's skin before fading away completely as he reformed himself, and then he leaned forward and touched one cold fingertip to Anderson's temple.

Green eyes snapped open, seeing Alucard bent over the priest's sleeping and ostensibly very vulnerable form.

Alucard didn't bother looking sheepish –firstly, Anderson probably wouldn't accept such an emotion from him, and secondly, he had lost the capacity for shame quite a long time ago.

"Interesting dreams," he commented instead.

Anderson punched him in the face.

"Fucking –don't stand over me like that!" he snarled as the vampire was sent staggering backwards half a step.

"I wouldn't have to if I had some form of entertainment," Alucard commented as he righted himself, absently licking away the blood from where his lip had been cut open on a fang. "Would you prefer it if I spent my time watching you sleep?"

The priest didn't bother dignifying that with a response, instead choosing to glare viciously at the vampire standing between their two beds. Alucard shrugged and smirked, making sure to bare his fangs at Anderson.

"All this could've been avoided if you gave me leave to walk around while you slept."

"And wake up to the screams of the dying and corpses dancing in the street," Anderson muttered sourly, reaching over to the nightstand to fetch his glasses, sliding them back over his nose with absentminded efficiency as he sat back up.

Alucard's throbbing hand curled into a fist at his side.

"I think there's been enough of that already," he said, expressionless. Anderson cut him a look, but Alucard was well-practiced in not giving humans any behavioral clues in his face and form.

It wasn't so much the slaughter he minded. He was a bonafide monster, after all. It was more the futility, the senselessness of it all. If someone was foolish enough to set humans against him, Alucard would rip them apart without a qualm, no matter that they were typically leagues below him in power and occasionally "innocent" in addition. They had identified themselves as his enemies and so must perish.

Similarly, he did not care for collateral –more "innocent" bystanders that were too stupid or just not lucky enough to escape death at the hands of his prey.

It was the waste he hated.

That senseless, pointless waste that came from giving free reign to one's inhibitions and carving a path of slaughter through the nearest human population. Even as a mere fledgling, he had never indulged in such crass behavior: his slaughters had been vicious, cataclysmic, and purposed. He had massacred the Ottomans because they were his hated enemies, and he had drank deep of his own army because they were cowards that had failed him and left him to become…

Well. In any case, all of Alucard's butchery had been conducted with a clear goal and purpose, and while it might never be a moral or rational purpose after he'd died, he did not slaughter humans like pigs in pens whenever the whim struck him. He was a vampire, a voivode, a descendant of the proud Dracul line –not a rabid, slavering wolf.

So to equate him with those self-indulgent, mindlessly destructive children that had wreaked such havoc in London… grated. It was an insult, a slap in the face far worse than the vicious banter he and Anderson usually indulged in. Those barbs were delivered as equals offering challenge, not this, not with Anderson calling him no better than Millennium's vampires, with no more self-control or sense of rational dignity.

Alucard tilted his head to the side and smiled.

"You wound me, Judas Priest. Are you saying that I wouldn't be able to resist the temptation of warm human blood?"

Anderson turned towards him, placing both feet on the floor as he regarded Alucard with a scowl.

"Are you saying you would?"

"I haven't bitten you yet, have I?" Alucard said with a grin, which widened as Anderson instinctively touched the side of his neck. A bayonet cut through the air with a viper's hiss as Anderson saw that grin, and he ducked aside, catching it with one hand. "Really, I'm downright shocked that you have such a low opinion of me. Even fledglings can control their bloodthirst –and my Master would be most displeased with me if I started a massacre. If you don't want me rummaging around in your dreams, give me something to do while you sleep… or try to, anyways."

Anderson bared his teeth. "That's your fault."

"Cowards that cast aside their humanity are punished," Alucard said, for once with palpable sharpness in his voice. This was one subject that never failed to enrage him. "You decided to use the Nail, you decided that the entreaties of your comrades weren't listening to, and you decided, like a petulant child, that besting me was worth more than your humanity. I tried to stop you."

The priest shot to his feet, bayonets flashing into his hands. Despite the dark circles under his eyes and the occasional wheeze as polluted blood cycled too close to his lungs and was burned away, he looked as menacing as he ever had done, a paladin silhouetted in the dark with the promise of divine wrath in his hands.

"Say that again, vampire," Anderson growled.

"Gladly." Alucard took a step forward, glaring down at the priest as he enunciated every deadly word. "You are a coward, who abandoned the people who relied on you, because you wanted power, and now you are suffering under divine punishment for your sins. Everything you feel now is your fault."

A bestial roar tore its way out of Anderson's throat, and even as Alucard felt the familiar caress of agony along his being as bayonets shredded through the muscle and bone of his arms and torso, he heard the familiar ringing of a phone. With annoyance, he twisted through the attack, taking most of the bayonets along one side before he dissolved into shadowy ichor and oozed rapidly to the far end of his own supposed bed, where the phone was ringing.

He picked it up, pausing to raise and lose his free hand as Anderson came barreling towards him, protecting the device as shadows grabbed the priest and tossed him –gently enough not to trigger any potentially disastrous regeneration– back across the room.

"My Master."

"Alucard," Sir Integra's voice came, sharp with annoyance of her own. She sounded harried, and his keen hearing detected the sounds of movement around her, as at some kind of research room within the estate. The echo of stone was unmistakable. "Have there been any changes?"

He looked down to the stump of his hand, which quickly regrew to show the charred glove as he absorbed his essence on the ground through an errant shadow. "None."

