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Puppetry	By : Crystalwren Category: Hellsing > General Views: 2279 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Hellsing, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Sucker love is known to
swing.

Prone to cling and waste these things.

Pucker up for heaven�s sake.

There's never been so much at stake.

I serve my head up on a plate.

It's only comfort, calling late.

Cuz there's nothing else to do,

Every me and every you.

Every me and every you,

Every Me...he

Every You Every Me � Placebo

It
was just beginning to get light when Walter stirred, unwrapped himself from
around the prostitute and stretched until his joints popped. He shuffled into
the bathroom and turned on the light. His face in the mirror, grey and lined,
old and sly and he thought about smashing the glass but decided that it would
be too clich�d. If one was going to trash a hotel room, one should at least
find a hotel room worth trashing.

Instead,
Walter washed up, gargling with tap water and running a toothpaste-coated
finger over his teeth. His mouth tasted like Integra�s breath; he sobbed, then
laughed, and bumped his forehead against the mirror. He had known beforehand
that this little adventure wouldn�t cure him of his infatuation but despite
that he�d hoped; he�d hoped.��

Back
in the bedroom he straightened his wrinkled, musty-smelling clothes as best he
could and put his shoes back on. The prostitute hadn�t moved; she was still
curled up into a defensive ball, tense and wary. She made not a whimper as
Walter went through her handbag. He found a photograph of a smiling child and
an ATM card with a name on it that Walter said out loud. He said, �I don�t
suppose that I have to impress upon you the need for confidentiality?�

�Not
a word spoken,� she replied bitterly, �Wouldn�t dream of it.�

He
nodded once in satisfaction. He set her artefacts back down on the table and
added some money from a clip in his pocket. It said a lot about Walter in that
he honestly thought that money would make up for what he�d done to her. �One
last thing: the gown, please.� Without so much as a blush she sat up, pulled
the red satin nightgown up and over her head and threw it at him. He stuffed it
into the plastic bag he�d brought with him, opened the door and stepped through
it. He hunched his shoulders, took off his monocle and shuffled arthritically
down the corridor towards the fire exit. No alarms went off as he opened it;
evidently, given the hotel�s policy of paying in advance, the management were
indifferent as to whether or not their clients chose a discrete exit. All to
the better.

On
the fire escape he paused to look over the buildings of the industrial estate,
bleeding the vivid red dawn light. He thought about finding a quiet nook
somewhere and burning the red satin nightgown- worn first by a transgender
vampire and then by a German prostitute and soiled with his own semen- but he
knew that it would be a purely meaningless gesture. Walter loved Integra, and he
would return to her whether she wanted him or not. She had never worn the
nightgown, never would, but it would always remain as an enduring symbol of
her.

The
moment passed. The sun lifted and the bleeding lightened into orange. Walter
sighed. He would go back to the motel where he had his luggage. He would check
his pager, and then he would shower, eat and sleep. Then he would go to the
antique stores and buy some useless trinket that he would never have the balls
to give her. Then he would catch a train back to London because there really
was no point in hanging around in this city, or in any other.

**

He
was on the ferry, going across the English Channel when his hitherto silent
pager sounded, cutting across the whining drone of some jet-lagged international
tourist bitching about what the English alleged was fast food. Walter frowned
and set his newspaper down on the grubby table. The code flashing across the
screen wasn�t an urgent one; it told the receiver that everything was fine but
may be not be fine in the future. Standby. Further instructions may or may not
follow. He�d seen this code many, many times before and rarely had anything
come of it (with Hellsing it was usually a well-managed operation or a
fully-fledged, completely unexpected disastrous cock-up, making advance
warnings to off-duty members fairly pointless) but nevertheless he couldn�t
help but feel a slow shiver slide up his spine. A quick glance at the clock
told him that the ferry would be coming into Dover in the next twenty minutes.
He put the pager back on his belt and went back to his newspaper, ogling the
shapely, bikini-clad redhead on page four. The
Sun was a guilty pleasure that he didn�t often get to indulge. On the rare
occasions he�d been busted with it he�d blinked guilelessly and said that he
liked the crossword puzzles. He didn�t think that any single person had
believed him yet.

