HA! Take that you Ipad thieves! Your ass is goin tah jail! I have my ipad back everyone! Turns out my neighbor helped herself! Order is restored and I no longer have to type on the iPhone. This also means I have my storyline documents back. You know, the one you make for yourself that tells you what to do next in the plot? When that &$ # from next door took it, she also took my documents. So now that I have that back I'm a little clearer on how to proceed. I've been scrambling for a while to remember the plot ideas I had written down.

Xxxxxx

Fourteen years ago...

There was a tight horror in his chest as he watched her tiny body sink below the raging frothy surface. Stiffened from shock and fear he could not move to save her. Anger saved him as he turned to Zhivago who was standing there wasting precious time. He barked his orders to hide the almost dizzying paralysis that had gripped him.

"God damn it! What are you just standing there for Zhivago?! Find her!" For a second Zhivago stared at him increasing his anxiety. "NOW!"

Zhivago became a blur as he sped away after her, following the river. Only then, in the emptiness that followed when he was alone did he allow his fear to show. Tiny Seras couldn't swim yet and now she had fallen into the river. If he had been human he knew he would have been hyperventilating. It should be him going after her! Him to rescue his daughter! He barely could move his feet for fear of falling. Paralyzed by the fear of the worst he hadn't been able to do what he wanted most. So he sent Zhivago. His worries were assuaged with the knowledge that Zhivago would bring her back.

A knot of coiled emotions he tried to force his legs to move but he was still locked up from forbidden questions of 'what if' he refused to entertain. He didn't know if he would ever be able to move again until he had her tiny body in his arms, safe and dying body of his former wife did nothing to soothe his agitation. It increased it. Hasty acts. In front of their daughter. Foolish. It was regretful. He paused and considered healing her. It wasn't too late. Not too much blood loss or damage. With her mother alive to prove contrary to any lingering memories as Seras aged...

He grit his teeth as he remembered Zhivago telling him of her infidelity and changed his mind. Her servant and lover Ben would also die. He felt taunt and stiff as the time dragged on. Completely wired up he began pacing, almost staggering as motion was somehow returned to his power. Where was Zhivago with his daughter?! Where was that wretched bastard? The time passed slowly and minutes dragged on, forcing him to conjure images of his Seras dead or drowned.

Getting more desperate by the minute he considered taking off down the river to look for her himself. He eyed Isabella on the ground. Glaring at her body in rage. Had she hated him so thoroughly that she would try to kill their daughter? Just to keep her from him?! Distracted from the roiling emotions he didn't notice for a few seconds that Zhivago had returned. He felt relieved for a moment certain Zhivago had returned with his daughter...

Then he saw that Zhivago's arms were empty, hanging limply by his sides.

His face hardened to prevent him from showing the anxiety that sprang up in him. Fear. Where? Where was she? What had happened? Then anger filled him at the failings of his supposed right hand. The one Mort thought he could trust to take on any task.

"Where is she?" He snarled. Zhivago was silent. "Where is she?!"

Finally the blonde man raised his hand and pointed at the river. In that moment Mort wanted to kill him simply for just being. He was there. Seras was not.

"You fail to find her and you come back anyways?!" His anger only lick hotter and it was slowly turning to rage when Zhivago still said nothing. He offered no excuses or promises that he would go find her immediately. He made no apologies. He just stood there unaffected like this was not an issue. Unable to take it he pointed to the river downstream. "Get out and don't come back until you find her! You had better bring her back! Alive!"

Finally this seemed to break through to his servant. He moved and the facial expression hardened even if his voice was even and calm. "And if she is not?"

That thrill of fear from before he tamped down as he squeezed his fists. His voice like chips of ice as he spat each word. "Then. You. Had. Best. Not. Come. Back. Ever. Or I will kill you for your failure!"

Still Zhivago made no move and the insubordination only incensed him further.

"Now OUT!"

Xxxxxx

Thirteen years ago...

Maps of rivers dotted the room with pen marks all over them. Papers of missing and found persons in a hundred square miles of the surrounding area carpeted the floor. Missing posters with a picture and 'Missing. Have you seen me?' And a sizable reward emblazoned on them. Police reports he had bribed officials for were nearly tipping over from their mountainous piles in stacks of ten by ten by eight tall, looking like a parody of a miniature New York. An unhooked phone and a stack of sherif numbers from three hundred different counties and towns. Wine glasses and a few bottles in various states of empty scattered every which way. He lounged on the couch staring at it all quietly.

