The Child of Seras - by MindAsylum - Anime - http://www.hellsingfanfic.net/hellsingfanfic/The_Child

The Child of Seras

Chapter XI

February 6

Seras is around a lot more lately. She says she likes the change of pace. We do almost everything together now. She gets up when I do, feeds when I do, and even goes to sleep when I do. I never go to bed before she suggests it, though. Being around her is...it’s hard to say. It’s like being inside my own home. I feel safe, protected, but not lonely or isolated.

Sometimes I wonder how she could possibly have been Alucard’s fledgling; she’s absolutely nothing like him at all. What could have attracted him to her? Was it just her looks, and he thought he could mold the rest to his liking? Maybe it’s better if I don’t know.

We haven’t had a mission since my first one, so things have been quiet. I can’t say I’m looking forward to my next one. Then again, I can’t say that I’m dreading it either. On one hand, it’s my chance to be of help here, and, irony notwithstanding, it’s for a worthy cause. Besides, it makes Seras happy when I succeed.

But when I’m out there, blowing the heads off of poor, innocent people that have been reduced to puppets...I don’t feel like a hero. I don’t walk away feeling like I’ve achieved something. In fact, I feel like I’m falling backward, into some dark place I swear I’ve been before. I try to tell myself that this is just the way it is from now on, and I should accept that.

Then I see Seras, who’s been here for years, but hasn’t fallen at all. I can’t imagine her being any more of a beautiful person than she is now. If she can be the way she is after being here for so long, then I’ve got no excuse for letting this get to me. This is just a job; a way to earn my keep.

--

“So you haven’t told him anything?” asked Sir Integra, disappointment vaguely hanging in her voice.

“No, sir,” said Seras, as confidently as she could.

“And why?”

“He has too much on his plate right now. It took me long time to adjust to life here; and Jake’s so young...it’s just too much for him to handle it all at once.”

Integra looked skeptical. “And so you plan on confronting him after he’s adjusted?”

“Yes, sir. I’m keeping a close eye on him. If anything should...happen, I’ll be right there.”

Integra betrayed no distrust or apprehension, but Seras knew full well that she’d prefer to have this entire matter resolved as quickly and quietly, whether the results be good or bad. While she’d been somewhat sympathetic to Seras’ own situation, the potential danger Jake posed was too high to go unnoticed.

“Where is he now?”

“At the range, sir,” she answered, adding with pride, “He’s actually a lot more dedicated than I was. No matter how good he gets, he always wants to do better.”

To this Integra said nothing, but dismissed her quietly.

--

Jake looked at the paper slinking toward him and smiled. Three hundred yards. Dead center. Two in the head, three in the heart. The grouping was measurable only in millimeters, almost perfect. He thought of his shaky aiming in his last mission, and remembered that it wasn’t all that impressive compared to Seras. He’d seen her hit the four-hundred yard target without even looking at it. He reloaded another magazine into the clip when he heard a vaguely familiar voice.

“Hey!” called a soldier he barely recognized from his first mission. “You got a package.”

He had round cheeks and was a bit on the stocky side; taller than Jake was, but not by much. His head was shaved, but his dark hair was just beginning to regain its presence.

“A package?”

“Yeah, just came in early this morning, in the lounge.” He was visibly unsure of himself, like he had drawn the short straw. Jake could only guess that he must have felt uneasy speaking to an undead rather than shooting one, but there was a hint of curiosity in his eyes. And that voice...he knew he heard it from somewhere before.

“Follow me.” He said, motioning with his head.

Jake unloaded the gun and put it away as he left. The more he tagged behind the soldier to the lounge, the less sense it made to him. He couldn’t even figure out who would send him a package at all, much less to an unlisted address, two months after he’d been declared legally dead. But he couldn’t think of any reason this man would lie to him, either.

The soldier’s lounge didn’t look at all like a part of the Hellsing mansion. Cigarette smoke streamed to the ceiling, and could be tasted in the air like soot flavored soup. The tiles were streaked with scuff marks from boots, tables, or chairs that had been dragged along them. The patchy, curling wallpaper was covered in posters of curvy pin-up models in a variety of alluring and provocative poses. He tried to keep Seras from coming to mind, and failed pretty miserably. He hoped no one noticed his blush. The card tables, two wooden and one plastic, were probably provided by the soldiers themselves, as two were a bit lopsided from uneven legs. A wall of 50-odd 8 by 11 mailboxes lined the far wall, ordered by number with simple key locks.
Instead of the hard stares he was used to, the soldiers took little notice of him at all. They dealt their cards, smoked, swapped filthy jokes, and cursed when their friend took all the chips as if he wasn’t even there. One table of three, however, looked as if they’d been expecting him. A man in his late thirties with dirty blond hair and conspicuous stubble looked at him warily, where the other two were busy talking amongst themselves until they turned to face him. A wrapped package the size of a shoe box sat at the center of the table. The soldier who had guided him pointed to it and left to sit at another table nearby before Jake had the chance to thank him.