Turning
the page his eyes flicked across an article attributing the continuing heatwave
to the activities of extraterrestrials in spaceships fitted with gigantic
thermal mirrors, claiming that the aliens were in a conspiracy with the
American government, aimed at eliminating Britain from the face of the Earth
and thus from the long list of countries pressuring America to ratify the Kyoto
Protocols. Walter thought that such a conspiracy would imply rather more
diplomatic negotiation, foresight and planning than the current American
government was capable of so he skipped ahead. Vampire ABCs Preying on Pets proclaimed the heading, and Walter
instantly focused his full attention on it.

Vampire Alien Big Cats
are among us, feeding on the blood of our helpless dogs and cats!

Sarah Cooper, age six,
went to feed her pet rabbits in their backyard and found them lying in the
bottom of their hutch, necks broken, drained of blood. She looked up to see a
huge spotted cat, the size of a jaguar, perched on the roof of the garden shed
and watching her. It ran off when she screamed.

The
article went on to list a number of similar occurrences and then diverted into
a separate and entirely irrelevant discussion of the chupacabra. Walter shut off at this point and instead focused on
the alleged locations: London and the outer suburbs of London. Oh dear.

Walter
tapped the newspaper with a forefinger, and then gave up. Resisting calling
Hellsing for news had been a point of pride for him but this- this was
important. Obviously the media team would already know about the reports of
these bloodsucking ABCs but that was beside the point. He abandoned his
newspaper and got up, pushing past never ending crowds of tourists to the
stairs that went up to the top deck. There in the wind, away from the crowds
leaning over the rails to get the first glimpse of Dover, he flipped open his
mobile and thumbed through the list of numbers. He found himself staring
stupidly at the direct line to Integra.� �Go on,� he hissed under his breath. �Go on, you fucking coward, I dare you,�
but of course he couldn�t. Instead he found the number for his own personal
secretary- the retainer�s retainer, if one wanted to be amusing- and dialled.

�Mr Dornez?� she sounded sleepy.

�The
very same. I�m on the ferry pulling into Dover now.�

�That�s good to hear.� A yawn. �We�ve missed you.�

Walter
rolled his eyes, but the charming and polite tone of his voice didn�t change at
all. �Are things well? I received a standby message on my pager...�

�Oh, that,� said the secretary, �Don�t worry about it. Everything�s fine.� She
yawned again. �Everything�s perfect,� and
he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

�Why
did the standby message go out?�

�Oh, someone saw
something in the roses, but it was only Sir Integra.�

�Where
are Lord Alucard and Seras Victoria?�

�Um, I don�t know. Scotland.
I think. Something like that.�

Walter
ended the call without so much as saying goodbye. He dialled Integra�s direct
line and listened to it ring out. As the ferry shuddered and came to the dock
he dialled every single number in the Hellsing organisation. Most of them went
unanswered. The few that did bother to pick up the phone were just as sleepy
and drugged-sounding as the secretary had been, and were thoroughly unhelpful.
Everything was fine, they said. Just fine.

He
went back down into the ferry and collected his luggage from the lockers, his
head whirling. What should he do now? Of course, the obvious answer was to ring
the security agencies and tell them...tell them what, exactly? That some people
in Hellsing weren�t answering their phones? That the ones that were sounded a
little bit sleepy? In this heat, this blazing heat he�d left the country to
avoid, maybe that wasn�t such a hard thing to understand. Nevertheless, he
couldn�t help the thin thread of fear sliding into his gut. He had to get back
to Hellsing. And quickly.