"Is the priest still alive?"

"Alive, unharmed, and most upset with my presence," Alucard drawled, cutting his eyes over to Anderson, who was watching him with ill grace, having apparently realized the source and meaning behind the call and cessation of combat.

"I'd be concerned if he wasn't," Integra muttered back. "Have you been tormenting him?"

"It'd be concerning if I wasn't, wouldn't you say?" Alucard said as he leered at the priest, who narrowed his eyes. Integra's wordless scoff at the roundabout jibe made his grin widen. "Any progress with our condition?"

If Anderson had animal ears, they would have perked up, and as it was, the glowering priest looked like he was reluctantly considering walking over to try and listen in to the conversation. Alucard made it easier for him by deliberately turning his back –and if that also rubbed Anderson's face in the fact that Alucard did not currently consider him a threat worth monitoring, well, sometimes the world was just.

"None," Integra said, sounding more frustrated still. "Though thankfully, we've managed to determine what it isn't –whatever happened to the two of you is not concerned with the Hellsing seal, at least."

Alucard felt a twinge of disappointment –but only a twinge. The power and luxury of his former days free of the Hellsing family was an enticing memory, but where would he go, if he burst his bonds now? What would he do? What in the world could offer him as much entertainment as his precious, indomitable Master, and the games she played with other hunters?

Seras Victoria, his new child, and the roiling power that now bloomed around her after she had taken her first soul and her first step into the dizzying heights that No-Life Kings such as they could claim –Integra standing alone and proud in the shattered, desolate wasteland of London– that was entertainment, and England was still rich with it in so many ways.

"I suppose, then, that you will be changing tactics."

"You suppose correctly." Integra's voice turned dry. "Anderson and yourself are to return to the manor in order for us to get samples –or for the researchers to tear you apart, whichever helps more."

"I'm saddened and dismayed that you think so little of me, my Master," Alucard said, tilting his head. He was interested to note that Anderson had only taken a step or two closer –perhaps he, too, was wary of doing anything that might affect the ominous, ineffable, fragile connection between them? "One would think you would be more careful with such a cherished family heirloom."

"My ancestors' records seem to indicate that being torn apart barely even pains you unless you allow it to," Integra said with a snort. "And I highly doubt it will come to that. In any case, return to us with Anderson once morning comes."

"Yes, my Master."

"And don't torment the priest too much in the meantime."

Alucard hummed teasingly, as though considering the notion, and heard her scoff with irritation before the line disconnected.

"Our presence is required at the Hellsing estate come morning," Alucard said as he turned to Anderson, flipping the phone shut. "Will you be able to teleport with your Bible pages, or will I need to drag you along behind myself like an overgrown puppy?"

Anderson bared his teeth in a snarl. A bayonet shone in the dark room as it flicked down into his hand, indicating what he thought of that particular statement.

Alucard smiled thinly. If the priest couldn't sleep –he may as well entertain himself until the morning came.

Bats swirled and chittered above the barren trees of the Hellsing estate, Alucard watching the familiar sight of the sun rising over the manor with detached interest. The delicate light of the dawn glimmered along broken walls and craters that still reeked of explosives and silver, and more than a few of the shattered windows were not even boarded up. After all, there was so much to do, and as long as the manor was more or less habitable, petty repairs could wait –and there was no longer a butler to direct household activities, anyways.

The swarm of unnaturally black bats swirled and milled for an uncharacteristic moment of slipped control as Alucard felt a certain twinge at that thought.

Damn fools, the lot of them. Power was worth much, but there was no power on earth that was worth what becoming a vampire meant. Alucard knew that better than anyone: how ironic, then, that he was held up as the epitome of what vampires could aspire to become –a dominion of death in motion, calamity made flesh, undying and invincible.

Becoming this, though, had consequences, and like so many others, Walter had failed to imagine what the consequences would be, whether he failed or succeeded. Anderson, too.

The cauldron of flapping wings spiraled downwards, funneling into a singular silhouette upon the grimy steps of the estate before they melded away into the nothingness that was himself. He caught a flutter of golden pages along what was left of the outer fence –that made sense, since he doubted that Anderson had ever been to the estate before Alucard had dragged his unconscious body back here and dumped it at the feet of the surviving mercenaries.

"Welcome back, Master!" Seras chirped, folding her hands in front of herself and offering him a bright, chipper smile that only seemed slightly forced. He looked her over with a critical eye: amusingly enough, his fledgling didn't seem to have shed much of her innate humanity after she had taken her first soul.

Perhaps that was because she had not taken it: she had been offered it freely, out of love, and received it with care. She had not stripped her familiar of his sense of self, nor did it seem like he would force her to out of rebellion or hostility. Alucard, meanwhile, had glutted himself on unwilling victims, many of whom were quite reprehensible of personality, and had long ago gotten into the habit of snuffing out his familiars' minds as soon as he absorbed them.

Her eyes flicked sideways as Anderson approached, and Alucard was proud to see wariness, but no fear. Gone was the near-human that had run sniveling from the paladin: in her place was a No-Life Queen, confidently assured of her powers but clever enough to know that even she could be outmaneuvered or destroyed by the holy power Father Anderson had great experience in wielding.

"The priest has had some difficulty sleeping of late," Alucard said with a leer, knowing by the subtle change in Seras's expression that she had noticed the dark circles under Anderson's eyes and his haggard posture as he got up the steps. Her eyes darted back to Alucard, before she shrugged and assumed another bright smile.