After everything he had done he hadn't found even a whisper of her. No one had found her. No one had reported finding her or seeing her or even finding her bod- He swallowed some more wine to force back the thought. Never had he felt so helpless. So useless. Perhaps it was the drink or the bitterness or even the previously existing mess that gave him an excuse to do so but he hurled the crystal glass away from him. He watched it shatter against the bookshelves and found a lack of the satisfaction he thought he would have gotten from that.

So dissatisfied was he that he took the bottle and threw that too watching the remaining wine splatter the papers that had done so little to help him find her. It made him angrier in fact and he pushed over the table before getting up, sheaves of paper scattering to the floor. He kicked the massive city of manila folders over watching the sheets fly up into the air. He snatched some out of the air with a snarl, catching the words. 'We regret to inform you-' He tore them up and balled them. He grabbed more and torn them too. He progressed through the room kicking up papers until his feet caused another cloud of them to fly up and he froze.

The rage drained from him as her face flew up into the air from forty different heights and angles. Her missing posters had her face smiling at him, mocking him. 'Have you seen me?' Despite the lick of frustration and anger he felt, he could not bring himself to tear up the flyer with her picture. He felt rather hollow suddenly. Her face was everywhere around him. He snatched one out of the air and gazed at her image, subdued. Her face smiled but it was almost as if her eyes accused him. Questioned him. Called out to him as the words on the poster spoke for her.

'Have you seen me?' They cried out in bold block letters.

"No, I haven't." He said quietly in a room with no one.

Xxxxxx

Eleven years ago...

He was there again, despite his promises to himself to not go.

He hovered outside the dark oak door grimly being torn apart by his pain and his memories. He eyed the decorative filigree of seashells and roses before giving in again, as he had so many times before. He pushed open the door ignoring the creak. He hadn't bothered having any servants oil the hinges in a while. The not knowing if his little Seras was alive perhaps was what set him towards the edge of madness. It was difficult to admit even to himself that there was the possibility she might... He shook the thought away. No. He would find her. He entered the room his shoes clacking on the tile stirring up a layer of dust. He felt almost a traitor or an unwelcome invasion in this room. It's faded and filthy beauty silently accused him.

It welled up just as it always had when he entered this room. Fear. Sorrow. Worry. The beautiful gold crib in the corner with a mobile of garnet Moon and diamond stars covered in dust. To its right large book shelves on either side of a fireplace becoming grimy and rusted. Cobwebs had recently began to dare to take up residence on the bookshelves. A musty afghan slung over the rocking chair in front of the fireplace. A unicorn rocking horse the size of a large dog studded with precious stones, covered with dust. A massive white stone play castle that reached up to his nose when he drew closer was yellowed with grime and lack of care. A spider was scuttling up the side of the drawbridge.

In the corner opposite the crib there was a child's bed that looked like it had grown out of a tree and reached for the ceiling in a leaved canopy. The seashell decorated wardrobe that held her clothing squeaked noisily. The bay windows and the bench were covered with dust. There in the corner were the sheets of paper and crayons she had made pictures of. Isabel had insisted he get them for their daughter. Seras seemed to like drawing. So he had. He could refuse her nothing.

All these things he had made especially for his tiny daughter. He remembered her delight in dressing up like a ballerina and hiding in the castle. In the rocking chair where she had been nursed. The pictures she had drawn. Her falling asleep in front of the fire and him taking her to bed. Her riding the unicorn with delight. Pointing at pictures in a book with delight he had read to her. And she was missing. Or- he bit the thought off. He would find her.

Xxxxxx

Ten years ago...

He gripped the metal chair hard enough to hear it crack. It groaned and squealed in protest as he left his finger indentations on it. Faced with Zhivago who had come back he felt his face freeze. The bastard apparently did not comprehend the order 'do not come back alone'. Unclenching his jaw long enough to speak he attempted to remain calm but his voice was still clipped from anger.

"Why have you returned?"

"I bring good news."

"Zhivago, your 'good news' had better be that she is downstairs with the servants getting a bath and a nap before she sees me. For you see, I am puzzled. I thought for sure that I had told you to never return until you have her with you. Maybe I am mistaken though. Maybe I just said 'bring me good news'."