Throughout
the laborious process of docking he waited by the passenger doors, and waited
again as those passengers streamed through. As tempting as it was to simply
push his way to the front and by done with it, it would be difficult with
luggage and detrimental to his plans. Taxis, after all, were far too easy to
trace and he strongly doubted that the lift he�d been promised by the Hellsing
car fleet would actually arrive. So once again he took off his monocle, his tie
and his vest, rumpled his hair and hunched over, radiating helplessness. He
shuffled along behind the crowd headed towards the car park, blinking and
squinting in puzzlement. Slipping his watch discretely into his pocket he
looked around for a likely bunch of villains. �Excuse me,� he croaked
pathetically, sidling up beside a young lad. �Do you have the time? My daughter
was supposed to here to pick me up...�

The
boy would have been barely twenty, and looked like a fine, upstanding young
gentleman. He smiled an utterly charming smile while his companions hid their
smirks. He was handsome, neatly dressed, and had dead, dead eyes.

�It�s
getting late,� he said. �Are you all right? Do you need to call someone?�

�Oh,�
said Walter fluttering his hands helplessly. �My daughter...my daughter is so
unreliable. She forgot to pay the bill so she doesn�t have a telephone. She
said she�d be here. She said...oh, dear.�

�There,
there,� said the boy, patting Walter on the shoulder. He flashed a grin at his
companions and Walter knew instantly that he�d had the boy dead to rights.
Walter was a charming monster, and he knew a fellow charming monster when he
saw one.

�I
don�t want to take a taxi,� he whined. �They�re dirty and dangerous. I hate
them. Oh, but I have to go home. I�m so tired. My terrible daughter,� he wrung
his hands helplessly.

�Where
are you going?� asked the boy with a flawless imitation of concern.

Walter
named a little suburb very close to Hellsing, and watched the boy�s face.

�Why,
what a co-incidence! We�re going very near there! Would you like a lift?�

�Oh!�
he cried joyously, �Really? Would you be so kind?�

�Not
at all,� said the boy with a flawless expression of concern.

�I
can pay you,� and Walter produced a handful of crumpled notes from his pocket.
The boy�s companions smirked and nudged each other and the old man knew that
they planned to beat him and rob him. Not because they needed the money, going
by their clothes and the car, but just for fun. In a way Walter could
sympathise, being violent and sadistic himself, but he really thought that such
tendencies should be expressed in a more appropriate manner. Like joining the
SAS, for example, and going to enemy countries and lurking in holes in the
desert and eating snakes with the rest of the freaky little SAS nutjobs. So he
didn�t feel very sorry for them as he allowed them to bundle him up and into
their car.

He
was set in between another boy of about eighteen and a girl who seemed a little
younger. Her thigh pressed delightfully against his and he smiled in
satisfaction. The cutthroat razor he�d tucked into the waistband of his
trousers and it dug into his stomach, uncomfortable and comforting all at the
same time. It was so pathetically easy. If he hadn�t been so concerned about
Hellsing he would have been depressed about how easy it was, but there was no
time for that so he just sighed and leant his head back, pretended to doze. The
girl seemed uneasy; perhaps she realised that he was actually enjoying the
close proximity, perhaps she had suddenly discovered that she had a
conscience.� Ultimately irrelevant either
way.

They
headed towards London, that much they�d told the truth about, circled the city,
heading vaguely in the direction of Hellsing. The motorway was crowded so
Walter had plenty of time to plan what he was going to do next. When the
approached the right exit he sighed, sat up straight, pulled his monocle from
his pocket and the cut throat razor from his trousers. He flicked it open,
pushed it against the throat of the boy next to him and said politely, �Turn
here, please.�

�What?�
said the leader, the one who was driving.

�I
said turn here,� he repeated, clipping the monocle chain to his ear. �Otherwise
I�ll cut his throat. I killed my first German when I was fourteen, so don�t
think I�m bluffing.�

The
girl whimpered and pressed against the door, trying to get away from him. They
turned off the motorway and into a smaller road. The boy who was driving kept
sneaking glances at him through the rear vision mirror, and shaking his head
like he couldn�t quite figure out what was happening. When the car drew close
to a stoplight Walter slid his arm around his captive�s neck and pressed the
razor to the opposite side, so that he couldn�t run. The girl had no such
qualms. As soon as the car stopped she scrabbled at the handle, pushed the door
open, unclipped her seatbelt and ran for it. Walter was happy as it gave him
fewer hostages to watch: the boy beside him, and the two in front. Packs like
this tended not to care much about their female members, unless the females
were actually the leaders; obviously not the case here so she was a liability
and valueless as a hostage. He said, �You, in front, in the passenger seat. You
can leave too. Shut the door behind you.� The boy in front fumbled at his
seatbelt and all but fell out of the car. And then there were three: the
driver, the hostage and Walter himself.