"That's been going around a bit," Seras said diplomatically, ushering them inside. "Sir Integra was up nearly all night, and she'll be up again already, no doubt. I worry about her."

Alucard caught Anderson giving her a slightly bewildered look as the Draculina continued to chatter, leading them deeper into the estate, and grinned. Seras had that disarming effect on people –such a double-faced, fascinating creature she was.

On the one hand, staunchly vampiric now, with pale crimson eyes and shadows lapping at the place where her arm used to be, with an aura of dangerous power and effortless control that any hunter could pick up on; but on the other hand, unaffectedly friendly and pedestrian, so very calm and nearly human. The contrasting mix never failed to intrigue him.

"I take it Sir Integra hasn't attempted to send you off to clear out ghouls?" Alucard asked as they descended down into the bowels of the estate. Neither vampire stopped for Anderson, who had to slow and squint for a few moments as his eyes adjusted to the dark of the unlit staircase. Apparently, the researchers found their way up and down with flashlights, or else they were camped out in the veritable second mansion of experimentation rooms down here –either was equally possible.

Seras wrinkled her nose.

"She tried," she said, the shadows that made up her arm briefly whirling and stretching outwards with her apparent agitation. "I said no –had some of the men take care of it. She needs someone to take care of her here, and I'm not needed out in the field for ghoul cleanup."

You underestimate her strength, Alucard sent, and felt his ex-fledgling's mind ripple rebelliously against his.

She's only human, Seras argued back, her expression smooth. She needs to eat, and sleep, and rest. No one else is brave enough to tell her so.

Alucard had to chuckle a little bit at that.

Attempting to take Walter's place, Police Girl?

Seras flinched. Still new, still raw –she was too young for the wound of betrayal to have healed over as quickly as it did for him.

"Is there any particular reason you didn't sleep well last night, Father Anderson?" she asked aloud, dodging the topic, and the priest snorted with ill humor.

"Ask your bastard of a Master that question," he sneered, and Seras cast Alucard a disapproving look.

"Master, Sir Integra did ask you to leave him alone," she said, sounding vaguely like a mother that was disappointed that her child had lost himself to temptation and gorged on sweets. Alucard grinned unrepentantly.

"If I am to be banished from the estate and locked in a featureless room, I demand entertainment," he said as they stepped onto the final landing, glancing over his shoulder at Anderson. "It would be your oversight to give me none, so of course I must toy with you to pass the time."

Both vampires heard Anderson's teeth grinding together. Seras shot Alucard another scolding look.

"I'll pick up something for him to read," she promised Anderson directly as they continued down the hall. "So hopefully it won't be so bad, next time."

"Hopefully, I won't have to endure another night in his company," Anderson grumbled. Seras sighed lightly, but that was a warranted degree of animosity, so neither she nor Alucard commented on it.

As Seras had noted, many of the scientists rustling papers around in the research lab were bleary-eyed and groggy, with the stench of caffeine and nicotine thick in the air and on their clothes. Alucard wrinkled his nose, but Seras seemed used to it –or perhaps resigned– and Anderson probably only detected the vague aroma of coffee.

That soon changed as Alucard heard the familiar guillotine snap of a cigar cutter and the clink and hiss of flame. He followed the sound and his sense of self to his Master, who was standing tiredly against a wall and only just now raising the cigar to her lips. The sight of the pressure bandage around her left eye never failed to enrage him –such scum should never have been allowed to harm his Master, even if she bore it with the unflinching pride and strength of the Hellsing family.

Their arrival caused a stir in the scientists, and she looked up, perfectly still except for her smoldering cigar for just a brief moment, before she blew out her lungful of smoke and stepped over, taking charge as she always did.

"Alucard. Father Anderson," Sir Integra said brusquely. "You said that nothing has changed?"

"Aye."

"Of course, my Master."

The scientists murmured, and Integra's singular remaining blue eye narrowed wearily behind her glasses. "Describe your symptoms once more, then, if you please."

"His damn blood keeps getting seared out of me," Anderson said with a particularly poisonous look in Alucard's direction, rubbing his chest. "Other than that, though… so far, there doesn't seem to be much different."

"I believe I can feel the priest's pulse in my affected hand," Alucard said, looking at his charred palm and wiggling his fingers absently. "But as he said, that seems to be the sole effect from the Nail."

The various researchers and scientists entered into a flurry of whispering as Sir Integra stuck her cigar back between her lips and inhaled, sweeping both him and Anderson up and down with her gaze. Wise woman, who was not taking even the word of her most loyal servant as the truth –not anymore– unless she confirmed it with her own eyes.

She frowned.

"Tell me, why does Father Anderson look exhausted?" Integra asked, though she was looking at Alucard as though she already knew the answer.

"Him," Anderson spat, jabbing a finger in Alucard's direction. "I swear, woman, if you don't control your damn vampire-"

"Alucard was told to behave himself," Integra said, pinning him in place with a stiletto-like glare. Alucard grinned.

"I grew bored, my Master," he drawled innocently. "There was nothing in that hotel room to entertain me but the priest, and by your orders, I was not allowed to leave his side while he slumbered."

His Master's remaining eye narrowed with annoyance. She knew very well that it wasn't just boredom –this was another of Alucard's subtle yanks on the chain of her leadership, his challenge for her to prove her Hellsing blood and force him to obey. Like any self-respecting dog, he wanted to test his Master to see if she could bring him to heel –and if she couldn't, well… she was hardly a Master worth serving.

