Out on the firing range, a dummy holding a closed umbrella in its fist was bathed in flames. Yellow foam sizzled like fat, as molten goo ran down the dummy's warping contours.

Obviously, it was one of the dummies Seras and the soldiers were supposed to avoid. However, an exception had been made.

"I… can't believe it," Pip's wide, incredulous smile was in direct contrast to Seras' gape of horror.

Her arms hung with her drooped shoulders, weighed down by disbelief, defeat, and dread. "No… No. Th- That's impossible, it can't be… you couldn't have…" She stared into the crater her own shot had made, several yards away from the civilian dummy.

An overly friendly arm wrapped around her back, so that her quivering frown was directed at Pip on one side, as his hand patted her shoulder on the other. Done in mock comfort, following the loss of the bet.

"I'm a better shot."

"No. No you aren't! That stupid gun of yours is impossible to aim. What you did- it was pure luck! LUCK! You'd never be able to repeat it."

"Oh, but the thing is, mignonette, I don't have to. One shot each, same target. And yours went wide. Mine was on target, therefore I am the winner." The mercenary looked like he was ready to compose and sing his own songs of self-praise. Baby blue seared into the pompous green eyes that laughed at the fledgling from beneath the brim of Pip's broad hat.

And above that hat was a pair of blank red eyes. And a flat, pale mouth that moved. "It's been suggested that I train the troops."

Pip readily procured several feet's worth of distance from Seras before he ventured to peer somewhat in the great nosferatu's direction. He tugged at his coat nervously and grinned with all the charisma he could muster, too frazzled to comprehend what had been announced. "Good evening Mr. Alucard, you're up la- you're out here… that's… new."

Two undead, crimson orbs gazed upon the man until he could feel rivulets of sweat trickling over his spine. The Vampire Alucard lifted his eyes to the mock battlefront, finding the burning, mutilated dummy as the chemical smell curled on the wing of a sudden gust. "There appears to be some sort of training in progress. …Is it useful or relevant to your contract, Mr. Bernadotte?"

Pip Bernadotte fumbled with words as he tipped his hat over his eyes and pulled it back, then stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jacket – doing all that he could to avoid rocking back and forth on his heels like an eight year old boy. He still wasn't certain whether Mr. Alucard counted as the girl's father, or as some other sort of… male attachment. "We were testing out a new gun," Pip's grin stiffened as Alucard stared at him for a quiet moment.

Finally the vampire spoke, "Walter hasn't mentioned anything new. What is it?"

"Oh," Pip swallowed, "Yes, it's, well… It's something of my own creation. And I had a little, uh, contest- just a test, with our young lady here..." Pip, looked about at his men, finding them watchful and rather useless.

"Who won?"

"Hm?" Pip looked up at the vampire who had taken a step nearer without his noticing. Subtly, Pip edged away, at which point he noticed, yes, quite unfortunately, Mr. Alucard was pursuing him. "Won? Oh, I just happened to win."

Seras grew small with shame and avoided her master's gaze. So the vampire assessed Pip, who rather wished he hadn't made the bet in the first place. "Is this the weapon?" Alucard indicated the grotesque looking grenade launcher in Pip's left arm.

The mercenary confirmed the identity, and without a second thought handed it over.

Almost immediately there was a roaring in the distance that shot through Seras and the men, while Alucard ignored the 'lion' in order to inspect the weapon. The roaring was gone in an instant, but not before Pip regretted his thoughtlessness, and nearly pawed at the great vampire in order to beg for the return of his gun. "Um, Mr. Alucard…"

"I see that you managed to kill Rodney."

Dumbfounded by the oddity that had just been uttered, Pip was adequately distracted and left off his request. "I've- I've manage to kill- Who is this?"

Alucard raised the gun and took aim at a bus-load of foam school children. "Arthur, the late head of Hellsing and Integra's father, named all of his dummies Rodney (at least most of them). Those are the yellow ones. They used to be white."