�Listen
man,� said the driver, �You want the car, you can take it. We�ll give to you,
okay? Money as well if you want it. Just let my mate go, yeh? There�ll be no
hard feelings.�

Walter
clicked his tongue in irritation. �You little idiot. I don�t want your car, or
your money.�

�Howzabout
a blowjob?� gasped his hostage. Walter snarled.

�You�d
like that wouldn�t you, you deviant little pillow biter,� he hissed. �Well, I
hate to disappoint you. All I want is a ride. So keep driving. Just go straight
ahead.�

�The traffic was dense and it took an hour to
come close to where Hellsing was located. Walter was tense, waiting for his pager
to beep or his mobile phone to ring. Despite the air conditioner being on at
full blast it was hot, and sweat kept sliding unpleasantly down his face. He
couldn�t wipe it off because he held the razor in one hand and had the boy in a
finger lock with the other. �Turn left here. Turn right now. You stupid boy,
you�ve missed it. You�ll have to turn around.� When the driver began to whine
he snapped his hostage�s finger. The car suddenly reeked of urine and Walter
curled his lip. Through the windscreen towering storm clouds glowered above the
horizon. The day�s heat was going to be broken violently.

�Pull
over here.� It was a small country lane, bordered on one side by an ancient dry
stone wall, and something filled with exotic weeds that was allegedly a forest.
�Get out. Open the boot and take out my luggage.� Walter watched the driver
carefully as he went behind the car, and then there was the sound of the boot
being opened. The old man judged it time to go; he hauled his hostage out
through with him and led him behind the car. The boy, the leader of the little
gang, stood watching and trying helplessly to hide the big wet stain on his
jeans with his hands.� Walter searched
the hostage�s pockets until he found a wallet. Flipping it open to the drivers�
license, he repeated the tactic that he�d used on the German whore. He added,
�I know who you are and where you live. So it would be good for all of us to
keep this our little secret, hmm?� He flung the boy to the ground. �Run,
children. Run home now.�

The
boys didn�t need to be told twice. They bolted to the car and jumped in, sped
off. They forgot to close the boot so when they turned a corner, a suitcase
fell out and onto the ground. Despite his nagging worry, Walter couldn�t help
but smile. In to the woods he went.

�Hey there, Little Red
Riding Hood,�
he hummed as he made his way through the thick undergrowth. These were the
woods that surrounded the Hellsing estate, kept it isolated, kept it safe.
Periodically some environmentalist would complain about the severe weed
infestation that made the English forest look more like a cold-climate jungle,
but the dense vegetation damped the noise of gunshots and made it difficult for
people to sneak in. It was booby-trapped, of course, traps that Walter avoided easily.
After all, he�d put most of them there himself. He exchanged his white shirt
for a dark one and stashed his luggage in a hollow made by fallen tree trunks,
covered it with leaves. The air felt thick and heavy. Sultry, that was the word
for it, the humidity so thick it felt like he could bite and chew it, the light
fading as the storm clouds moved in. Walter was fantastically fit but he
couldn�t help but feel tired.

It
took him close to an hour to reach the outskirts of the estate proper. The
fences were still electrified, the cameras still operational, and when Walter
patched into the security system through a minor maintenance screen he saw no
errors or warnings on the display. He considered tripping the system
deliberately to alert the guards to his presence but instinct screamed that
that would be a bad idea. It was entirely possible that there was nothing wrong
and the staff he�d spoken to were just sleepy with the heat, but he didn�t
really believe that. Something was wrong. Something was drastically wrong.
Something terrible had infested Hellsing and Walter realised that he never
should have allowed Integra to drive him away.

