Since a lot of people wrote about this, finally decided I'll have my say as
well:

is different for that in their "canon", it is deliberate, and not a

failure

of knowledge.
Additionally, I have changed certain particulars in the Hellsing
mythos for no reason other than the fact that I prefer things my way.
Namely: it's *Dame* Integra Wingates-*Helsing*. And I'm not changing it,
nyah.

Yeah. The Sir bit always irritated me as well.

LONDON, ENGLAND: THE VERY NEAR FUTURE


 The streets of London were shrouded in fog thick as clotted cream,

'clotted cream' just doesn't work for me. I'd go with a different metaphor.

 a mist

that seemed to seep like
foul breath from the river Thames and into the alleys and thoroughfares.

It

was a chilling, terrible miasma
that kept goodly folk indoors that evening, and even in Piccadilly,
ensconced behind the doors of their
clubs and societies, the titled and powerful seemed to draw in on
themselves, shrinking from the clammy
greyness and huddling around their fires as though driven by primeval
instinct.

Last sentence long. I'd break it  up.

 In that rarefied quarter, headlamps pieced

pierced

You're giving me a lot to work with here. :)


the foggy dark and sped like

arrows in flight to the
doors of one of the oldest and most respected Gentlemen's Clubs.

Ah. The Hellfire Club. A jolly old place. :)

 "Thank you, Cedric," the tall man responded, and made his way upstairs.
This was to be a formal
meeting, then, the tall man reasoned, else the Minister would have

received

him in the Library over port
and cigars.

I'd but in a bit of what type of port the minister liked here. Adds flavor.


 He took a moment to straighten the tie on his sober grey suit,

and strode into the Red Room.

 Amidst the Edwardian decor of the room, the Minister seemed quite at

home-

he seemed

two 'seemed's close together. Change one.

 "Sir?" The Brigadier asked, after several silent minutes passed, broken
only by the snapping of
sparks.

 A sigh, and then- "I'm afraid, Alistair, that what which

drop 'what'

 "Indeed?" the Brigadier cocked an eyebrow in surprise, then opened the
file, scanning the names
and photographs therein. When he reached the last one, he sucked in a
breath, stifling a gasp. "Sir James, I
must protest in the strongest possible terms! This... man... is *not* to

be

trusted!"

Minister: We don't trust him. We are, however, using him. There is a world
of difference between the two.

***

 He found his first quarry that very night, in a small pub off of Charing
Cross road, her small, well-
rounded frame topped with a halo of tousled blonde hair and gamin face
standing out amongst the dour
faces of the working men. She sat alone at a corner table, a small glass

of

tomato juice untouched in front
of her, barely visible through the cloud of tobacco smoke almost as thick

as

the fog outside. He collected a
half-pint of stout from the bar and made his way through the haze to join
her.

Nice imagery.

 She looked up as he sat down across from her, an irritated frown turning
her lip. "I'm not looking
for comp'ny," she growled, her red eyes flashing through her golden bangs.

 Unflinching, he addressed her levelly. "Sergeant Celas Victoria, late of
the Metropolitan Police,
also late of the now-defunct Protestant Knightly Order of Hellsing."

Defunct, eh? Interesting.

cardboard Guinness coaster. "Better," he responded with a nod, taking a

sip

of his dark brew and wiping the
foam from his salt-and-pepper moustache with a napkin.

 "Who *are* you?" she whispered nervously. He chuckled, not unkindly.

 "Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart,

>From Dr. Who, if I recall.

 "Indeed? Such a pity that Her Majesty's Government has formally disavowed
the actions and
personnel of the Order of Hellsing, and rescinded that writ,

retroactively.

Which makes the document before Vic all but worthless, since they can do it
again. He really should have come with better leverage than that.

 "Carefully, Miss Victoria, carefully. Sit down, or I can assure you that
you will find out whether
your mentor's vaunted regenerative abilities have rubbed off on you. I've
twelve good men and true
surrounding this establishment, and every last one of them is armed with
blessed silver shot."

That's better. Actual leverage.

 >  "The whereabouts of your mentor are no concern of mine, Miss

Victoria, -unless he *makes* them
my concern- but you are quite correct in assuming that the Crown requires
something of you."

 "Let me guess- my 'undying' loyalty?" Celas muttered with a snort.