He could see the anger licking at the surface of that face but Mort no longer cared. He had lost faith in Zhivago years ago. Now all he cared about was whether the man could bring back his daughter.

"You will want to hear this Mort." He insisted.

"Fine. What is your 'good news'?"

"She is alive."

He felt the metal beneath his hands wrench further apart under his hands as hope banished the uncertainty that had haunted him for the last three years. He hadn't realized till the moment he had heard those words just how close he was to giving up hope she was alive. In that moment his faith in Zhivago was restored. Elated but still plagued by the fears he had to ask. He needed to know.

"How do you know this? Have you found her? Where is she? I will pick her up myself!" Before he could make for the door of his study so he could get his car Zhivago said something else that made his blood freeze.

"I do not know where she is."

"What?"

"I said 'I do not know where she is.' I only know that she is alive."

Anger and worry returned to him like old friends. They masked the uncertainty and disappointment sinking in his gut.

"How do you know that she is alive then?" He kept his voice light.

"I found her but some humans in the way while she ran. I pursued after her but lost her in a crowd."

"You had her?... and you lost her?"

Disbelief tinged his words. He had her and then immediately lost her afterwards? He could not track and capture a six year old simply because she was in a crowded place?! He threw the chair and it shattered the bay window when Zhivago dodged. He kicked his desk out towards him next. It shattered and flung outwards like Mort had kicked sand.

"Out! Out you insufferable sore! Out! Next time you come back she had better be with you!"

Xxxxxx

Nine years ago...

Angry he took the wretched modern device and hurled it against the wall. It splintered into a shower of plastic bits and there was a grating noise that it emitted. He ignored it, fuming. The incompetence! He had offered substantial sums of money! He had poured a fortune into these blasted task forces for the last four years when Zhivago repeatedly proved himself incapable. What did he have to show for it?! Nothing! He eyed the remains of the shattered phone in an attempt to incinerate it. His anger spiked. The nerve! The insult alone!

He had spend hundreds of thousands as 'generous donations' to keep her on the priority wall and they wanted to take her down. They would stop looking. Oh they assured him that her face not being on the priority meant they wouldn't stop looking but he knew they wouldn't look as actively as before. Five different task forces had met, discovered he was paying them all off and decided to stop. He stilled bitterly and clenched his hands, trying to calm himself.

Money no longer seemed to motivate the owners of these businesses. That was fine. He knew how to deal with men when they could no longer be led by their nose and the smell of greed. He would go to London himself. He would show these bastards to fear him. He would make them understand that his daughter would be a priority or their priority would be to call a funeral home. 'A waste of time and resources' they had called the search for her. He would show them the error of their ways and that his daughters location would never be a waste of time.

She was eight now and would start becoming sick soon. He needed to find her now more than ever.

Xxxxxx

Five years ago...

His second meeting with the organization was quite promising. They had the money, the time and the manpower to do what he wanted desperately. They had their own goals but that didn't bother him. What was better was that they worked outside the law when it suited them. The short fat man he met with he didn't care for. Neither did he like any of the others but he ignored solid dislike in favor of getting what he wanted. They knew what he was and indeed even some of them were not quite human. The price of what they had asked was so small in comparison to what Mort would get in return he had accepted almost immediately.

Five vials of his daughters blood before she had been fully changed in exchange for her return to his side was a ridiculously ideal and easy bargain. He could care less what they planned to do with the blood. That quack doctor of theirs could amuse himself as long as he wanted with five vials if Mort had his daughter returned.

They had approached him five days before and offered to find his daughter for him. Weary of parades of police financial accountants promising to find her if he would make a generous donation, he had blown them off. Then they proved to know more than the average human and he found himself more willing to listen. How they had ever found out about his halfling daughter he was uncertain but he found he didn't care in the end as long as he got what he wanted.

Xxxxxx

Three months ago...

He sat at the brand new desk in a brand new chair doing old paperwork. It was always old paperwork. Even brand new letters were the same. He was just sealing up a letter when the phone rang. He tensed, eyeing it. He hadn't heard from Zhivago in years... Unless... He almost dared not to hope. He dropped the letter and strode across the room during the fourth ring. He picked it up and held it to his ear. The man on the other end didn't wait for a reply or formalities. He just talked giving news Mort had worked fourteen years to hear.