He
kept going, slipping in through the backdoors that he�d deliberately built in
when he�d designed the security system and he was almost out of the woods when
he caught the first scent of perfume.

Peering
out from cover, he could see the firing range, the barracks, and the mansion
proper. And, monstrously, the rose garden.

Sleeping
Beauty; Briar Rose. The roses were huge and tangled, a good twenty feet high.
Even as far away as he was he could make out the splashes of colour that must
be the blooms, each the size of a man�s head. Walter shuddered as he remembered
what his secretary had said:

�Oh, someone saw
something in the roses, but it was only Sir Integra.�

Oh
God. Integra.

He
put his gloved hand in his mouth and bit down. He took a deep breath and
shuddered again as a wave of weakness washed over him. Dizzy from the scent of
roses he bit harder and harder until the pain began to clear his head. Think.
He had to think.

As
he watched, the door to the barracks opened and a patrol stumbled out. Their
uniform was askew; boots were missing here and there, hair uncombed. Out of
step they attempted a basic formation and failed miserably. He studied their
faces carefully, looking for the tell-tale grey complexion and bloody teeth of
zombies, but all he saw were glazed expressions and a lot of nasal discharge
dripping unheeded across slack mouths. A good, old fashioned drug and that
drug, obviously, came from the roses. As the soldiers stumbled along he
realised that something was going to a lot of trouble to make the place look
normal for the outside. It was a trap; a trap for Alucard most likely, with
Integra as the bait.

But
the secretary said that Alucard was in Scotland.

Walter
had to find her. He had to find Integra. She was there, somewhere, amongst the
roses.

A
nearby security hut yielded a pair of near-catatonic security guards. One was
short with broad shoulders, the other was tall with a slender waist. Neither
made so much as a whisper of protest as he stripped the first of his uniform
coat and the other of his uniform pants. Thinking that any unexpected noises
would give him away, Walter abandoned his beeper and his mobile phone. He
buckled a gun belt around his waist and tucked his cutthroat razor into a pouch
and left the two guards were they were, propped up against each other and
staring blindly into the distance.

He
did his best to look as slack-jawed and stupid as everyone else and found that
he didn�t have to try too hard. He staggered towards the car shed and it felt
like it took him hours to get there but it probably only took him a few
minutes. A container of petrol was easy to find; matches were harder, he turned
around and around, wondering where some might be until the thought crawled
across his head that of course there would be some in the emergency survival
kits that were stationed at regular intervals, just about everywhere. Each kit
designed to keep a single man going for two days, with thin rations and basic
survival gear like a tarpaulin and medical supplies. And, most importantly, a
box of waterproof matches, as long as his hand and able to strike a flame in a
downpour. He shoved the matches into his pockets and left the shed, the
container of petrol banging against his knee as he stumbled.

It
was so heavy and the fumes combined with the rose scent to make his head swim
and he gasped and swayed. Every step he took seemed difficult at first, but
strangely, the closer he got to the roses the easier it became, as though
something was helping him, guiding him, lifting and lowering his limbs for him.
Something brushed his face and he looked up wonderingly at the briars, the
leaves dry and brown at the edges, thorns as long as his thumbs. A huge rose
blossom turned its head to watch him go by as he entered the labyrinthine
garden, and he was struck by a strange sense of inevitability, as though
everything in his life had been leading up to this exact point. His limbs
didn�t seem like his own; he thought, this
is puppetry, and then he heard Integra calling his name.

Things
flickering through the undergrowth; somewhere deep inside of him, Walter knew
that he should be afraid but all he wanted was to go to her, to go to Integra
and he felt something liquid warm pour down his spine and he shivered,
realising that he had an erection. The petrol container was heavy and
unpleasant; he heard the purring and wondered why he�d brought the
nasty-smelling thing. It began to slip from his hand and his fingers suddenly
flexed, clamping down on the handle in an iron grip. Between the perfume and
the purr he couldn�t say why it was important to hold onto the container, only
that it was.