 "Very droll, Miss Victoria. Droll, and yet quite accurate. To put matters
plainly, you have been
drafted."

 "Bloody hell."

It's time for her to ditch England. She's known, wanted, and has no power
base from which to defend herself.

of the Temple of Kali Durga, sunken deep beneath the mountains of Kashmir.
Their targets, a pack of
slavering thugees, exploded into gobbets of bloody flesh under the hail of
high-velocity slugs. With a grunt,
the adventuress performed a neat back-flip and sighted casually along the
barrels of the automatics,

Ms. Croft, by chance?

perforating in turn the three cultists lunging at her from behind. A

splash

of blood spattered across the
round black lenses of her sunglasses as the hashish-crazed assassins
disintegrated under the barrage.

 A sudden stillness filled the chamber, broken only by the *shick-clack*

of

empty magazines

Yay! Someone calls them by their proper names rather than 'clips'

 >

As she turned to make the return leap, a loud, electronic klaxon suddenly
sounded, and the
chamber went pitch black. An instant later, the entire temple itself was
gone, replaced with a small, well-lit,
low-ceilinged room panelled in steel and studded at irregular intervals

with

laser projection systems. A
panel slid open with a puff of pressurised air, revealing a weak-chinned,
large-nostriled manservant in
stolid black, set of with a red waistcoat.

Heh. Nice.

"Onward, dobbin," Lady Croft said jauntily, pausing only to drape a thin
blanket across her
shattered, useless legs.

Oh ho. A twist.

Helsing Estate had been
permeated with a sense of dark severity- a condition exacerbated by the
house's spare Elizabethan exterior
and grim medieval interior- Croft Manor held a sense of faded glory, like

an

ageing

aging

raised her eyes hesitantly. The smile Lady Croft bequeathed on her was
considerably warmer than the icy,
formal one she bestowed on the Brigadier. "You seem like a sensible lass,
what on earth are you doing in
the company of this puffed-up prig?"

Victoria: He'll kill me if I don't go along with his inane plans.

 The Brigadier's voice was acid. "If I *may* interject? Thank you," he
bulled on ahead determined
to be heard out. "Lady Croft, England and Her Majesty need you."

Lara: A pity the same cannot be said for me. I find I work much better
without the crown mucking about in my affairs, and certainly have no need of
it.

 "Patriotism, perhaps?

Lara: If it came down to patriotism, I'd be helping the other side. Try
pulling a different string if you want me to dance to your tune.

 "We've found the ones who did it, Lady Croft," The

the

 "Ah. Therein lies a bit of a problem Lady Croft. You see, the men who
actually fired the missiles
are a small mercenary outfit, currently employed by someone very much
removed from the Kashmir
secessionists who tried to have you killed. As a matter of fact-" he

tossed

the discarded dossier back into
her blanket-covered lap. "They work for *this* man, now."

 "I see..." Lara Croft, former Tomb Raider growled. "Under the
circumstances, I'll be happy to...
help."

Tsk, tsk. It has all the earmarks of a set up, and Lara should know. She'd
be smart enough to backcheck and make sure all the information is accurate.

***

 The old man in the pinstriped suit stood at the lonely gravesite,

ignoring

the crisp, damp wind as
his

it rather than his

 "John," the Brigadier answered. "I thought I'd find you here, today." He
turned his gaze to the
stone. "No one loved her more than you."

 The man with the umbrella chuckled. "One did, Alistair, one did. And now
she rests next to him."
He cleared his throat and blinked away a stray tear, placing his bowler

hat

firmly on his head as he did so.
"So, what brings you out here today, old friend?"

 The Brigadier clapped a hand firmly on his shoulder. "Mr. Steed, you're
needed."

Nice touch. And he's right about Emma's husband. Steed's days with Tara
King, Purdy and Gambit never reached the creshendo he did with the
delightful Ms. Peel. (Blanking on what Honor Blackman's character, Rigg's
predecessor, was at the moment. It wasn't Pussy Galore, though. ^_^)

***

 "We've a stop to make here, Miss Victoria," The

the

 "A former agent of ours, Miss Victoria," Lethbridge-Stewart answered,
equally quietly. "Once a
very dangerous man, now a prisoner of his own delusions."

Ah. Maxwell Smart. :) Oh wait, he wasn't British. But he was prisoner to his
own delusions.