"Huh," with this sound of false interest, Pip stared blankly, numb and disoriented as he watched the vampire prepare to fire. Giving up, he muttered some faithless prayer and solemnly scanned the training grounds to see which target had been selected.

An explosion tore a crater out of the Hellsing property identical to Seras Victoria's, several yards off target, with a rain of sand and clods of grass clinging earth. Alucard's face darkened as he turned the gun on its side. Then the filtering debris that sprinkled the training grounds reflected in his unimpressed glare, "This weapon is absolutely useless."

Thrilled beyond her wits, Seras clapped victoriously, all the while grinning at her crestfallen, and certainly embarrassed, adversary. Humming, she held back any sort of 'I was right' or other verbal gloating, settling for a smug expression she wore triumphantly.

However, Alucard had taken aim a second time. The mouse in his pocket cowered in a clothy corner, and ducked its head into its warm tummy.

Faintly the opportunity to claim a victory against Mr. Alucard flitted through Pip Bernadotte's mind, but he doubted Mr. Alucard had the sort of humor that would accept this silly little proposal. Since, in the end, Pip had actually managed to use the gun effectively, even if it was just a fluke. It showed him to be the luckiest of the bunch, for the moment at least.

He would have sacrificed his so called 'superior luck' to the gods he neither knew nor cared for, in order to wipe the next few moments off the face of the Earth. Pip watched as Mr. Alucard aimed wildly off target before blasting a baby carriage into the sky. It scattered into oblivion, as Pip crept timidly away. His men were doing the same. Seras noticed a bit too late, so overjoyed and actually impressed was she with her Master's ability to amend this stupid situation so beautifully.

She bobbed on her toes like a giddy child, "Master! Can we try the van next? It's all the way over there. There's another on that side, and I wanted to see if my Harkonen could do as much-"

"ALUCARD! YOU INSUFERABLE UNDEAD ASSHOLE! PUT. THE WEAPON. DOWN. … DO IT NOW!" As Integra, somewhat out of breath and more than somewhat disheveled, huffed the last few yards towards them with a long, but measured, stride, Alucard did as she said, to the extent that he ceased to take aim and merely held the grenade launcher in his arms. "What is this?" the young woman's deep throated growl seemed a little paladin-like as she stopped before the towering crimson figure, glaring and taking a deep breath. "What? Do you have the brains of a ghoul?"

As Pip inched away, Integra sent a sharp glower hurtling into his spine, making him go rigid and cringe. He peered back at her guiltily. "Mr. Bernadotte. Refrain from arming Alucard with any weapon that has not been approved by Walter and myself. Never. Even. Consider. Giving Alucard explosives. He does not know how to handle them properly," she growled this last remark up into her vampire's blank expression. Suspicious, Integra scanned the field, picking out the different craters, trying to recall what the arrangement had been that night. Again she glared at the vampire, "So what did you do? I heard two explosions." He blinked.

"I blew up a Rodney pushing a baby carriage."

"Of course you did. And the baby carriage as well, I assume, for good measure?"

"Well. That's a given."

The cool cobalt stare Integra laid on the vampire did not warm or even shift as she thought. "Well," she sighed, her breath returned and her perspiration growing chill. "You can clean up the field tonight."

As she walked away, Alucard asked, "So my duty to train our soldiers has not been revoked?"

Integra turned, looked him over, then found the guilty mercenary who was trying to be inconspicuous. "Alucard, you may stay. But Mr. Bernadotte… Get rid of that absurd gun. And no one. No one, is allowed to 'share' with Alucard. It's for your own sake."

Alucard meanwhile hummed at this. "I've never tried the Police Girl's guns. I could give Walter a proper report about their-"

"Fine, fine. Do as you like with OUR weapons. But ask Seras first. ASK and don't simply DEMAND that she lend them to you."

She was once again returning to the Hellsing mansion when her vampire once again interrupted her, having followed her, as she noticed, for a short distance. "I see you've preserved the Rodneys quite well."

The woman grunted.

"What have you named your dummies?"