He
kept moving, watching yellow eyes blink at him, black-tipped tails flicking
through the undergrowth. In the centre of the maze, on the stone bench where
he�d so often sat, was Integra. He lost the grip on the petrol container and it
fell on his foot. He didn�t care.

Wearing
only a white shirt, the length only just long enough to cover her sex but not
her backside, her hair falling down around her face, blood tricking from the
old wound in her neck that had once again been torn open, she rested her cheek
on her knees and regarded him sleepily.

�H�lo,
Walter,� she slurred, and he whined and tried to go to her. His knees gave out
from under him halfway there and he could only sprawl helplessly, like a
marionette with its strings cut. The purring got louder. He couldn�t think. Who
was Walter? She got up, those glorious long legs unbelievably perfect. A ray of
light peered through the rapidly shifting clouds, briefly illuminating her like
a goddess and she walked to him and he�d never been so terrified in all his
life and he�d never wanted anything so badly, either.

She
unbuttoned her blood-stained shirt, her breasts swaying in time with her
footsteps. The jaguar showed itself properly for the first time, slipping
between her legs and nuzzling at her crotch. Petting it absentmindedly, she
stood over him, studying him like he was a particularly interesting species of
insect. She nudged him with her foot and he kissed it, licking at her ankle
like a slave.

She
said, �You�re pathetic,� and he wanted to cry. The jaguar pushed its head against
her hand, rumbling in approval. She put her foot on the centre of his chest and
pushed him flat against the ground. He lay there, completely helpless as she
regarded him dispassionately. The moment stretched on and on until she suddenly
smiled, utterly secure in her power. She straddled him, and sank down on her
haunches until her hips touched his. Then she leaned forward and- God- brushed
her lips against his- oh God- and her tongue slid into his mouth and she kissed him, they were kissing and it was
everything Walter had ever dreamt of and he wanted to throw up. Raising her
head she rubbed it against the jaguars�, kissing its muzzle. It hissed and
nudged her back as if to tell her to get on with it.

Looking
down on him she ran a ragged fingernail around the edge of his collar, tracing
the line of the fabric, before unsnapping the top button and every other button
on his jacket after that. She licked a nipple through the fabric of his shirt,
then bit hard and laughed when he yelped in pain. �I want to touch you,� he
told her.

�Shut
up,� she replied. �I don�t want to hear your voice.� She got up, moved further
down. She fiddled with the gun belt, stripping the gun holster off and throwing
it far away. Flexing his burning fingers inside his gloves it occurred to
Walter that there was something very important that he was forgetting, but that
thought vanished like steam in the air as she opened the fly on his trousers
and pulled them open. The head of his erection pressed through his underwear
and he realised that he really was crying, tears were trickling from the
corners of his eyes and soaking into the hair at his temples and he sobbed as
she took him in hand and squeezed, oh so gently. Without taking off his
underwear she raised her hips and settled over him and the thin fabric between
them was the worst torture imaginable. Her hair fell down around her face as
she began to rock, the sight of her, the smell of her, the sound of the jaguar
purring, and he cried and cried like a baby because he wanted her and he was
helpless and he knew that this was nothing but violation, of his mind, his body
and his soul.

�What�s
the matter?� she whispered. �Don�t you want me? Why are you crying, Walter?�
she pressed a tender kiss to his temple, her breasts brushing against him.

�Please
stop,� he whimpered.

Heavy
lids slid over brilliant blue eyes. She didn�t, she kept moving and moving and
Walter knew that it would all be over if he could just come but he couldn�t. It
went on for a very long time. He heard someone groaning and realised, dimly,
that it was himself and finally, finally he shuddered and knew he was close. The
jaguar crept closer as he got louder, grinning as only a painted cat could, the
huge fangs capturing his gaze when he turned his eyes away from Integra�s face.
Closer. Closer. The jaguar came closer and Walter realised that he was going to
come and that he couldn�t close his eyes. Utterly helpless as the orgasm went
on and on, he saw the flash of steel in Integra�s hand as she used his razor to
slash the jaguar�s throat.
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