 Lethbridge-Stewart sighed before answering. "We've never been quite sure;
he was on assignment
in Eastern Europe during the Cold War. He was one of our top agents,

former

SAS, brilliant man. One of
the best men on Her Majesty's Secret Service. Somehow, his cover was

blown,

and the Opposition nabbed
him. After that. . ." The Brigadier shrugged. "He turned up in 1968, on a
deserted island in the middle of
the Mediterranian. Quite mad. Doesn't even remember his own name."

Ah ha. The Prisoner, if I'm not mistaken. Patrick McDoogan perhaps was the a
ctor. doing this all of the top of my head rather than cheating through
Google.

 The inmate's entire demeanor shifted, becoming more animated. He threw

his

shoulders back as
best he could beneath the straightjacket and began to pace back and forth.
"Oh ho, oh ho... That's the
question, isn't it? Questions, questions... A burden to others, yes,

that's

what they say."

There is a point where madness makes a man worse than useless.

of your service once more."

 "I... " For a moment, Drake seemed like nothing so much as an scared old
man, lost and
adrift. Then, his eyes seemed to focus and he met the Brigadier's gaze.
"Alistair, wasn't it?"

I don't think it's going to be that simple.

 "Ethan Rayne?" The Brigadier asked sternly.

Bah. Drawing a blank on him. Oh well.

immediately stopped convulsing
and dropped to the tarmac with a groan. "Amazing what our American friends
can do with microchips these
days, isn't it?"

Shouldn't have tipped his hand, or they'd better have a second transmitter
in him. He'll be working on disposing of it soon enough.

with vaulted ceilings two storeys high- was indifferently lit by banks of
incandescent light fixtures so old
they might have been shipped from Menlo Park under the supervision of

Edison

himself. In a far corner
lurked the blackened outer hull of a pepperpot-shaped alien cyborg,

Dalek?

cobwebbed like a forgotten suit of
knightly armour abandoned in the dreary halls of a crumbling castle.

Inside

a locked glass case, cloudy with
over a century's worth of dust, sat a small lump of unremarkable ore,

beside

a yellowed label inscribed with
the legend "Cavorite".

Blank on that.

 On a coat rack hung a brown Victorian overcoat and

deer stalker hat, worn and
frayed;

Holmes.

propped up next to it, a cracked and worn violin case.  In a rank of

glassed-in cabinets, strange and
disturbing forms could be half-glimpsed through the dirty glass; humanoid
lizards labelled "Silurian",

Blank.

vegetable abominations labelled "Triffids",

Day of the Triffids

 even a doughy, brain-like mass

the size of a pony labelled
"Martian".

War of the Worlds.

 Closer to the lift doors stood an affair of tarnished brass,

rusty wrought iron and cracked leather
upholstery, seemingly the demented offspring of a cotton ginny and a
horseless carriage. Looking closer,
one could still see the faint traces of claw marks on the front faring,

next

to the brass placard bearing the
outrageous claim that the contraption was some sort of "Time Machine".

HG Wells

Diogenes club. The wall held a collection of small rectangular-framed
portraits in ink, oil and
daguerreotype, bearing names such as the Reverend Doctor Synn,

Blank.

Sir Alan

Quartermain,

Now him, I know.

 "Miss Celas Victoria, soldier and markswoman. A paradox: a hunter of
vampires who is herself
undead. Last surviving 'child' of the being once known as Vlad Tepes,
Dracula.

Last 'known child.' Could be others.

The team exchanged confused glances. Finally, Rayne spoke up.

"What, is he going to be assassinated?"

Rayne's an idiot if he thinks it's that simple. Of course he might merely be
prodding things along.

"Plastic surgery and coloured contacts, then?" Lara asked. "What about his
fingerprints? If
Thompkins was a paramedic, surely his prints were on file with the San
Francisco emergency services."

The Brigadier nodded. "Indeed, that's where he slipped up."

A curious one. Although sometimes it's in the smaller details.

"All this is very well and good, Stewie," Rayne mocked, drawing a frown

from

rest of the team,
"But where do we come in? Granted, this is certainly suspicious, but

hardly

seems a matter of national
security. I can think of a number of perfect logical -if perhaps shady-
reasons why Thompkins, or
Portsreeve if you prefer, might want to change his name and face. I hardly
see where this ties into *our*
areas of expertise."