At this, Sir Integra laughed whole heartedly, as the others watched. "Oh, that's a wonderful question. They're all 'Alucard' by their serial number. You're the king of the dummies. Now goodnight."

As Integra dissipated into the dimness of the night, Seras found her Master and he perceived her interest briefly. He was frowning, slightly, but was hardly surprised by his master's response. Though not obliged to explain his expression, he informed the girl, "I thought she would have chosen to name them after the Iscariot."

The girl bit her lip gingerly. Remember the fangs, Seras; she had to keep reminding herself. "I don't think that would've improved our relations with the Vatican…" Considering the matter for a time, Seras decided that she liked it better when the dummies didn't have names.

And the mercenaries couldn't agree more, since they were the ones who dressed, undressed, and arranged the male, female, and miniature dummies for these exercises. And their jokes about the lack of some certain 'under-garments' would never be the same.

*~*~::..+..::~*~*

Alucard had returned before they'd noticed his absence. But the mouse was now in its new cage (a real mouse cage), and was being carried down a hallway.

*~*~::..+..::~*~*

…

..

.

The dream often began like this. In order to rip open the stitches of her unmended wounds and bare them to the coming haunts, the dream made Integra into a child.

There was the sense that she was young. Very young. And sitting on her father's lap, among the orange shadows of his study, the lamp glowing silently, as the ice cubes in her father's golden drink tinked over her head. They tinked again, shifting as the drink came into view, and was placed on the wooden desk. She reached out towards the shining glass and told her father, "A coaster, or you'll leave rings." As his large hand took up the glass and moved it to the coaster, she explained, "The rings never fade."

"No. They never seem to. Integra…" He paused, and she wanted to turn around and hold onto him. "I'm sorry, for your eyes." His warm hands had covered her eyes, and brought Integra into darkness. Her shrinking fingers pushed against the hands, the touch that could only be his, and she spoke loudly as her hearing also faded. Like she was being enveloped in thick blankets and carried away.

"That's not what you meant to say." She lifted the hands, and they vanished. Her words became fractal echoes, and were gone. Young Integra was still in darkness, but a slow glow entered her periphery. What Integra looked at was darkness, but what was around that darkness, was ambiguous and vague. And yet this uncertainty had shape and substance. Then, as though a tide had risen, she was flooded with the ambiances of her dream world. Recognition invaded her, inflating her metaphysical mind with the knowledge that she must hurry; suddenly fueled by panic, fear, and loss, shallowly she breathed in the dust of the echoing vents as she crawled, cramped, and trembling. Her fear hammered against the metal surrounding her, it panted into her ears with her own breath, and her wide blue eyes were practically blind as her fingers waded through dust and other debris that choked the unused ducts. The lighted opening she passed drew bars of white across her body. Bars which she left behind, or perhaps, in an illusion, had passed through. Whether she was entering a prison and caging herself… or leaving the cage and attaining some unsought freedom… Integra could not understand where she was going, but she believed she was following her father's wishes.

There was never a feeling of freedom in the dream.

Her breath faded, and the screeching of claws against metal, the shrieking of inhuman cries assaulting one another, and the thudding of drums like an advancing hunt, gathered around her, packed her in, and insulated her terror. The melded fears of panic and helplessness that are so sharp in childhood saturated what felt to be thinning air. And she, in darkness and isolation, gasped for that air, getting only dust and filth, and most likely, fur. Integra stared with wide strained eyes, frozen, and blind and bound to impossible silence. A tremor reverberated through her marrow, and she shivered. Her small throat choked on a whimper that escaped, severed and writhing like a beheaded snake against the pummeling chaos of the advancing, amplified din. She feared her own fear, and the feeling only escalated. Glinting eyes of beasts that saw well in the dark multiplied before her, and a scream rose in Integra's throat, but she swallowed it like a ball of scorching flame. Meanwhile, the terror in the scream frosted her skin, and slowly, weighed down by her dread, Integra crawled towards the shrieking advance. Because she had to. Death was behind her.

