Tautology (tau-tol-o-gy) noun: needless repetition of an idea, statement or word; a statement that cannot be denied without inconsistency

A little line from Hellsing Abridged 3 and a conversation with my enlightening roommate Annavance92 inspired this story. Many thanks to her.

Please read and review, or at least PM. I like to chat, and I'm curious to see what people think of the concept.

-Kano

Disclaimer: Hellsing and all of its characters belong to Kouta Hirano, otherwise Pip would have had a longer life.

We are clutching the dagger.

We are clutching the poison.

We are grasping thirty pieces of silver.

We are grasping a halter made of straw.

We are apostles, yet not apostles.

We are disciples, yet not disciples.

We are believers, yet not believers.

We are traitors, yet not traitors.

We are death, the minions of death.

We humbly bow down and ask for forgiveness from our Lord,

submitting ourselves in reverence of God.

We shall vanquish all his foes.

We are those whom swing out daggers on a moonless night;

We are the ones who lace your dinners with poison.

We are assassins, the ones who have embraced the ways of Judas Iscariot.

"The target is Integral Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing. I repeat: the target is Sir Hellsing."

The priest watched the black car, chuckling darkly as he tossed the radio aside. He narrowed his eyes as his quarry approached, his lips tensing against his teeth in an eager smile. Her could see her now, the heathen. Her stern blue eyes nervously scanned the road from the driver's seat of her black government sedan. It was a needless precaution; the danger was behind her.

A sea of soldiers, both Iscariot and Millennium, pursued her vehicle down the winding London streets as she desperately tried to escape from the trap closing about her. With cries of 'feuern', the soldiers let fly a swarm of rockets. The car's tires screamed in protest as the Hellsing director admirably tried to dodge the exploding projectiles. Her car was less admirable than her valor, and it careened head-first into a wall.

The priest couldn't stop himself from chuckling. At last, it was time. He dropped down from his rooftop perch, straight onto the hood of the unfortunate car. The blonde woman behind the wheel noticeably paled, but to her credit, never stopped moving, never stopped trying to flee, clinging onto her worthless heathen life with every last ounce of effort. She was lucky that his orders involved keeping her alive.

He opened the door for her, as any true gentleman would. With poise and grace befitting her blood, she placed one black pump upon the blackened sidewalk, then the other. The director stood tall and confident before him, casually flicking her flaxen locks over her shoulder in an attempt to exude confidence.

"Father Anderson," she hissed through clenched teeth, polite even in her darkest hour.

"Sir Hellsing," he returned.

"If you would excuse me," the blonde ventured, turning on her heel to continue down the street and away from the advancing soldiers.

He placed a calloused hand on her retreating shoulder, firm and undeniable. "The wrath of God is revealed from heaven against the ungodliness and unrighteousness of men, who suppress the truth in unrighteousness… Romans 1:18."

"Now is not the time for religious squabbles, Alexander," she said patiently, though her voice cracked. Perhaps it was the bombs falling on her beloved city, but the stress was clear in her words. She turned back to man who was rooting her to the spot. "You have an enemy far worse than me today. I will happily go with you once Millennium is defeated." Then, in a whisper, "Just let me save my home."

"The decision is out of my hands. His Holiness wishes to have a word."

Her throat tensed and she swallowed nervously. "You can't be serious. You can't mean…" The director's voice trailed off as she assessed the look in the priest's eyes. Alexander Anderson was not a humorous man; more likely than not, he believed jokes were an affront to God. "About what?"

"I was not informed."

Integra's hair abandoned its natural, controlled state, choosing instead to swirl angrily about her face in a gust of wind. The Hellsing director only had a moment to wonder before she heard - and felt - the methodical thump of rotor blades. Her cerulean eyes flew skyward, finding the source of the noise: a black chopper.

"Our ride is here," Anderson announced.

"Our ride?"

"You didn't think his Holiness would come here…" the priest sneered derisively.

"Of course not," she murmured. Her cheeks were flushed with pink.

"Please, get in."

"I … I … I can't!" Integra stammered. "I need to be here. It is my sworn duty to protect these people!"

"Sir Hellsing…" the priest protested.

"I can not abandon my city. The queen herself has ordered me -"

"Sir Hellsing if you resist I will be forced to -"

Her eyes narrowed as she interrupted the clergyman. "I don't care what you will be forced to do. I'm not leaving this island and there's not a damn… thing… you can… do." Again, her voice faded away as she realized exactly how foolish her last sentence was. She was talking to a priest with inhuman - nay holy - abilities, and her one defense, an ancient vampire of questionable morality, was marooned in the middle of the ocean. The priest simply cracked his knuckles.

The Hellsing director boarded the helicopter, gritting her teeth in frustion.

"Archbishop!" an aide cried. "Archbishop Maxwell!"

