A/N: For Thess, who wished to have a story of Millennium arriving in South America. Unfortunatly, several ideas popped into my head, so this is going to be a multi-chapter ficlet.

Degan besitzt nicht Hellsing, Der Freischütz oder nichts.

Thirsty, so thirsty.

She forced her eyes open, and then mashed them shut them again as the harsh lights bit at her retinas. They were so much brighter than the candlelight she was used to.

Or was it that she hadn't had her eyes open in…years? Centuries?


Opening her eyes again, squinting against the pain and forcing them to adjust despite the tears, she looked around, and spied a pudgy man reading in a chair across the room. There were a great many things she couldn't identify, and music was playing from an oddly shaped device in the corner.

She worked her mouth, but no words came from her parched throat. A raspy gasp slipped out, causing the man to look up.

"Ah, you're avake, Fräulen." He stood, placing the book down in the chair. She could see its title.

Mein Kampf.

She tried to speak again, and managed to get out a cracked word.

"Thirsty," she rasped.

The man nodded, pulling a large flask from one of the pockets of the strange clothing he was wearing. It was black with strange insignia on it, a military looking uniform. He had something at his hip that she couldn't identify. He tilted her head up and put the bottle to her lips, tipping the liquid in gently.

Sweet, warm blood flowed down her throat, quenching her throat and returning some of her strength. She drank greedily until the flask was drained.

"Better now, Fräulen?"

She nodded, licking the last vestiges from her lips. "Who are you?" she asked, her voice still weak.

"Who am I? Vell, now, vhat a silly question to ask." He returned to the chair and sat down, closing the book and tucking it in his pocket. "My name, dear Fräulen, is Montana. I'm a Captain in the German Army. Vhat is your name?"

She blinked. "I, I don't remember."

"Hast it truly been that long, Fräulen?"

Her head spun. "Vhat year is it?"

He smiled, his pudgy cheeks plumping. "1942, and ve are about to make a great accomplishment, vith your help."

She looked at him in confusion. "Vhat do you mean?"

"You, my dear, are going to be the model for vhat ve shall be making. Wampires, a great legion of wampires."

She smirked.

"Sounds like fun. Who do I get to bite first?"

He laughed and shook his head. "Nein, nein, dear girl. First ve haf to get you back to health." He turned to leave.

"Captain," she said.


"Vhat is the name of this opera?"

"Der Freischütz. The Sharpshooter."