All around Integra, orbs of reddish, hazy, purple, that were also somehow grey and colorless, crowded the narrow space. Yet these eyes seemed to scatter. She knew they were there, though they disappeared and became darkness when she looked at them directly. Replaced by darkness. All there was, was darkness. And for that instant she was in it, and was alone, and was hunted by more than just these creatures. And she could not cry out when their rough bodies sawed against her, or when their sharp scraping claws rent her skin without drawing blood.

They screeched, and their screeches echoed into a cacophony of deafening fear, growing louder and fiercer. The mass of rats and vermin collided with her, jarring her, at first like a wave of insects. The sharp claws scraped over her flesh, clung to her clothes, and the rats matted themselves into her hair. Because she had to, she held back her voice, eyes shut as rodent claws, whiskers, god- the snout and fangs, butted against her face. Integra writhed and kicked at the walls of the vent, tossing her head, trying to keep her eyes and mouth away from the rats, but they covered her. Like a carcass blackened by ants.

The rats trapped in her hair thrashed, desperate, screaming, confused– they must have been, but their feelings were of no concern. They ripped her hair from the roots, twisted and knotted likely nooses about themselves, constricting themselves, threatening to kill themselves. And though she feared the fangs, the diseases they soaked in, she batted and swung at the screeching, fighting masses. Her hair which covered her now, suffocated her with the rats it tangled and kept close, while others streamed on. Reaching the icy peaks of her fears, Integra rolled, jerked, fought mindlessly, disregarding her need for silence, tearing out her own hair to be free of the demons that would not let her go. Her knees slammed into the cool metal walls of the vent, and by morning they would be blackened by bruises.

The battering racket in the narrow darkness sounded like a bloodhound's howl through the vent coverings in the lower regions of the Hellsing mansion. The bludgeoning of Integra's body hitting the metal walls and the cries of the rats, rat mothers screaming as Integra felt the warm maggot-like shapes of what vaguely registered as rat kittens between her fingers. Now there was fear and self-loathing, but still more growing resentment. The more able kittens had fled in the opposite direction, but rats bit into her clothes, her arms, her legs, her back, shoulders, and neck. A new unknown, animalistic fear surged through her, and opened her eyes as she felt one burrowing into her stomach, and it made her squeal despite herself. She struck them, crushed them, beat those before and below her, and dragged herself through the bodies.

Their stench and filth drowned Integra, as the bristle-like hair and leathery tails swarmed. She gasped, which only brought dirt into her throat. So that she suffocated without death to end her suffering. Her growls quickly toppled beneath the youthful helplessness, and successive whimpers and gasps continued to be severed like bodies pushed into guillotines; she tried to move, but couldn't, wanted to scream, but that was forbidden. And there was no help and no hand of God because her father was dead and took with him his true apology, and took so many truths and left so many lies she could not breathe, and almost wanted to die.

Conscious and crawling, she was numb, trembling, her limbs weak and collapsing; necessary though they were, they felt absent, cut off. From her eyes, tears streamed. Integra felt the spaces of the vent covering, cutting like blunt blades pressed against her hands; the covering suddenly unfastened, and she fell through it. Her arm stuck the stones first, then her shoulder, the side of her head, and the rest of her – flooding her with pain that reared up and then submitted to her need to crawl onward, to get up, to run and escape from her pursuers. But while she lay on the stones, she had no time to find her bearings; the rats ran, or tried to run, jerking her head in contradicting and disorienting directions. She pulled at her hair and tried to shake them loose, like dirt from an old rug, but most remained, screeching into her ears, teeth feeling so close to her face. She had to grasp them with bare hands, the twisting shrieking, enraged creatures, rough fur and filth, fangs gnashing near her fingers. With the last weight torn away, Integra threw the rat into the wall with all her might, gasping, whimpering though she did not hear herself. Now her wounds were invisible, scabbed over and erased on the surface. She was crouched and panting on the floor of her dream.