As usual, though, Integra rose to the challenge with equanimity.

"If you can't restrain your childlike need to be entertained in regard to Iscariot's paladin, I'm perfectly capable of sealing you in your old basement cell until this matter is concluded," she said, removing her cigar and tapping gently to knock some ashes to the floor, her gaze unwavering as she stared into his eyes. "We have quite firmly established that the Hellsing seals have no bearing on the Nail or what it has done to you both, and Seras is more than enough of a guardian for now."

Alucard eyeballed his ex-fledgling, who was standing a short distance away from Integra, facing the scientists with a neutral frown and arms both corporeal and otherwise more-or-less folded over her chest. He recognized that look very well –the professionally hardened gaze and steady posture of a bodyguard. His fault, he supposed, for siring a fledgling that had entered the police force out of a desire to avenge the innocent rather than have the power to browbeat them.

"Very well," he capitulated. "I suppose if last night were repeated, the Judas Priest would fall on his nose before he took a dozen steps."

"I think you underestimate my endurance," Anderson bit off, glaring at him as though the priest would very much like to channel the holy fire seething through his veins and use it to immolate Alucard. "I'm still fully capable of making you eat your words, vampire."

Any further hostilities were interrupted by the intrusion of one of the researchers, who stepped out of the whispering knot of people as they quieted down, waiting for Integra to acknowledge her before speaking.

"Given what we and our Vatican associates have been able to ascertain from the remnants of the Nail, and the symptoms both parties have been affected with…"

Her eyes drifted over both him and Anderson, and Alucard smirked slightly as he saw the trace of fear within the short woman's gaze. Occult researchers like this were so very amusing –able to face down horrific concepts with equanimity, but decidedly more nervous when actually confronted by their physical counterparts. Alucard had little doubt that this woman –one of the British researchers by her badge– had never encountered a vampire before in her life, and certainly not one so fearsome as him. Anderson's beleaguered expression and intimidating bulk (not to mention his legendary ferocity) probably did little to calm her.

Still, the woman only coughed and unnecessarily shuffled the papers she clutched a little, proving that she had at least some backbone.

"We can assume that whatever effects the divine artifact might have had either already ran their course, or they develop more slowly. The vampire," Her eyes drifted over him again, then jerked away, back to his Master, as though seeking reassurance. "-for example, may have effects that manifest at some sort of catalyst: some sort of fatal blow, perhaps, or further encounters with holy power. The Vatican's Father Anderson is noted already to have quite extensive resistance to vampiric infection, and both parties are male, so it may be possible that the Nail's, er, flame will run its course once the vampire's blood is burned out."

Sir Integra sighed out a cloud of fragrant smoke. "In other words, we will have to wait and see," she said, her voice only carrying a slight undercurrent of the irritation Alucard knew that she felt. His Master did not like tamely waiting for trouble to come to her, especially when she did not know how the blow would fall.

He knew that she was itemizing expenses and resources, mapping out the future as any good leader must, imagining the ensuing hassle of retaining some sort of expert to periodically assess and analyze whatever changes the Nail might have wrought on him, and coordinating similar efforts with whoever was assigned to watch over Anderson.

In other words, it was quite a pile of work heaped atop all her other duties of helping piece together a shattered London, sweeping the countryside for remaining vampiric threats, and somehow doing all of this on a skeleton team that basically consisted of her and less than ten personal retainers, all but two of whom were human.

Resources were precious even in the shadow world that lay behind the mundane life of most civilians –just because Millennium's forces been thoroughly destroyed did not mean the threat was over. They still had those hundreds of traitorous cells that had brought down governments and military bases across the world, and not all of those had been destroyed by gallant defenders or belated hunters. Just because those fools were the weak, chipped equivalent of vampiric newborns did not mean they did not constitute a danger, especially with their numbers and spread.

Furthermore, there was no guarantee that more powerful, older vampires would not see the gaps formed in the defensive line of hunters across the world and seek to exploit it for their own ends. If they were clever and quick, they would be able to seize quite a chunk of territory, perhaps even wipe out some of their old enemies and organizations. It was what Alucard would have done, had he still had a taste for conquest.

His Master's gaze cut over to the scientists and researchers appropriated from the massacred remains of the Vatican special forces, and her eye was cold and measuring.

"I would suggest that our forces collaborate, for the time being," she said, addressing them directly. Alucard wasn't sure of the exact state of the Vatican hierarchy at the moment –but with the leader of Iscariot dead, and thousands of their militant followers killed in his own release of Level 0, it wasn't at all hard to assume that these men and women were, at this point, at least towards the middle or upper ranks of the metaphorical totem pole. "The organization of the Vatican special forces is in shambles right now, and I believe we would both benefit from pooling our resources, in this particular case. Vampire activity will soon be on the rise across the world, if it isn't already, and neither I nor you can afford the loss of our most powerful agents while that happens."

Alucard glanced over at Anderson, who was glowering at both Integra and the scientists impartially, arms folded, but offering no argument. It was true, then –the paladin was arguably the highest-ranked of Iscariot right now, though having become a Judas Priest in truth with the murder of his leader, Alucard doubted that would last long. The Vatican could forgive many bloody deeds, but disobedience and independence were not among them. It had not built itself into a world religion by extending the kindness it preached, but by rigid adherence to the order it demanded –or else.

He would know, despite being a former Catholic himself.

