Hellsing Fan Fiction ❯ Amoare ab Hostis ❯ Chapter 10 ( Chapter 10 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

~~Five years later~~

The smell of furniature polish had to be one of the most foul, nauseating, olfactory nightmares ever invented. The vain attempt to cover up the cloying, thick coating quality of the polish itself with the sticky-sweet scent of citrus just made it even more sickening. Walter's nose felt raw and irritated, his arms tired, his back aching, his muscles sore and screaming for a break. He found it odd that a day spent polishing all of the furniature in the east wing of Hellsing mansion wore him out more than a day in the field had when he was younger. But it was best to keep his mind off of such things. Military work reminded him of being trapped here in the house, which reminded him of why he was trapped, which of course reminded him of Alucard...

He had mixed feelings regarding the vampire. He hated him, or at least he wanted to, for causing his imprisonment. Yet part of him knew that it wasn't Alucard's fault and that he hadn't intended for this to happen to him, so Walter had to admit that he didn't truly blame him for his present situation. He actually missed the grinning, sarcastic nosferatu...more than he had thought he would. Thinking of him always brought on a certain kind of pain that was neither explainable nor could it be justified. They'd never pretended that their relationship was anything more than it was, and yet Walter's heart seemed to twist whenever he thought of Alucard, alone and exiled, wherever he was.

He'd been careful to avoid asking after the vampire after he'd been told he was being removed from the Hellsing armed forces and appointed a position within the main house. His silence had been rewarded with vague hints that Alucard was being held captive somewhere. The comments had been intended to provoke him into anger by his superior, Jemmings, the head butler and manager of the household staff.

Thinking of Jemmings immediately dispensed his depressed mood, replacing it with a black, simmering hatred for the head butler. The man was pompous, arrogant, stuffy, stiff-necked and bitter. He treated Walter like one of the poisoned rats he was assigned to fetch from the attic and various pantries and closets. All in all, the twenty-three-year-old hated him, and would gladly kill him if it weren't for his own neck on the line.

"Walter!"

He groaned. There was the git now. He despised the way he pronounced his name, "Wal-tah." It was the same uppercrust, blueblood accent he was trying to instill in Walter, and he hated it just as he hated Jemmings, hated cleaning, and hated being stuck inside the house.

"Walter!" Jemmings shouted again, coming round the corner with ridiculously stiff-legged steps. Walter rolled his eyes and kept working on the desk he was polishing until the other man stopped in front of him. "Get up. I have an assignment for you."

"Yes, sir." Walter grumbled. He rose, draping the polish-soaked rag over his shoulder and nearly gagging at the stench.

Jemmings curled his lip in disgust. "I don't know why you insist on ignoring all of my attempts to teach you how to speak properly. I don't suppose you need to have your meals cut off again?"

"No, sir." Walter said, grinding his teeth.

"Good, then speak like a gentleman instead of the snivelling little gutter snipe you were before Hellsing plucked you off the streets."

Walter didn't bother reminding him that he was enjoying a rather generous position with Her Majesty's guard before Hellsing "plucked" him anywhere.

"What it is you wanted, sir?"

"Don't speak unless spoken to you scruffy, ungrateful brat!" Jemmings snarled. "Sir Rupert's son, Sir Arthur, will be arriving later on this evening. You are to prepare the Green Suite for his stay, understood?"

Arthur...

"Yes, sir. It will be done, sir." Walter answered, despite his amazement.

"Of course it will." Jemmings smirked.

"Sir?"

"What is it? I'm busy preparing the rest of the staff for Sir Arthur's return."

"How long will Sir Arhtur be staying with us?" Walter asked. "So that I'll know how much linen to stock in the linen closet..." He added.

"Sir Arthur will be staying with us indefinitely."

"Why is Sir Hellsing Jr. returning home? I thought he was in charge of the Irish branch of Hellsing?" Walter asked, hoping the increased formality with which he addressed Arthur would belay any personal interest on his part.

"Not that it's any of your concern," Jemmings hissed. "But...Sir Rupert isn't well."

Jemmings' voice cracked slightly. Walter blinked, taken aback by the first show of emotion the butler had ever betrayed.

"Sir Arthur is returning home, leaving Ireland to General McMillion, in order to look after his father. Now stop asking questions you've no right to the answers to and get back to work!"

"Yes, sir."

Walter watched Jemmings stalk off down the hall, lost in his own thoughts. Arthur...home again. A strange hope rose in his chest, making it feel tight and painful. Perhaps Arthur would release Alucard? Would he even recognize Walter? They'd only met briefly, once, and that had been nine years ago. How old would he be now...around thirty? So many thoughts swirled around inside Walter's head.

Taking up the bottle of furniature polish he walked down the hall and replaced both the rag and the polish in a supply closet. He would shower before airing out the Green Suite and making sure it was in order. He had a sneaking suspicion Arthur would hate the smell of furniature polish as much as he did...

***

A lone, hunched figure squatted in the shadows of a dark, dank alley in Rome. He glanced at his watch, wiping grime off of the face so that he could read the time. It was nearing midnight, the tourists would be returning to their hotels as the cafes would start closing soon. A few would seek out further nightlife, clubs and bars, but those sort were rarely ever worth messing about with. They never bought anything, having been happy enough to spend all of their money on booze. None of them took any pity on a poor, struggling entrepreneur like Vigo.