Her hot, wet eyes darted back to the corridor of stone behind her, and she stumbled to her feet and stared into the gloom. With the same wide stare drying, her numbed, trembling limbs moved clumsily as Integra dashed away from the footsteps, the slow and casual pursuit, the voice, and some man's hollowing laugh. Wondered to God how He or any form of reality had allowed them to track her. Ran. Somehow, beyond all sense of reason and hope for pity, she ran, gasping, cold and fearful. A brief tugging, and then the final release, a mouse or a rat kitten escaped from her hair. It had abandoned its golden burrow, as she threw herself upon the cell door.

Everything was swallowed in darkness, and red eyes glowed, like fiery portals into an eternal furnace, as she smelt brimstone, searing into her nostrils, stinging her eyes like wasps. She fell to her knees, blood streaming down her arm, with the knowledge of how it had happened, and what had happened afterwards. The heat of the gun remained embedded in her hands, like a fever, as the weapon dropped to the floor. Exhausted. Empty. And with the feeling of the cold thing around her body, the cold hands that had released her arms – twelve years old, Integra felt like she was falling. But she had no place to fall. No time to plummet. He picked her up, placed the warm gun in her hands, which she felt in the darkness. And when he carried her through the doorway, out of the cell, she threw back her head into his dead arm and finally…

She screamed.

It was wordless, deep, and flooding, a splintering agony, as the hot tears submerged her eyes and then spilled into her hair, over her temples. Hot tears that left cold trails, trails that were warmed by surges of new tears. She remembered splitting her throat, screaming out the name which had no answer.

"WALTER! WALTER!"

And the choking sobs and wracking shudders, and trembling that would not cease. Then the wordless screams and moans continued and broke into sobs, bubbling forth as strings of "No, no-! NO! I DIDN'T DO A-ANYTHING!" And the cries of "No," paired with rocking in the unknown arms, and shivering, endless tears and pain, and fear, and betrayal. And so much hatred, it hurt her. "I didn't I didn't I di-i-idn't-" the moan rolled out with hiccups and gasps for the breaths that were crushed from her lungs by this pain. Her bleeding arm throbbed as though all her life's blood were gushing forth, and she felt colder. Even colder. A part of her, the part that knew this had long passed, heard the cries of her young questions, the "Why? W-hy-y?" and moans and shudders, while silence continued above her.

She realized he was carrying her back and forth like a metronome, like a phantom; she felt the unfamiliar touch, in the stone corridor of this desolate dungeon-world. A world she had never known existed beneath her bed where she had dreamt her innocent, oblivious child-dreams. She made the discovery through the motion of their turning back again, knowing that they had been doing this for some time. And she gasped and her throat bled whimpers as she tried to control herself, to quell the rage and other feelings that dragged her away from her present. Down into her past, even if it was so recently behind her, still at her back, more beside her than anything. She knew where the bodies lay, growing colder and paler in the cell.

The young Integra, trapped in this body, this moment, cried the tears she could not staunch, and permitted the shivers she could not still. "Dad!" She croaked, the moaning continuing with "Daddy, Daddy. No. No-o, I didn't. I didn't do it." She hiccupped and this opened her eyes. The tears thinned, but as she hopped they had finished, she felt the reduced stream continue over her cheek and down her jaw. Her face was wet, bathed in tears, hair wet and clinging. And her breaths could come through nothing but shudders, while she felt like she was dying, but knew she wasn't. Down the length of her arm, she felt pain, she felt how brittle blood became as it dried and fused skin and cloth. Her muscles throbbed, contracted over compacted bone, and it felt as if her muscles would all at once tighten over her nerves to send the pain searing into her shoulder. She cringed and her head tossed as she fought to get away from the surges of electricity, but it was a part of her. It was her pain, her blood, her wound, and these could not be disowned.

Her weak and trembling hand, the one attached to her wounded arm, could move. She checked, and then coughed on a whimper that had splintered from a withheld sob. Her hand was moving, so it was going to be okay. Through the pain she continued to clench and open her hand, the gun a heavy brick of metal on her stomach, while she was in the arms of a monster, but it was going to be okay. It was going to heal. It was going to get better. This wasn't forever.