Well… technically he had been Eastern Orthodox, and converted later in his life, but that was immaterial. Religion was a tool by which humans controlled each other, something he had learned all too late –faith was an ultimately futile waste of resources, since by definition it was never to be fulfilled. Caught up in his religious fervor and abiding hatred, he had enmeshed himself in that illusion as thoroughly as any fanatic over the course of history, and it took the fear of death and the taste of blood to free him.

"You can't assume we'll just tamely go along with this!" one of the Vatican lackeys spluttered, drawing himself up like a particularly stupid chicken guarding a nest. "The Vatican would never stoop so low as to-"

"The Vatican has wasted thousands of its most talented soldiers and hitmen on an ultimately futile attack on my city," Integra said, her eye sharpening and shoulders drawing back as she stared the man down. "Perhaps cooped up in my mansion, you've forgotten, but I'm sure if you take a jaunt out to London, you can see what's left of them. Choose your next words very carefully, gentlemen, because you've already tried to make war on us once, and you can see where that's gotten you. Any military superiority you once had is gone now."

Alucard bared his teeth in a sharklike leer at the scientists, as they glanced towards him almost as one.

As his Master had pointed out, Hellsing had ever been at something of a disadvantage when it came to negotiating with the Vatican. With millions of adherents and a sprawling global organization, Iscariot and the rest of the Catholic special operations groups had the numerical advantage in both resources and manpower. When all was said and done, Hellsing was one organization of less than 200 members: under any logic, the power between them was vastly unequal, balanced precariously by diplomacy and territorial agreements.

The revelation of who he was, what he was, had quite neatly redressed the power to Hellsing's side of things. After seeing the hellish carnage of London, no one wanted to be the fool who angered the nigh-omnipotent vampire –or his Master– again. The power that Integra had always known was there (but never used) was now bared to the world at large, and despite the shuddering nearness of his escape from that odd quantum-cat by voiding all his familiars, weeks of voracious feeding had ensured that Alucard was still a formidable threat beyond that which most hunters could comprehend, never mind battle.

Well, except for Anderson. The priest was still endearingly unchanged in his attempts to kill Alucard, with perhaps only a few shifts in strategy due to the unknowable effects of the Nail and a desire not to stir them.

And that was, of course, disregarding the presence of his former fledgling, who had taken blood and was now quite the formidable foe herself. Her aura was nearly as uncanny as his own, with the sharp red eyes of an apex predator and seething shadows that only occasionally spindled themselves down to form a humanlike arm, the rest of the time stretching and ebbing over the air like seaweed in an invisible current. It would take a brave and experienced hunter indeed to take her on, and Seras's power would only grow from here on out.

With these two catastrophic forces of nature held easily under her thumb, Integra was right to have every confidence in strongarming the Vatican into an alliance. What would their recourse be? Refuse her, and risk calling down one or both vampires upon the scattered survivors of the Vatican armies? Risk leaving themselves completely defenseless against the dark and all the wicked forces within it due to the ensuing massacre?

Sir Integra may be an English Protestant, but at least she was a Christian, and anyway, her proposed deal would only benefit them. It wasn't as though she was demanding their unconditional surrender –something he had no doubt his Master could gain, should she choose to employ himself and Seras in that way, but something he also knew the Vatican would resist bitterly down to the last man.

Ah, pride. Even after he had unleashed a veritable Hell on earth, even when he had survived the so-called miraculous power of their God –even when all that power and terror loomed before them should they refuse– bending the knee in cooperation was a monstrous step for the Catholics to take. It would mean recognizing Integra and Hellsing through her as equals, which at a fundamental level meant that the Church could be wrong, because there was another path that she walked and they were putting themselves on the same level by acknowledging her and Hellsing as their peer.

It meant stepping down from the shining pedestal the Catholics placed themselves upon, meant acknowledging that they were not instruments of God's divine wrath, but ordinary humans with a cause that could be mistaken, mundane people that could be negotiated with. It destroyed the entire self-image of the fanatic.

They quailed. They assented. What else could they do? Whatever these men and women of God might whisper to themselves in the dark reaches of the night, they were humans using their faith as a shield, and they were all too eager to drop it if it did not protect them. Faced with the threat of annihilation, they bent and broke their pride in order to survive, and perhaps further their goals.

Alucard made a disgusted noise low in the back of his throat. Anderson, for all his numerous faults and flaws that stemmed from his faith, at least adhered to it even to the point of annihilation. Even at the end, when he had attempted to throw away his humanity, he had never cast aside his faith.

As aggravating and ultimately futile as that may be, Alucard could still admire his nemesis's dedication. Anderson might be wrong, but at least he was unflinching and unyielding in his personal resolutions.

His attention drifted as the assembled personnel began bickering and bargaining amongst themselves and with his Master, gaze floating over the blank stone walls above him. He missed his coffin, and wondered how soon it would be before he was allowed to use it once again. Mental and physical exhaustion hardly took the tole on him that it did Anderson –who was, rather impressively, dozing upright as he leaned against the wall by the door, still somehow managing to project menace even with his eyes closed– but that didn't mean that lack of rest didn't make his temper short and his mind impatient.

He wondered who Integra would take to replace Walter. He didn't grieve for the old man –betrayal was one of the things that Alucard could never, ever forgive. He did not extend trust easily or often, and all too frequently in his human past, he had experienced the pain of that trust being betrayed. Traitors had killed his father and older brother, had cast him into the unkind embraces of the Ottomans, had scarred his body again and again before he was reborn as this and his flesh had been wiped clean.