"Mr. Holmstead? This is Curtis Halgen from Missing Juveniles and I think we may have found a lead on your daughter."

His ears deceived him with the news and it was several minutes of stony silence as a fourteen year old battle between hope and despair wrestled for his attention. It had been fourteen years. The illness was risky enough with help, but alone? He had resigned himself two years ago to the idea he would not find her. He had kept pouring money into the private investigators and business hoping beyond hope but... She was seventeen. Old enough to change or already have changed. Was it possible? Had she been found? Finally he surfaced long enough to realize the man on the phone was still talking.

"-tical analyzer named Stanley found a photo uploaded earlier today that's a dead ringer. It's very promising. We would very much like it if you would give us an email address or fax number we can send the photo to you with."

He was speaking before he knew it. His voice was hoarse with shock and naked need. "Don't bother. I am coming there myself."

"What? Y-you are?!" The fear was almost tangible. Mort smirked.

What was the mans name? Cart? Curtis? Yes, that was it. His predecessor if he remembered right went into early retirement overseas three years after stupidly trying to take his daughters face from the wall again. He would never forget the tender mercies Mort threatened him with after that. Judging from the fear in Curtis's voice, his predecessor had warned him. Good. It would make them all the more motivated.

"Yes. I am. I expect progress by the time I arrive."

Xxxxxx

Two months and three days ago...

He left the building more elated than he had been in a long time. He was in a good mood. He had seen his daughter for the first time in nearly fifteen years. The moment he saw her he knew it was her. It had to be. It had to be her. He didn't know if he could handle the disappointment if it wasn't. So it just had to be her. Short blonde spiky hair just the right shade. Periwinkle blue eyes when she looked at the camera phone at just the right moment.

He was so certain. Slender and perhaps in need of a good meal but in good health otherwise. Any illness she had to be suffering from she wasn't showing. So vital. So alive. He had watched the film and the way her head titled. She looked so much like Isabel right then his breath caught. The she moved and the illusion shattered. There was a perfect combination between him and her in their daughter. But she was older and looked flinty eyed, self reliant and someone to be proud of.

She looked so grown up he felt cheated.

Where was the little girl with knobby skinned knees? Intellectually he knew she had been growing. Intellectually he knew she would age, change and he had been missing out on important things. Important chances to know her. Yet his perception of her had somehow managed to remain the same over the years. His minds eye for the longest time hadn't been able to imagine her as anything but what she had been. Tiny. Helpless. Innocent. Naive. Sweet. Childish. Playful. Stubborn. Parts of him had wanted to still think of her as nearly four. Now his eyes were open.

Despite the almost disappointed feeling in him, it paled in comparison to the glee bouncing inside as he walked calmly. He was soon to find her. This was closest he had been in finding her for nearly ten years.

Xxxxxx

Four days ago...

They had found her but he kept his face flat. There was no cause for celebrating right then. It was a horrible irony, like some curse to find her only to discover where she was. He had no way of knowing if she was alive. That place was death to him. His daughter Seras was in the Hellsing estate and he had no way of knowing if she was alive. It made him want to rattle the gates down and storm the castle just to find his little princess.

The cold in his chest stemmed partly from the fact that Zhivago had betrayed him. Zhivago had been flipped and was now working for the people who had promised him his daughter. Mort supposed he had burned too many bridges. They had used Zhivago to circumvent his deal. What for Mort wasn't sure but he was certain it had to do with their desire for DNA from his daughter. His heart sank. Five vials would not be enough for them. She was in danger from these people. He would need to quickly find a way to take her back.

He would kill anyone who stood in his way from killing the current Hellsing if she had touched his daughter.

Xxxxxx

An: some of you are probably all like 'come on' I don't want to be sympathetic to Mort. He's supposed to be the bad guy!' Is he? Is what I'm wondering. Perception affects a lot of things. Everyone has two realities. First reality is what your first see. Second reality is what actually is.

For example: there's an ameriquest commercial about a guy walking his dog through the park eating a brownie. He accidentally drops the brownie onto the grass behind his dog. So he picks it up and takes a bite of it while a grandmother and her granddaughter watch in disgust. He then realizes what they thought really happened and stops smiling at them.

So first reality: he eats dog shit. Second reality: delicious brownie saved by the ten seconds rule.

Review or else 420 yolos wag for Jesus.