Hellsing—The Dead Sleep

Disclaimer—I have no legal rights or ownership towards "Hellsing," which is beyond awesome and is owned by the Master, Kohta Hirano. I am just an obsessed fan with a crazed imagination, having-no-life, and access to a computer and the ability to type. After reading this—or any fan-fiction of mine, you will most likely, and probably think I am sick.

Rating—Pg-13 to M for language, sexual comments and of course, violence.

Title—The Dead Sleep

Synopsis—The body of Sir Integra Fairbook Wingates Hellsing is found on the battlefield but the corpse has secrets of its own.

Author's Notes—At the end of Bloodlust, I allowed my readers to choose from 5 stories for me to post—this was one of them, since there was basically a 3-way-tie. This is the shortest, so this will be first. I am planning on writing this and Two-Faced, and The Dying Rose, and posting at the same time. Sounds like a plan.

Like most my fanfictions this one came of a dream of mine. It was disturbing, but freaking awesome. This is more like an extended one-shot, and I am planning about 4-5 chapters, or maybe less. This is set after the war with Millennium. It really is not a sequel to Somniator, but rather a prequel to Derelictus, which is something that I have been planning—however will take some measurable time before the story itself is ready for outside readers. Because I am not taking any summer courses, this is my time to shine.

Ta,

Immortalis

Chapter 1—The Morgue

It is said that fear is the oldest tool of power, and the source of fear often comes from the vast unexplained and "unknown." In other words, we fear what we cannot or perhaps, will not comprehend. Fear is a mystery. Sometimes we are not sure what we are afraid of and in time, fear becomes a living entity. That is, it almost manifests itself and takes on a life form of its own, and then has power over us. A perfect example lies with Death, and as people tend to picture it formally as the "Grim Reaper"—a skeletal man with a toothy grin, dressed in a smoky cloak who carries a scythe in his bony hand. Death adapts like a viral agent, as well as the entity that each civilization, both new and fallen, have attached to it.

As humans, we know that we are mortal and therefore will inevitably perish, as there is "no sense of the irony of human existence, that we are the highest form of life on earth and yet ineffably sad because we known what no other animal knows, that we must die (O)" It is ironic that man created art, science, medical advancements and even placed a man on the moon; however, despite all our major accomplishments we, like all creature, will die. We learn from an early age, when we lost our goldfish or a pet-cat that death is as natural as birth, and it's all part of the life cycle. As everything has a beginning, it must also have an end. Things must perish to make way for the new.

Ironically, like life, death has a beginning, middle and end. For Tibetans there is a transitional state between death and rebirth. Death is nothing more than a waiting period, at least until a fresh womb will receive a free wandering soul. Therefore death is nothing but another phase of life and since it is a never-ending cycle there is no need to fear it, but rather to embrace it.

However Britannia is not Tibet.

Even Tibet is not Tibet…not anymore, at least.

This was the mindset of Dr. Trevalin, as he gripped a newly sterilized scalpel and turn to the corpse sleeping on his personal metal slab. Despite its sickly, pasty skin and the sour smell of newly discomposing flesh, the corpse looked peaceful, and perhaps almost submerged in a heavy cascade of dreams—or of nothingness, an utter and permanent oblivion. Maybe it was much more than that, in that "The power of the dead is that we think they see us all the time. The dead have a presence. Is there a level of energy composed solely of the dead? They are also in the ground, of course, asleep and crumbling. Perhaps we are what they dream (O)."

But enough the grim and morbid thoughts, and Dr. Trevalin returned back to his work and started the Y-incision. Straightening up, he wiped the sweat off his brown with the sleeve of his lab coat. Wordlessly, he plunged the blade into the flesh of the corpse sleeping on the metal slab. It sliced through the skin, muscles and tendons as if they were melted butter O. Pulling back the layers of adipose tissue he exposed the sternum and ribs—but looking into the body cavity, perhaps he expected to see a ball of light, some segment of the soul.

Nevertheless, as always there was nothing.

Wiping off the sweat of his brow, Dr. Trevalin returned back to thoughts.

The apocalypse had erupted between the three armies of vampires, humans and those in between—Outside the otherwise calm morgue, London and the world was on the verge of the abyss after its bloodbath in the war with Millennium. London was a holocaust and smoldered in ash, smoke and flame looked like a passage out of Dante's Inferno, as Purgatory. As Britannia's forces had been roundly decimated, the ancient land was left to the will and whim of the Midians, who were prowling and claiming with hungry eyes. It was a triage of terror and madness. Now with the endless chaos, murder and mayhem the true nature of humanity had been released—as panic-stricken, dog-eat-dog, mindless mob governed not by morals but by pure instincts to survival and thrive.

The Vatican deemed it was divine punishment; because England overextended themselves, fell into heresy and rejoiced in it—and course, because of the Hellsing Organization performed the worst sin, use evil to fight evil.

It had not even been 6 months since the first assault of war.

True enough, the war had brought forth a new world, and the ever-approaching future looked grim and dark indeed.

Just then, a young nurse with an ID tag with the name of Alice T. Henderson, entered the morgue dressed in the traditional scrubs and meekly asked, "Dr. Trevalin sir?"

He looked up and hummed with interest.

"Iscariot is here to see you," she paused swallowing and then continued, "They demand an audience with you, immediately. Should I detain them, sir?" The look on her face suggest that she would rather avoid and run form their presence altogether.

"No. Send them in." She exhaled a sigh of relief. Recently the Vatican had become a symbol of punishment and most of all, fear and respect. "Go home, Miss Henderson. The sun will be up for another 3 hours. Make your way to the shelter."

"Thank you," she practically cried and left leaving her strawberry ponytail bobbing after her.

Beats of silence echoed afterwards.

Ah, Iscariot was personally here, more likely here to gloat and saturated themselves in triumph and power. Setting the blade aside with a loud clang Dr. Trevalin swallowed down his building resentment and fear, and said to himself God save us all. Surely the good Lord would not confide in the damnable Iscariot, much less the Vatican as man's personal protector and savior.

The door to the Morgue opened and Dr. Trevalin said to himself, "Very well…the chess pieces are set, and now the pieces are set in motion."

OOO

TBC

OOO

Yes this is short chapter but I wanted to set up the scene. Next chapter—Empty Eyes

Author's Notes

Two of the quotes are from a book that I had to read in my English 367.02 class, entitled "White Noise" by Don DeLillo. It wasn't bad, and certainly made you think. This is the synopsis—"Jack Gladney teaches Hitler Studies at a liberal arts college in Middle America where his colleagues include New York expatriates who want to immerse themselves in "America magic and dread." Jack and his 4th wife, bound by their love, fear of death, and 4 ultramodern offspring, navigate the usual passages of family life to the background babble of brand name consumerism.

Then a lethal black chemical cloud floats over their lives, an "airborne toxic event" unleashes by an industrial accident. The menacing cloud is a more urgent and visible version of the "white noise: engulfing the Gladney family—radio transmission, sirens, microwaves, ultrasonic appliances, and TV murmuring—pulsing with life, yet suggesting something ominous."

1. "No sense of the irony of human existence, that we are the highest form of life on earth and yet ineffably sad because we known what no other animal knows, that we must die (O)"

2. "The power of the dead is that we think they see us all the time. The dead have a presence. Is there a level of energy composed solely of the dead? They are also in the ground, of course, asleep and crumbling. Perhaps we are what they dream (O)"

O It sliced through the skin, muscles and tendons as if they were melted butter O—I have personally worked on cadavers, and I am quite serious a scalpel just cuts thought the skin like it is nothing.