There was never –never– a good reason to turn against one's comrades, and he consigned those that did to perdition without a second thought. Walter had had his chance in the vampire's good graces, and he had squandered it without a second thought. The moment he did, he was no longer worth wasting so much as a particle of grief on.

Seras was ill-suited to domestic work. She would prioritize emotions over efficiency, focus on pleasing and protecting their mutual Master rather than making sure the estate ran smoothly. There was a certain amount of detachment that one needed in order to perform such a job properly, and Alucard remembered the last time he had done it –without being ordered to– with amusement, thinking of the young solicitor that had ventured into his castle in order to help bring him to England. Jonathan and Mina both –such a delightfully interesting couple. Even all that came after could not erase those memories.

His eyes flicked down and over, though, as he heard a topic that warranted his interest.

"The Archbishop Enrico Maxwell is dead," the same troublemaker from before said, his expression ugly. Alucard glanced over just in time to see Anderson's chin bob slightly as his green eyes fluttered open, the priest quickly straightening up as his highly attuned senses caught the shift in the room. "According to information reported by the remaining Iscariot soldiers, Father Anderson was directly responsible."

"Maxwell abandoned God for the pursuit of power," Anderson replied, his posture tense, eyes angry as he took a few steps forward to directly enter the conversation. "I did my job."

"You disobeyed direct orders from your superior during an active combat scenario," a woman with hard eyes and a tight mouth spat back. "You practically went rogue, and that was before you murdered the archbishop."

The priest's eyes flickered, and he looked down.

"Saving the Hellsing woman alone was –at the time– grounds for punishment," the man said, adding that latter part hastily as Integra's eye narrowed. "Even you can't say that your actions afterwards were anything short of inexcusable."

Alucard sighed noiselessly through his nose as Anderson clenched his fists, but said nothing and did not look up. Such silence, from his outspoken nemesis?

Indoctrination truly was a formidable foe: he had shot the priest, torn him apart, belittled him, and nothing had stopped Anderson from spitting epithets and verses at him for more than a few moments. But here, now, all it took was a few scornful words and looks from those that were honestly beneath him, and the priest was bowing his head in shame and silence. Trained like a dog, heeling like a dog, except his obedience was instinctive and unconscious, rather than forced, as Alucard's was.

Perhaps his Master would like him to slaughter a few of these bureaucrats as an object lesson to the rest.

"Are you sure that's wise?" Integra cut into the brewing argument, her cigar dangling from her fingers as she again narrowed her eye pointedly at the Catholics. "Past sins aside, Father Anderson is the single most powerful agent the Vatican commands. The Nail does not appear to have done anything which will harm his ability to kill monsters, at least at this stage, and while I cannot say I'm an expert on Vatican disciplinary tactics, I can certainly guess that what you have in mind will leave him unfit for duty for quite some time."

"He killed an archbishop!" the man snarled. "More than that, one he had a hand in raising!"

Anderson flinched. It was subtle enough –just barely a twitch and a tightening of his muscles– but the motion was obvious enough to Alucard, who was watching him closely out of the corner of one eye. Hmm, hmm, hmm. It seemed that however indoctrinated the priest tried to be, there was perhaps some lingering emotions over that.

It made sense. If Maxwell was a progeny of Anderson's, then that meant that his life had been largely shaped and guided by the priest's hand, and that, in turn, meant that Maxwell's descent into megalomania had been, indirectly, Anderson's fault. It meant that, in no small way, he was personally responsible for Maxwell becoming someone marked worthy of destruction by Church doctrine, when he had undoubtedly tried to raise Maxwell to follow that doctrine. It meant that somewhere, somehow, Anderson had made a mistake with his child, or worse than that, it meant that he was wrong, that his doctrine was not as infallible as he had based his own life on believing.

Failure, grief, utter devastation, apostasy, doubt –such a heady emotional cocktail. No wonder the priest had tried to cast aside his ability to feel, to become an instrument of divine wrath that could not weep over his mistakes.

Alucard could understand the thought process. That did not mean that he condoned it.

"If we're talking of assigning blame," Integra returned, and Alucard cocked his head with interest as he saw the familiar sly, subtle curl at the corner of her mouth, a precursor to some brilliant, diabolical new turn in her strategy. "Perhaps we should discuss how the late Father Maxwell screamed that he would quite happily butcher millions. What was the phrase? Ah, yes. 'The only good Protestant is a dead Protestant.' I can't help but imagine the kind of fallout that will occur for your Church if that information is not suppressed."

Alucard grinned as the Vatican personnel noticeably paled, even Anderson. Oh, he could imagine all too easily –it wouldn't take any effort at all to spin this so that the entire blame for the incident was laid at the Vatican's feet.

After all, the knowledge of vampires must be suppressed, and so the organizations that fought them had to come up with a plausible explanation for the carnage that civilians would accept: and after Maxwell had gunned down civilians in the streets and bellowed his fanaticism over microphones, it would not be hard at all to scapegoat him for everything.

Oh, the Vatican could deny it. They could denounce him as a terrorist, as an insane outlier, as a fanatical madman that they were not at all aligned with, but there was no way that London's survivors would forget the flocks of helicopters that accompanied this so-called lone extremist, or the hundreds upon thousands of soldiers that had poured out of them. That kind of tactical support did not belong to an isolated, unsupported fanatic.