Paramedics become neither ultrabillionares nor take up fake names and
abandon their pasts. Something very odd is happening.

there is a noticeably higher
statistical rate of employee alcoholism, suicide, drug addiction and
on-the-job injuries in Portsreeve
companies. Individuals in our employ who are known 'sensitives' report a
crushing spiritual malaise
surrounding any Portsreeve building, especially those built or remodelled
since the beginning of the
decade.

Now we're getting somewhere.

Ethan nodded. "I know the bloke. Know *of* him, rather. A poncer, really,
but he knows a thing
or two about the black arts."

"Our investigations concurs with that assessment, Mr. Rayne," the

Brigadier

confirmed. "Over the
course of that investigation, no fewer than ten agents, covert and overt,
have disappeared without a trace,
including several 'talented' individuals in MI-5's employ.

They are looking for spies and are able to sniff them out. This would be a
job for a motly crew.

All eyes turned to John Drake, who managed to encompass everyone at the
table with his glare.
"You don't honestly credit Portsreeve with supernatural powers, do you?"

He

stood and began pacing in
small circles. "Ha! And they called *me* a madman! Occam's razor, ladies

and

gentlemen, I trust you are
all familiar with it?" He slammed his hands down on the table, not waiting
for an answer. "'All other things
being equal, the simplest explanation is usually correct'! While I do not
find it difficult to believe that
Portsreeve may well be a *criminal* in some fashion -indeed, the lengths

he

has gone to conceal his true
identity make that a virtual certainty- but *black magic*? Hogwash!
Superstitious nonsense!"

Actually whether or not it is is irrlevent. What is pertinenet is that he is
doing something, it is bad, and they need to know what it is and how to stop
it.

"Leaving all that aside for the moment," Steed interjected, once again
playing peacemaker. "I trust
we can all agree that something is more than slightly off about the
illustrious Mr. Portsreeve, eh?" Seeing
unanimous grudging agreement, he continued. "I'm certainly curious enough.
If a man like this has
accumulated this much power and influence, it's unlikely that he plan

plans

 on

putting it to benificent use.

That's irrelevenent. It's if he's planning on putting it to *bad* use that
matters. :P

 "I know, sir, I know. However, I can reasonably predict we'll lose Drake
and possibly Croft should
they discover how much we're keeping from them."

Very bad then. Drake especially has been taught to sense cover ups.

 Blood spurted briefly, and Portsreeve savagely drew the blade between the
man's ribs, stopping
only when he hit the sternum. As soon as he felt the grind of steel agains
bone, he wrenched the tool free,
shredding flesh and cartilage in its wake. The businessman stepped back,
unwilling to risk damaging his
shoes as blood began to pool under the table. He then replaced the wicked
blade on the tray and watched
intently.

Necromancer, I'd wager. Can tell what he needs from a corpse. Telling the
secrets of the dead is a specialty. :)

 Sooner than should have been possible, the blood stopped flowing, from a
flood to a trickle, then
to nothing. Frowning, Portsreeve picked up a surgical sponge and began
wiping the coagulating blood away
from the vicious wound... Which before his very eyes, healed and vanished,
leaving not so much as a scar.

Oh. Somthing else, then.

 A very unpleasant smile grew on Derek Portsreeve's face. "Well, well,
Captain Metcalfe," he
addressed the unconcious man. "You may prove to be useful. Very useful
indeed..."

Hmm. One of the vampires from Hellsing? Sound familiar.

STARRING:

Patrick McGoohan .........................................John Drake/006
Nicholas Courtney.......................Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart
Patrick MacNee ....................................................John
Steed
Angelina Jolie.................................................Lady Lara
Croft
Eric Roberts.....................Bruce Thompkins/Derek Portsreeve

Oh. Dr. Who American Movie. Completely lost the feel for the real series.

George Lazenby......................................................Sir
James
Chris Barrie

I know the actor, but not the role.

.................................................................

Hillary
James Purefoy...........................................Cpt. Paul Metcalfe

Ditto.

Nice way to intro things. Mysterious enough to get my attention and make me
want to read more. Though I'd keep the story linear and not go on to many
tangents. Having them solve this and work together should keep it to 500
pages of less.

Nice work. flowed well. Hope to see more.

DB Sommer



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