"I'm trying to send those Protestant bastards to the deepest depths of Hell," the clergyman spat. "What could you possibly have to say that is more important?"

The aide trembled nervously, extending a manilla envelope toward the newly-appointed section chief. "Here sir. These were taken only moments ago by our satellites."

Maxwell snatched the envelope from the quivering young man. It contained several dozen high-quality photographs, which he leafed through impatiently. "These are pictures of that British ship we sent Lieutenant van Winkle to, the Adler. So?"

"It… it's moving sir. Toward London, slowly but surely. Even after a plane crashed right into it."

"Of course it is, you ignorant pig-sow." He rolled his eyes, pointing to one of the pictures. "Look right here. He's laughing as he stands in the middle of a swastika of blood, completely unharmed. It's the No-life King, exactly as planned."

"As planned, sir? That means… God," he prayed, crossing his chest with the sign of the cross, "Lieutenant van Winkle was sent there to die. She was sacrificed!"

"A necessary evil, I am afraid. Her sacrifice has trapped Alucard on the Adler."

"The Adler is moving, sir! Toward the battle!"

"Alucard is coming to England, yes, but rest assured. It won't be a long visit." The Archbishop placed his hand on the aide's shoulder. It was somewhere between a threat and a comforting gesture. Then he continued on in a deadly whisper. "You see, boy, I have news of my own. Father Anderson has informed me that Iscariot has captured the Hellsing bitch, the vampire's precious master. They're taking her to the Vatican."

"Our enemy in the Vatican, your grace?"

"Oh my naive boy," Maxwell tutted as he rolled his eyes yet again. "Answer me this: can any enemy take the Vatican?"

"Of course not, your grace."

"Can a vampire stand up to the might of God our Father?"

"Of course not, sir."

"Then think of Miss Hellsing as the bait in a trap. We lure the vampire to the seat of our power," he hissed, his fist closing about the useless reconnaissance photographs, "and then we crush him like an ant."

Seras sighed as she tossed the last chair to Captain Bernadotte. Thanks to the sacrifices of several brave Geese, they had been able to retreat to the conference room of the Hellsing Manor, where they had just finished barricading themselves in. Seras wished she could have saved them. Her master would have been able to.

"You know, mignonette," the Frenchman commented, "they say that a frown spoils a pretty face."

"Sorry," the draculina murmured back, slumping against the wall, Harkonnen resting by her side.

"They also say that a smile magnifies beauty," he added with a wink. "What do you say? Smile for me?"

"It's hard to smile when brave men just gave their lives for you."

Pip paused for a moment to take a long drag on his cigarette, letting the smoke billow from his mouth and nose. "We dishonor their memories by not living our lives to the fullest. Which reminds me…" He turned to the remaining Wild Geese.

"You lot!" he called. "Anyone got a drink for their dear old captain?"

Though most were still shaken from Zorin's illusions, a few answered back with calls of "Va te faire foutre!" and "Get your own bottle!"

"Stingy bastards," Bernadotte muttered under his breath. Seras had to giggle at the valiant commander acting like a spurned child.

"That's better, my mignonette," he chuckled softly, his words reaching her ears only. Then, in his loud commanding voice, "Share the whiskey around, lads. We have some friends who deserve a proper send off."

There was some minor grumbling, but every last man (and vampire) in the room knew that they were alive because their comrades had died. Only when every last person had a flask, cap, or cup and a mouthful of the caramel-colored liquid.

"Men." His eyes flicked to the blonde vampire beside him. "And Seras Victoria," he amended. "We remember Pierre-louis, Henri, Arnaud, Alphonse, Benoît, Christophe-Daniel, Émile-Bruno, Laurent, Luc-Philippe, and Serge. They fought to the death that we might survive. We shall not let that sacrifice be in vain. We shall fight tooth and nail like the fucking mercenary dogs we are, and we shall live to see the sun rise again. A votre sante!"

The Geese downed their liquor with murmurs of 'a votre sante.'

"A votre sante," Seras whispered, downing hers as well. She made a face as the whiskey burned its way down the back of her throat, which Captain Bernadotte found most amusing.

"Can't hold your liquor, mignonette?" he teased.

"Would you stop calling me that? My name is Seras. Ser-as!"

"I know, mignonette," he smirked. "I just prefer my name for you. Besides, it's a compliment. You should be flattered!"

"What does it mean then?" she demanded to know. She pursed her lips as her arms crossed over her chest.

"I'll tell you later," he mumbled, tugging at his collar.

"I knew it!" she gasped. "It's something raunchy, isn't it. You're mean, Captain."

"I'm not mean! It's a compliment!" he protested.

"Compliments can still be raunchy." She turned to one of the nearby Geese. "Jean-Pierre! Tell me what it means."