Alucard neither knew nor cared if the pope had authorized this, or if Maxwell and his forces had been sent to curb the vampires and no more, and the bishop had grown deranged and struck out on his own. Sending the head of Section XIII as the leader of the army was telling, but such a genocidal move seemed counter to the Vatican's proposed public image.

Still, the average citizen –who knew nothing of any of this– would not care. They would draw their conclusions with what was available to them, and what was available to them was the knowledge that an army of fanatical Catholics had descended on a city that was soon thereafter razed to the ground, not to mention the ravings Maxwell had broadcast over London.

Certainly the Church's worldwide standing would plummet, somewhat.

He was very proud of his Master for leveraging the Vatican's worst fears against them –Integra was a Countess to match his Count in every respect; just as fierce, just as indomitable, just as sly and cunning as he had been when he was alive. He would have been proud to rule alongside her, and he was just as proud to serve beneath her and become the lurking threat behind her every word and deed. His Master could conquer the world if she was so minded, and he was more than willing to lay it at her feet by whatever means she deemed necessary.

"Y-you can't just threaten us into acceding your every demand!" the lead man blustered.

Integra raised an eyebrow, then lifted her cigar to her lips, never breaking eye contact. She drew in a long breath, and held it for a moment as she lowered the cigar, before exhaling a long, steady stream of smoke. Finally, she spoke, careless and deliberate.

"Can't I?"

He choked, and Alucard indulged himself in a low, wicked chuckle, one that had many of the Vatican scientists shuffling away just a little.

"I'm willing to …publicly overlook… Maxwell's actions in London if the remaining Vatican personnel cooperate with us on the matter of Helena's Nail, and if you overlook Anderson's indiscretions in turn," Integra continued, tapping out her ash. "We can sweep this entire matter under the rug by declaring it the result of placing an unstable Iscariot too far up the Vatican hierarchy, and everything that followed afterwards being a result from that mistake, which was corrected with Maxwell's death. We can then move on to dealing with the real issues currently plaguing us, namely the reconstruction of our respective organizations and fending off any monstrous threats that arise in the meantime."

They didn't like that. Of course they didn't. But in the end, it was the only option available to take, and despite the aggressive bluster that had Seras stepping up protectively to Integra's shoulder, shadows flaring outwards just a little as she scowled fearsomely, Alucard knew that they knew it, too. It was their so-precious pride that had them arguing now, unwilling to give ground and admit they must give ground, staunchly refusing to show any weakness or shed light on any of their numerous mistakes.

Anderson, intriguingly enough, grew tenser and tenser as the conversation progressed, wondering what remuneration would be necessary for Maxwell's actions, what the official documentation of their tentative truce would entail, what story they would give to the ignorant masses, and how they would neaten up this problem before moving on to the others. Within minutes, the priest had spun and stalked out of the room, and a quick flick of Integra's eye was all that was needed to send Alucard out after him.

He found the priest leaning tiredly against the wall near one of the lamps, hand over his eyes, braced against the stone with his other arm.

"You seem distraught, at such an easy solution," Alucard commented, and Anderson's head jerked up, turning slightly to look at him. A flash of animosity sparked in those green eyes, surprisingly strong in its vehemence.

"Go away," Anderson snarled. "Let me get rid of you for at least five damn minutes."

Alucard shrugged winsomely, closing his eyes.

"You're going to get a guard either way, and they seem to be reassured when it's one that you can't kill," he said, lowering his hands and opening his eyes with a smirk. "After all, who knows what such a disloyal priest might be capable of."

It was pain that flickered in Anderson's eyes now, his expression unguarded for a brief and uncharacteristic moment. He must really be exhausted –mentally, emotionally, physically.

"Is this some kind of sick game to you, vampire?" he hissed thinly after a moment as rage overcame pain, his fingers digging into the stone. "Do you enjoy this?"

Alucard tilted his head. What an odd question.

"Do I enjoy what, Judas Priest? Mocking you for your failure? Reminding you of your mistakes?" He stepped closer with a toothy grin, his eyes gleaming. "Because I do enjoy that. Very much so."

Really, it was vindictive of him, but that was of no concern. Anderson had disappointed him in so many ways, had thrown away and destroyed so much of what he was –or tried to– and that was just simply unacceptable. Did the priest think Alucard would forgive him? Did he think Alucard would let him forget, let him shove all that had happened aside, as the weakest humans were wont to do? Did he think Alucard would allow him to deny how he had fallen, and what he had become?

The man had tried to become a monster. Alucard had no qualms about scarring the consequences of that mistake into the priest's mind, not when Anderson had once been someone he respected so highly, not when he had disappointed and betrayed him so greatly. Not when this, the strongest example of all the finest pieces of humanity, had thrown it all away in an attempt to sink to the depths Alucard wallowed in.

Unforgivable.

Anderson's muscles twitched, like he would dearly like to launch himself at the vampire and rip him apart, but it was clear that a night of almost no sleep –and a lot of very taxing combat– after a week and more of restless-to-nonexistent sleep had finally drained him to the point where he didn't even have the energy to fight.

"You're angry," he growled, instead. "Why in God's name are you angry at me?"

"Another incredibly foolish question," Alucard said, stepping closer as Anderson pulled himself up with the arm braced against the wall. "I told you not to use the Nail. I begged. Is my example not enough of a deterrent, Judas Priest? Is what I am not enough to make you fear losing your humanity?"

Anderson's eyes flicked aside again.

"No, of course it wasn't. You were selfish. You weren't thinking about anything but yourself, were you, Anderson? You thought that anything, anything, would be better than the pain you felt then, and you abandoned every responsibility you ever had, every duty you said you would perform, to escape it."