The blond man tilted his head in Jake’s direction, gesturing for him to sit in the empty chair. Jake turned behind him a moment, getting the distinct feeling that while no one else was looking at him, everyone was listening.

“So...that’s it?” he said quietly.

The man nodded, and Jake took the package. It felt light, but then again so did most things to him now. As far as he was adjusted to his knew strength, it could have weighed twenty pounds and he wouldn’t know. It didn’t have any return address, stamp, or a “FROM:” note, just “TO: Jake Rivers” written across the top in a black, felt tip marker.

“You sure you want to just open that?” said a voice from another table.

Jake turned to see that he the recognized the voice’s owner. Mick sat backwards in his chair, with a look of concern on his face.

Jake bit. “What do you mean?”

Mick took a breath and explained with marked discretion.

“Well, it’s unmarked. That’s already good cause for suspicion. What with all this terrorism nowadays, you got to be careful with things like that.”

His point was obvious, but the presence in the room seemed to shift, as though everyone had heard some secret catch word and were anticipating something. Mick pointed to the dirty blonde with a cigarette in his mouth.

“Riley here was in the bomb squad for three years, maybe he should take a look at it first.”

Jake looked back at the man, who took the cigarette out of his mouth and blew out of billow of smoke. He raised an eyebrow, awaiting an answer.

“Well, if you think so...”

He slid the box over to Riley, who gave it a glance, put out his cigarette and lifted it. He checked the weight of it, and spoke in a rough Irish accent.

“Pretty light, but C4 doesn’t weigh much. There could be enough in here to blow everyone in this table to pieces.” He gave a Jake a cautious glance. “You’re bloodsucker, so that might not mean much to you, but getting your arms ripped off ain’t a great way to start your night, eh?”

Jake didn’t laugh, because Riley’s stony expression made it hard to tell if he should. He felt along the folds of the brown paper wrapping, across the top and sides. “Most package bombs are set off with wires that arm it when ripped or broken. Doesn’t seem to be any, between the cardboard and the paper, anyway. ‘Safest way to open things like this is from the bottom, since it ain’t likely they’d put the wires there. ‘That what you want?”

“Uh...ok...” the tension in the room made Jake’s throat tighten up. He found himself wishing he’d just grabbed the package and gone. After all, why would anyone send him a bomb, anthrax, or anything for that matter? No one was supposed to know he was even still alive (sort of).

Riley solemnly pulled out his combat knife and cut a slit down the middle of the package, taking his time, like a surgeon making an incision. Jake could hear the sound it made as it drug along the cardboard, switching direction a few times, opening a makeshift hinge.

None of it added up. If Mick was so suspicious, why didn’t he clear the room first, or at least keep his distance? Why did no one else seem nervous? If it were up to Jake, he’d probably call in a proper bomb squad, clear the mansion, and—
“Get down!”

Seras was surprised when she found Jake wasn’t at the range like she had thought, and even more so to hear that he had left with one of the soldiers, to the lounge, of all places. Most of them were still distrustful of him, but that was to be expected. It took a months for any of them to get used to her presence, and over a year before any of the soldiers began warming up to her (in a way that wasn’t lewd or sarcastic, anyhow). She should have been glad that they were started to trust him a little more. Having non-professional contact with humans would help him to feel less isolated, perhaps even give him a sense of fellowship with those he fought alongside. Jake seemed to be the type that had trouble breaking the ice, and given all that he had to deal with, having friends (more importantly, human friends) would be a major step toward keeping him stable, maybe even a little happy.

Instead, she found herself walking a bit more quickly than usual, asking herself some very nerve-wracking questions along the way. What if one of them says or does something that sets him off? What if one of the soldiers saw him in a bad moment? What if he got rejected by them?

A sudden shout rang out from the Soldier’s Lounge down the hall, followed by a loud, wet BLAM. In a panic, Seras rushed down the hall with preternatural speed, a thousand horrible scenarios playing in her head as she swung the door open.
Jake fell out of his chair, holding his arms to his face, expecting a pillar of flame to tear him in half. A surprisingly wet explosion erupted from the package, and a very distinct odor filled his nostrils.

When he finally opened his eyes, he’d realized that everyone was still standing, and that he was covered in a runny, oily liquid. Mick stood over him and smiled easily. He took a finger and swept it over a glob of the yellow-white fluid.
“See kid, someone’s got it in for ya.” He brought it to his lips and tasted it, “Garlic sauce.”

Laughter filled the room, and after a brief period of shock-induced staring and blinking, Jake’s wits returned and he finally understood what was going on. Mick offered his hand and gave him a good-natured slap on the back after he made it to his feet.

“I can’t believe I didn’t...” he trailed off as he saw Seras standing in the doorway, who had a peculiar look of exhausted relief on her face. She looked like she’d fallen off a cliff only to land on a ledge.

“Good God, Mick!” she chastised, her relief turning to an anger that seemed both uncharacteristic and out of place. “If Integra saw this, she’d have a bloody stroke!”

