Hellsing Fan Fiction ❯ Broken by Insanity ❯ Chapter 1
[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]
Dedicated to SilverHawke13
Disclaimer: Hellsing belongs to its respective creator and companies. No copyright infringement is intended.
“Insanity is often the logic of an accurate mind overtaxed.”
-Oliver Wendell Holmes
I am Sir Integral Fairbrooks Wingates Hellsing and I have been betrayed. No, played for a fool is more like it.
A decision stands before me.
“Alucard, this is the third time you've come to ask of my decision. You know, my answer will not change,” I say, yet I do not bother to look up at him. Staring at the floor has become my hobby as of late.
“And yet your will is breaking,” he replies, and I hate it that he is right. Each time my resolve weakens—the urge to accept growing stronger. Is this what I have been reduced to?
“I will not become like you. Do you wish to drive me into the hands of Insanity?”
“That is the point, my dear Master.”
I clench my hands into tight fits, tired of his silly little mind games. No, I will not bend to his will—will not look up to see that twisted grin of his. God damned vampire.
My thoughts go no further. I am starting to crack, and he knows it. Never have I used my God's name in vain—have I even thought of using such a blasphemous phrase.
I am becoming undone.
“This is your last chance to accept my offer, my Master. Make your choice. I will not ask again,” he informs me, his words bouncing off the walls and echoing throughout the cell.
This time I raise my head, fiercely locking my eyes with his, though I doubt I come off as confident as I wish to. I am too tired—too weary—to continue our usual battle of wits.
“Are you threatening me, Servant?” I demand, my voice rising. “You may not ask, but you are still bound to me—to obey my orders!”
His grin widens, and I realize I have just played right into his undead hands. Pompous prick.
My resolve snaps, and I backhand him across the face as best I can, the handcuffs diminishing some of my force.
His head snaps back as I follow through with the blow, and there is a second's delay before blood dribbles down his chin from a split lip.
He does not lose his smile.
For a moment, time freezes.
I have just struck someone out of anger, and someone who works for me, no less! Yes, a vampire that has been passed down from generation to generation, but still works for the Hellsing Organization.
Never does an employer hit an employee. Never does a strong master strike her servant.
Oh God, what is happening to me?
“So is that a `yes' then, Master?” Alucard says, tilting his head to face me again, his tongue snaking out to taste the blood I had drawn.
“You bloody bastard!” I snarl back, feeling my rage and anger beginning to boil over. “I will never allow myself to call you my master! I will never stoop so low as to become what you are! You dare to make such assumptions that I would want to become like you, a No Life King that has been controlled by the very creatures he hates? Know your place, Servant! You are a tool, no more to be used than a hammer beating down on a nail. You are—and will always be—nothing more than the shriveled up corpse that found bound up in the dungeon ten years ago. To the Hellsing family, you are nothing but an experiment.”
His self-assured smile is gone now, only to be replaced by something akin to disgust. I had gone too far, and we both knew it.
“As you wish, Integra,” he says feigning a deep bow as his physical appearance begins to dissolve. “Just know this: If you find yourself in a tight spot, don't be surprised if I take my time getting there. You are no longer worthy to be called my master.”
And then he is gone.
For a few moments, I stand there, trying to figure out when I had been reduced to this.
A door opens, and I am led to my sentence.
I do not raise a fuss. I do not struggle. I do not call for help.
My fate was sealed months ago, and my servant knew it, and that is why he had become more persistent in egging me on into accepting his offer.
As I stare at the muzzle of the gun, his presence reaches me. He is out there somewhere, waiting for me to call for his help—a last testament to what was once my life.
I do no such thing.
The sentence is being read, and I do not have much time left. I don't send out an order, but a request.
I can feel his hesitation, his frustration at being given a choice in the matter. I hear the release of the guns' safeties before he replies in a thought that feels almost weary.
A smile reaches my lips and a tear escapes. Hellsing is dead.
His voice trickles across my thoughts.
In the name of God, impure souls of the living dead, shall be banished into eternal damnation.
“Amen,” I say, completing the verse as I tell him one last thing.
The sound of what sounds like the Jackal reverberates from somewhere deep in the woods, and I look up at the sky. The moon is full.
It's a beautiful night.
I am Sir Integral Fairbrooks Wingates Hellsing, and I have been betray—
Author's Note: Again, this story still has some typos as it has not undergone its final revision. This story was inspired by the story, “We, Her Majesty's Prisoners” by Mr. Mitts. I nearly started crying while writing this story. And, as always, constructive criticism is most appreciated. :)