"Like you give a damn about my duties," Anderson muttered with a hint of teeth, eyes flicking back to glare at him.

Alucard's hands curled into fists at his sides, fingers digging sharply into his palms. He only barely resisted the urge to fling the priest into the wall –with his temper at this level, there was no guarantee it wouldn't be a fatal injury.

"Your duty was to kill me," he said, expressionless. "That was your purpose as a human. That was who you were. You would've charged though hellfire itself if it meant destroying me, because your conviction and your spirit was that strong. That was what made you precious, Anderson."

His charred hand darted out, grabbing Anderson by his shirt and slamming him sideways against the wall with an explosion of brick dust as Alucard's red eyes burned.

"And you threw it away," he snarled. "You threw all of that away! And for what? A gambit for power? Desire to wipe away the mistakes of your past? What could possibly be worth what you've done, Anderson?"

"The Nail didn't do much," Anderson argued, something almost frantic sparking in the back of his eyes. "I'm still human."

"You know we both don't believe it will stay that way. God's relics are not used lightly," Alucard said.

Anderson bared his teeth.

"So fucking kill me then, monster, and get it over with," he growled.

Alucard let go of Anderson's shirt, his hand jerking away as though burned.

"You think that will make this any better?" he asked tiredly. "No matter what actions you take now, priest, you can't erase what you've done. You used the Nail. You intended to fall from humanity. Whether or not you succeeded is immaterial. After disappointing me so greatly and betraying your ideals, you think I'll give you the mercy of a quick death?"

"It's not mercy."

Alucard snorted.

"That's a lie and you know it," he sneered. "You're begging to die, priest. They were practically slavering for your execution back there, and not a word of protest or defense out of you. Once again, it seems you've chosen the coward's route, deciding to die rather than face the consequences of your actions, and damn yourself out of some perverse sense of Catholic guilt."

Anderson's eyes flickered.

"You won't be happy unless you're punished for this, will you?" Alucard continued. "You've violated your whole sense of world order, and you won't be content until they discipline you the only way you can understand. It doesn't matter that you followed the philosophy they instilled in you in a way that they taught you, and in a manner they would ordinarily approve of: they deem it a sin, and so you must atone for it, even if deep down, you don't think you've done anything wrong."

"Killing Maxwell was wrong," Anderson said, very softly.

"Why?" Alucard asked, not backing down literally or figuratively as he stood within arm's reach of the priest. "If it was wrong, Anderson, then why did you do it? Why did you quote your dogma as you did?"

"I-"

"Mouth whatever denials you please," Alucard said, not breaking eye contact. "We both know you don't mean them. You killed Maxwell because he had deemed himself an enemy of everything he should stand for, and you were taught only one way to deal with enemies of God. Execution."

Anderson closed his eyes, as though exhausted. Alucard could see him trembling, subtly, like a glass under the increasing pressure of resonance. He was close to shattering, completely.

Alucard didn't care. He wasn't going to care, because there was hardly anything left to break. What did the priest have left in himself to destroy? He had slaughtered his leader, been denied the death he craved, and had attempted to lose everything in order to become a monster. There was only the fading will and desperation to pretend that everything was the same, to cling at the structure and normality of the life the priest had been raised and trained in –because if he didn't have that, then he had nothing.

But Alucard was pushing him closer and closer to that precipice, reminding him that all of this was done by his own hand, needling and jabbing, never relenting for a moment. Every word out of Alucard's mouth was intended to make the priest dwell on his faults, and Alucard didn't give a damn if that finally broke Anderson, because right now the man was caught in a torturous limbo of his own making, unable to go either forward or back, and Anderson couldn't give Alucard the satisfaction he demanded for betraying his expectations, not when he was lost like this.

"Does the Hellsing woman think she's going to gain a new follower by defending me?" Anderson finally muttered, not opening his eyes.

"You protected her against the scum in London, as I understand," Alucard said with a shrug. "My Master does not let her debts go unpaid."

"Nor her grudges, either." Anderson's lip curled slightly. "Maxwell will be blamed for everything."

"He brought it on himself," Alucard answered. "Do you grieve for him, Anderson? Do you regret what you had to do? Do you regret how he screamed for his teacher to save him-"

Anderson's eyes flew open and his hand caught Alucard around the throat, squeezing tight enough to make his esophagus close.

"Shut the fuck up, vampire," Anderson hissed, his eyes almost feral. "Don't pretend that this is anything but a petty desire to make me feel worse."

Alucard grinned, baring his inhumanly sharp teeth.

"Petty, Judas Priest?" he drawled. "Our rivalry was cataclysmic. You were the closest a human had come in a hundred years to killing me –if anything, this is quite a measured response."

"You talk like it was something we lost," Anderson muttered, narrowing his eyes.

"Isn't it? You are no longer the man I fought in Badrick –not even the one who crossed blades with me on the battlefield of London. Whether or not you have remained human is immaterial: you deliberately fell from grace, Alexander Anderson, and that is something I can never forgive."

Alucard pulled out of the priest's grip, the flesh of his throat briefly dissolving and sliding, tar-like, through Anderson's fingers as the priest made a face and lowered his hand.

"Enjoy your respite," Alucard continued. "Perhaps you'll be able to recover from even this –and if not, you can die in disgrace like the fool you are."

He stepped away, turning and fading into the shadows of the underground vault in order to monitor without being seen. Anderson did not call after him.