A/N: Don't be scared away by this having Integra and Enrico as it's main characters, because it's not a love story. More of a political intrigue, espionage, assassination and backstory type of tale. Enjoy reading, and leave a review if it pleases you!

It is wonderful how much time good people spend fighting the devil. If they would only expend the same amount of energy loving their fellow men, the devil would die in his own tracks of ennui.
-Helen Keller.

He was not going to concede his political advancement for the sake of some blonde heretic woman and the devilish children she kept at her pre-school of an organisation. There was simply no sympathy in his heart enough to give her the time of day, let alone his mercy. Perhaps others would call him a mad zealot after this, but he and his beloved organisation had come too far into the worshipping of the Lord to let something so trivial faze them now. They, Section XII, the Iscariots, were swords of the Almighty and nothing more. If one blonde heretic women had to die by their hands to uphold His wrath, then so be it. Twenty-nine years of his long, aquiline nose in a Holy Roman Bible had shaped him this way, and there was no turning back now.

He smiled slightly as he remembered the day he had met Anderson to become one of his orphaned flock. The older man, who never changed, had looked down on him with a love and acceptance that had repulsed him as a small child. He hadn't understood the emotion for what it was, and so he spat it back at the older man with a declaration that he would one day rule, conquer, and be a figure of admiration. Despite his revulsion, he had taken note of the dark, nearly sad expression that had crossed the old man's face as he declared his ambitions and had kept that moment of deep pity coveted secretly in his heart ever since.

Deep down, he knew that he was already damned. Though he prayed and confessed and went through the habitual deeds of a common humble priest, he had always been aware that succumbing to sin such as pride and lust for power had no fear-raising effect on him like it did some other, purer Catholics. He knew where he came from, what his parentage was. His mother some common whore, his father some English man who he never met and who's name had apparently been 'Maxwell'. He smiled bitterly at this name, 'Maxwell'. He wasn't even sure if it was the first or the last name of the man who fathered him, he only knew that his mother had named him such in an attempt to put distance between her and the child she had borne out of wedlock. 'Enrico' came from the weather man that she watched every afternoon religiously, to see if she could work in the evening. He didn't even have a proper middle name. He only had one letter; 'B'.

He knew nothing about 'B', or why he had it. He only knew that he was named after the weatherman, his last name might not actually be a true last name, and that his middle name was 'B'. That was what he repeated to himself as he watched his mother lay on their dirty couch and mumble, her eyes rolling back in her head as a needle doused into her flesh like a shark cutting the water with its fin. She had nearly overdosed multiple times before him. The first time he had nearly had a panic attack, but once she began to overdose nearly every third day it became a habitual, almost soothing task to take the needle out of her arm, turn her over on her stomach so she wouldn't choke and watch out for any signs of impending death. He remembered those long nights of vigil, where his mind would drift to better places but his eyes would stay trained on his junkie maternal figure. Most nights she wasn't home, but that was normal. She was working. She'd come home with money and a nice buttered muffin every morning for him.

Enrico always enjoyed mornings while living with his mother. For at least half an hour every single morning she was always sober, she was always kind, and she would even clean herself up while he'd sit on the floor of their bathroom eating the pastry she'd brought him. After she was done brushing her hair and washing her face, she'd smile at him, as though she couldn't believe he was still there, pat his head with her left hand, and pretend to box his ears with her right. Then she'd wink and say, "There you go, boy", and turn to go to her bedroom to shoot more drugs into her veins.

He remembered picking up a needle for the first time. He was five years old, and curious. He had watched his mother put the rubber band around her arm and put this thing into her veins more times than he could have counted. Her reaction to the needle was one of love and devotion, something he had never seen before. He wondered if perhaps he could feel it too. He had a theory when he was younger that the special needle was God, and that when she used it, she was able to look at God and bask in his love. So, one day, he picked up one of her needles as she lay desolate on the couch, and pricked it into his delicate skin. It pinched, cruel and painful.

Maxwell rubbed the crook of his elbow as he remembered sticking a needle into his arm for the first time. He still had a scar. Being by no means experienced, he had poked right through the vein and in panic and pain, had ripped it out the wrong way. His skin had split, red rivets of blood pooling quickly down his arm as the pierced vein spilled forth his life essence. He remembered feeling immediately woozy, and lying down on the scuffed yellow linoleum floor. He flickered in and out of consciousness, colours bursting behind his eyes as his tiny body fought to keep him alive. He had woken properly when strong hands, male and unfamiliar, lifted him briskly and put him securely on a bed. He remembered in stark detail the bumpy ride as he was transported somewhere. Someone stuck a needle in his other arm, and he remembered smiling, thinking that whoever it was also wanted him to see God.