The soldiers were taken aback by her unusual intensity, but Mick didn’t miss a beat. “No worries, love. We’re just givin’ the kid a proper initiation, nothing to get flustered over.”

“Really, Seras, it’s OK.” Jake assured with a smile, “If I wasn’t so dense, I would have seen it coming.”

Seras sighed and relaxed a bit, but the worry was still evident in her voice, even as she returned his smile and patted his sauce-matted head. “Just hit the showers, alright? You smell like an Italian biscuit.”

Though he wasn’t sure what she was so concerned about, Jake nodded like a pleased child, and turned to leave.
“Hurry back, kid!” called Mick, “We’re not done with you yet.”

He called back that he would, filled with a new elation that he wasn’t completely despised by those he worked with.
Some of the soldiers left the lounge, perhaps because they didn’t realize the intention of the joke was to befriend, not mock, their new comrade. Through some profound feat of mental strength, ignored the overpowering smell of garlic and went back to what they were doing.

Seras gave a heavy sigh. If she wasn’t undead, she’d have said that moment had taken at least a week off her life. She hoped no one noticed just how afraid she’d been when she saw Jake on the floor, covered in smelly goop, and the other soldiers standing over laughing at him. She’d watched his face as though it decided the fate of the world, and thankfully elected to allow it to endure for a while longer.

“You chose well, love,” said Mick, breaking her train of thought. “He seems like a pretty good kid.”

“Yes, he is,” she said, careful to keep her voice from wavering. “I should thank you; Jake doesn’t really have many friends here, besides me, that is.”

“Don’t sweat it.” he gave a warm smile that always stood out on his squared face, “Human or not, working here...it does things to you. You gotta’ know you’re not alone if you want to keep your head screwed on right.”

Seras nodded, and Mick turned to address the remaining dozen.

“What do ya’ say we get some of our stash out for our new friend, eh?”

They were at the apex of a cheerful affirmation when Seras turned and gave them a sly smile. “And what makes you think you boys are getting out Scott-free? I want this place cleaner than Manchester Cathedral before anyone important gets that wind of that God-awful smell.”

She was answered by a chorus of groans. It was good to be in command.

February 8

Things are beginning to look up. After Mick and the boys hazed me I took about three showers and went back to the lounge. Suddenly, I felt like I was sitting with my old friends after a good show, gathering outside of a hotel we’d fooled into giving us just one room. It turns out the one who led me to the lounge, Manny Jackson by name, was one of the guys who guarded my door when I first got here, the one that wasn’t an asshole, that is. I thought I’d recognized his voice somewhere.

It turns out that my method of recruited wasn’t exclusive to just me and Seras. Riley was a part of an English SWAT team, and was shanghaied on the spot when he supposedly killed a vampire he ran into during a raid with nothing but his regulation riot gun. When I asked him how he’d managed that, he told the whole story with so much practiced enthusiasm I didn’t even care whether or not it was actually true. When he finally got to good part, he stopped and asked me, “What’s the difference between a vamp and a cockroach?”

I couldn’t say, but he was quick to answer his own riddle: “A cockroach can live without a head.”

“For only a week,” added Mick, “Give Riley here enough gin and he can go a month.”

Hellsing was filled with guys who’d fell into the gig with little more warning or introduction than I had. Some were just guys who took Hellsing’s offer for higher paychecks and better benefits at face value, not bothering to ponder the meaning of the phrase “secret organization.” Until Integra showed them footage of their new enemy tearing policemen apart in Cheddars, that is. It seems Hellsing has more unconventional policies than I realized.

As for Mick, he was a corporal in the English Army, recruited more for his skill than the fact that his grandfather was once Integra’s second in command before. He himself wasn’t in a hurry to ascend the ranks, though; he liked where he was, right there in the firefight with everyone else.

I told them some stories about my few but memorable times on tour with my band, and that kept them entertained until dinner was served in the cafeteria, which was kind of awkward. The smell of the food actually made me a little nauseous, so I knew I couldn’t stomach it even if I tried. I found myself thinking of all the foods that couldn’t eat anymore. Mick must have been reading my mind, because what he said next had the whole room in a bust.

“Look on the bright side, kid; maybe people taste like where they come from.”

“I’ll bet Italians taste like lasagna,” quipped Jackson.

“What do you suppose Irishmen taste like?”

Riley perked up and said dryly. “Like cheap liquor and boiled potatoes, that’s what. Hell, the fucking air in the Emerald Isle tastes like.”

Another, particularly crass soldier, Alex I think was his name, peaked the joke when he said “If all that’s true, then we should get some Chinamen on our front lines.”

I asked why, not sure where he was going.

“Simple. If the vamps eat them, they’ll pass out 30 minutes later and save us a whole lot of trouble.”

The rest of the night went on just like that; laughing and joking and carrying on, like that’s the way it always was. It seems like forever since I’ve had that much fun. Maybe things have turned out for the best after all. For the first time in weeks, I’m actually optimistic. I hope I stay that way.

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