Integra felt the motion of their turning, the fluid stride that paced down the corridor, and she listened as his steps echoed within the din her misery created.

…

Integra opened her eyes and propped herself up on her forearms, feeling the coolness of her sweat as she gazed down into the dark, materializing substance of her pillow. She felt that the velvet robe had slipped from her shoulder while she had slept. As she left the bed and turned on her lamp, in order to find her glasses on the night stand, she tightened and righted the black sleeves, and pulled the rope taut around her waist. She'd fallen asleep directly after her shower, and Integra wondered how she had gotten under her blankets.

But she knew the moment she heard the unoiled squeaking and thrumming revolution of the wheel, spurts of speed preventing a steady rhythm as it revolved on her desk. With narrowed eyes she frowned down at the mouse cage that had not been there when she'd gone to bed. And the light had been on, she remembered, she hadn't turned it off. Walter must have passed through…

The thought suddenly made her sour, her mind recovering from the onslaught it had endured while she'd slept. Integra tightened the robe still further, but found nothing more could be improved. So she dressed herself in clothing suitable for sleeping, and did so as she viewed the mouse which was joyfully running in its cage, viewing it with ever deepening distaste. "You're loud," Integra scowled over the turning of the wheel, but only a spurt of speed was emitted from the mouse's cage, something she interpreted as increased enjoyment rather than a futile attempt to flee from her voice. "You're obnoxious. Loud. And I hate that wheel." Remembering the twisting knots of rats which had convulsed in her hair ten years ago, Integra turned and strode back to her bed. But the squeaking of the wheel fluctuated, spiking the young woman's temper. She spun back, hissing, and glowered at the cage, "Shut up! You're a damn nuisance!"

The wheel thrummed, but as Integra stood there with deflating rage, the mouse leapt off the wheel, scurrying nimbly into the white paper shavings that made up its bedding. Soon she heard it lapping at its water bottle. Retiring to a cushioned chair, Integra Hellsing collapsed into it with a sigh that became a grunt upon impact with the seat. And she rested her cheek on her fist, watching the mouse cage in the barely illuminated gloom. The moon shone onto her window, but the yellow lamp-light weakened its effect. She removed her glasses and rubbed her tired eyes, then rested her head at an angle against the back of the chair.

"I hate you, disgusting vermin."

Integra Hellsing's voice sounded from Maxwell's speakers, as the archbishop sat in his favored seat with a hungry paladin at his side. Maxwell had been doing paperwork and had a laptop open beside the monitor which currently showed the metal sipper of the mouse's new blue water bottle. He had called for Father Anderson, who had been napping and now wanted dinner, when he'd identified the source of the odd noises being picked up from the mouse's microphone. He'd known it was her voice when she'd complained about the mouse, the female husky tenor was unmistakable and irreplaceable in his mind. However, Maxwell could not have recognized the scream, which had come earlier. He knew the phenomenon well, with his decade's experience with torture and interrogation… which had mostly consisted of torture. He knew how a scream seemed to shed one's identity as a distinct being, expressing only the voice of the anguished or terrified human animal.

And it was surprisingly silent now. No one had come, as though the woman was alone in the mansion, when Maxwell knew otherwise. And yet, nothing had happened. No monster, no butler, had come to her aid.

Well, it had been a muffled scream, a low, sleepy sound, probably into a pillow. He wasn't sure if she had been awake at the time, but now as he recorded the mouse's water bottle, he captured her voice as well.

Alexander Anderson wished Maxwell had gone to bed. He didn't like the thought of Maxwell hearing anything personal from the Hellsing woman. But he did snort at her words.

"I blame you. You're a nightmare, and you bring only bad dreams with you." Integra scoffed, and then surveyed her dimmed carpet, then her bed, then the shelves and unlit lamps around her. Any direction which did not bring the cage into her field of vision.