It had turned out that he had been very close to death, and his mother had come out of her drug induced stupor to find him lying in a pool of his own blood. Maxwell remembered wanting to see her while he was being cared for in the hospital, but for some reason she never came. He now understood that she had been barred from seeing him, that her drug habit had finally been realized by the state and she was then no longer allowed custody of him. After recovering, he was sent to her grandparents who lived in Rome. He remembered hating it, and fighting with the social worker who came to pick him up. He had pulled a full-blown tantrum right there in the hospital lobby.

His grandparents' house was bleak, small and left less to the imagination than his old home. However, they were well-respected individuals in their neighbourhood, so they were fit for the task of raising him. He remembered looking into the wrinkled, scowling face of his mother's mother and wondering if she too had ever experienced God like he and his mother had. He had a tiny room at the top of the house, and they left him alone. His grandfather was a man sitting in a shadowy corner barking orders at him and his wife, and Maxwell had never dared approach him. One night, he had come downstairs to use the bathroom when he found his grandmother lying on the floor. Figuring she was having a moment with the Lord, he turned her over onto her stomach but nearly vomited when shock when her head turned to reveal a red slash cut into the back of her skull. Blood stained his hands. He didn't know what to do. He shuffled into a corner of the kitchen and hugged his knees, waiting for someone to come and fix everything. Eventually, his grandfather lumbered into the room.

The old man kicked the old woman's body and growled something incomprehensible. Then he turned to young Maxwell and said, "That is what you do to meddling, heretic women, boy. You put a hole in their head." He then lumbered over, picked him up by the collar of his pajamas and beat him. Maxwell didn't think to fight back. He must have been a man of God to know what a heretic was. He must talk to God often. The Lord Almighty must have wanted his grandmother to die, and for his grandfather to punch him in the mouth until he bled.

Maxwell caressed the stubble on his chin, remembering the blows as if they were yesterday. His grandfather had told him that with a proper, regular beating, he could get into heaven even if he was a whore's child. He believed him, full-heartedly. He still believed him. The only way that he could ever be worthy in the eyes of the Lord was doing the things nobody wanted to in His name, being the necessary cruelty, the essential sword, the crucial poison to the world's purity. He had decided to cast himself away from the other children, for he needed not their kindness, nor did they need to be sullied by his damned presence. He found two others like himself at Ferdinand Luke's. Heinkel Wolfe, a young girl defiled by her own father and Yumie Tegaki, who had killed her mother's abuser in a fit hatred induced rage. The three of them, damned to burn forever in the fires of purgatory, but still so loyal to His teachings.

Reluctantly, it seemed, Anderson began to teach them the trade of killing in the name of the Lord. The man had his own fault of bloodlust nearly unmatched by the three of theirs, and they climbed easily into the ranks of the Church as members of Iscariot. Maxwell himself had been a deft knife-user, utilising blessed rampuri knives to despatch with undead and heathens alike. Recognizing his talent at politics, however, he had been given the job to head Iscariot on her God-given mission.

And here I am still, he mused, plucking at the white gloves covering his long fingers. But I am not a useless politician, certainly… As you, my dear Integra Hellsing, will find out very soon…

Integra Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing… Now that was a name someone could understand. It was so invariably Englishthat it nearly dripped in posh bourgeoisie. She knew who her parents were. She was born in wedlock between a dark-skinned Lady from India and blonde-haired English knight. She had inherited the title of 'Sir'. She was a political figure more powerful than the Prime Minister, practically the Queen of England's right hand. He licked his lips in barely-contained jealousy. Though their government was one filled with heathens, he burned in rage at the ease with which she was able to climb ranks of power, simply for the fact that she knew who her parents were and that she had been born into a title of respect. Maxwell had had to work endlessly for the Church to recognize him as a valid member of their society.

His hands tightened around the pen that he was tapping furiously against his wooden desk. His assignment, written plainly on paper, lay before him. The words were printed in plain black ink, the Holy Seal punched officially and cleanly. Assassinate Sir Integra Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing. Make it look like an accident. Make it seem like it was not the fault of the Catholic Church, and more specifically, the Vatican. Should you succeed in doing both of these tasks, you shall be promoted to Archbishop. Should you fail to kill her, return to the Vatican and face punishment in the eyes of His Holiness, the Pope. Should you succeed in killing her but fail to keep the assassination undercover, terminate yourself immediately and pay for your sin in the fires of hell.

There it was. He was the only priest fitted with the stealth, cunning, and subtlety in the whole of Iscariot to complete this task. His Holiness wanted it over and done by the end of the year. He refused to concede his political success for some blonde heretic woman. Never. He gazed to the calendar hanging on the wall. May 23rd, 1999. He had six months, and time was ticking.