Packing up his few wares and tucking the small knife he kept for security purposes into one of the many pockets of his coat, Vigo left the mouth of the alley and prepared to make his way home. A young man walked past, Vigo guessed him at around twenty, obviously foreign with his blonde hair and pale skin. Deciding to try and make one last dollar for the night, he called out ot the tall stranger.

"Hey you! Fellow!"

The man stopped and turned around, looking into Vigo's face with an intense scrutiny that made the tiny hairs on the back of the hasseler's neck stand up. His eyes a strange pale color of green that gleamed frighteningly in the moonlight. His clothes were dirty, smeared with a gray powder that looked like soot. Vigo swallowed against the sudden fear that had risen in him unexpectedly and forced a wide smile on his face as he approached the stranger.

"Would you like to buy a pretty bauble, Mister? Something for your girl, perhaps?" He asked in the smooth English that he'd forced himself to learn due to his profession.

"No." The stranger answered in fluent Italian. "Thank you."

"Ooh, you're not foreign?" Vigo asked, persuing him. He'd learned not to give up on a sale with naught but a simple no. "But there's more to it than that. Your accent's off..."

"I'm Scottish." Alex answered irritably. "I've lived here since I was very young, though."

"I see, I see. Are you sure you wouldn't like to buy something, Mister? I've got good merchandise, top quality stuff! Namebrand, too. And I'll make you a deal you can't refuse..."

Vigo suddenly bolted out in front of the stranger and stopped, bringing the other man up short as well. He held the sides of his brown trenchcoat open, displaying the numerous watches, necklaces, sunglasses, bracelets, earrings and other oddities inside. The strange man stared for a good long time, his eyes running up and down the many hooks of fabric and hidden pockets of the luminous coat. Vigo thought for sure he was going to buy something.

"Give me your coat." The stranger demanded.

"Pardon, Sir?" Vigo asked, surprised.

"Give me your coat."

"Naw, I can't be doing that, Mister. It's my business, it is! How else would I be able to carry all this stuff around? I could tell you where I saw one just like it-"

"No. I want this one."

"Well that's just too damn bad, then," said Vigo, getting irrtated at the Scot taking up his time. "Look, either buy something or fuck off, I haven't got all night!"

The stranger said nothing and began to advance on the dirty street-seller. Vigo stumbled back a few steps, fumbling in his pockets for his knife. Finding it he brandished it proudly, waving it around in a ridiculously menacing fashion.

"Stay where you are! I'll cut you! I'll do it! Now back off!"

Vigo never saw the Scottish man move, but suddenly he was staring down an empty street. Pain splintered through his right wrist and he screamed, dropping the knife, clutching his broken limb to his chest.

"What are you?" He screamed into the night.

"Something God made. Just like you." The night answered.

***

Sergeant Muccini hated getting up early for anything other than a cigarette, food or sex. Neither of those three things had called him down to a remote alley in the heavy-tourist prone area of Rome at seven o'clock that morning. He irritably huffed his way to the crime scene, sipping a particularly strong espresso and glaring at the officers already on the scene.

"What's going on? I was told there was a murder, and it had better be true, because anything less and I'm chewing someone's ass off."

"It's true, Sergeant."

"Who're you?"

"Detective Cianco, sir."

"Who was it? Not a tourist, I hope. God knows we don't need to deal with any foreign embassies..."

"No, sir," Cianco answered. "His name was Vigo Famino."

"Vigo!" Muccini laughed. "Why would anyone kill Vigo? He's been working the tourists here since I was a rookie! No one would kill him, unless he annoyed them enough. It's not like the crap he sells is worth anything..."

Cianco eyed the Sergeant warily, taking a deep breath before he answered him. "It wasn't robbery, sir."

"Well, what was it then?"

"We're not sure, sir."

"Let me have a look at him, then."

Cianco nodded jerkily, and for the first time Muccini noticed he looked slightly ill. He was pasty and sweating, and lead him to the body with hesitant steps.

"There, sir." He pointed and then promptly fled.

Muccini walked the last few remaining steps over to the covered body of Vigo Famino. He was vaguely surprised that the body hadn't been dragged into the nearby alley, but instead had been left in the middle of the street, which was probably why it had been reported so early. Brushing away a few flies he crouched down, and taking a deep breath, he grabbed a corner of the sheet covering Vigo and threw it back.

He gasped, clapping a hand over his mouth in shock. He'd seen a lot of messed up things in his day, but nothing even came close to comparing to this.

Whoever had killed Vigo had had a sick sense of irony. He'd been gutted, his intestines, liver, spleen and kidneys lay in a tidy pile beside his body. Inside his hollowed out corpse lay all of his precious wares. Broken shards of fake designer sunglasses, shiny bits of silver, sparkling cubic zirconia, colorful cut glass faux jewels and cheap gold winked in the sunlight from the hole in Vigo's stomach, glittering out of the fleshy cavern like a tacky window display.

So that was what Cianco had meant by robbery not being the motive.

******