"Don't you fucking dare," Bernadotte ordered.

Jean-Pierre shot her a toothy grin. "Sorry, mademoiselle. Captain's orders."

"You… you… you both suck!" she whined, stomping the ground with her boot. It only served to make the mercenaries laugh. Her childlike behavior in the middle of a bloody battleground helped alleviate some of the tension. Seras was glad to help, at least a little. Looking at all the injured and remembering the dead made a pool of guilt well up in her stomach.

Pip came and stood next to her. He was so close that she could smell the scents of smoke and gunpowder mixing with his natural musk. "Eh mignonette," he said softly, "I thought I warned you about frowning."

"I could have done something, Pip. I could have saved them if I was a real vampire."

"You're plenty fucking intimidating, cheri," he laughed.

"My master could have saved them."

"Yes but your master wouldn't have saved them if he had his way. In all honesty, he scares the fuck out of me. I'd much rather have you by my side. You would do anything you thought might help."

The guilt surged once again, clawing at her insides. Blood. She hated the taste, yet thirsted for more. Every time she drank the red liquid, she noticed it: the undeniable surge in power. But here she was abstaining. It had been a while since she had accepted a drop of Sir Hellsing's blood.

Seras bit her lip, blushing. She could ask the Captain for some of his blood, she supposed. He was no virgin, but blood was blood.

Then of course there was the whole intimacy issue… One sip of blood and they would be able to communicate telepathically. He would be in her mind and she in his, at least if her powers worked like her master's. She trusted him undoubtedly, but this was Pip… The blonde felt blood rush to her face once again, something which didn't escape the mercenary's attention.

"You look like a girl after her first time," he laughed, the other Wild Geese joining in.

She shot the captain a venomous glance. Apparently he was unaware of the qualifications of becoming a vampire.

Seras opened her mouth to tell the loudmouthed Frenchman exactly where he could shove his comments, but she never got the chance. Her ears detected a familiar crack. Through the gap in the barricade, she saw a flash of silver slicing through the air. Her body moved instinctually with vampiric speed.

Pip was pleased with the ensuing result for two reasons. Firstly, there was a bullet embedded in the wall just behind where he was standing only moments ago. Secondly, the draculina's life-saving tackle had landed her astride his hips in a very enticing position. Her cheeks flared even redder than before as his hands found their way to her hips. One of the Geese wolf-whistled loudly as a few of the others made lewd jokes.

"This would be more effective if you removed your clothes, mignonette," he teased, joining in.

There was another BANG! and one of the sentries at the barricade collapsed, a bloody hole in his forehead and the back of his skull missing.

Harkonnen found its way into its master's hands. Seras cocked the gun, alert for any more bullets. She bared her fangs and let loose a feral growl; whoever was shooting at her allies would be sorry when she got her hands on them.

"As arousing as this is, could you let me up?" Pip requested.

"I'm going to punch you for that comment when this is all over," she swore as she swung one slender leg over his torso, "so you better damn well stay alive."

"It's a promise," he whispered solemnly as they crawled in separate directions, rolling toward the relative safety of the barricade. She snaked the barrel of her rifle over the top of the barrier. Rather than firing blindly, the draculina carefully poked her head over the overturned conference table. Another shot whipped past her, close enough to part her golden locks.

The captain gently pushed her to the side. He clenched a pin beneath his teeth and a grenade in his hand. In one swift motion, the brown-haired mercenary stood and lobbed it with all his resulting explosion rocked the walls and rained a shower of dust upon the unfortunate Wild Geese. Seras took advantage of the confusion to fire a barrage of rounds down the hallway, the other mercenaries following her lead. They were rewarded with an agonizing scream. One down.

The dead Nazi was replaced by a whole platoon of reinforcements who unleashed a hail of bullets upon the unfortunate Hellsing survivors as they crouched down behind the barricade. Unfortunately, said barricade was only made of wood, and wood can only take so much damage. Splinters filled the air as misguided shots rammed into the chairs and table that barred the way into the room. A few bullets soared harmlessly over the survivors' heads, becoming deadly missiles when they ricocheted off the walls. It seemed that no matter how the enemy did, it spelled magically spelled injury for the remaining Hellsing forces. It was as though some sort of magical force was aiding their enemy.

Though only one man had been directly shot so far, the Wild Geese had sustained considerable injuries. When the gunfire died down, they surveyed the damage. Two more were dead. The Geese tossed the bodies aside hurriedly as they prepared for the next wave; there would be time to mourn later. Everyone suffered minor flesh wounds, though a few were seriously injured.

"Geese!" Pip barked, calling his men to attention. "They have to reload sometime. We shall make them regret that. Give 'em hell, vous le chiens!" With that, he let out a guttural yell, a battle cry that would make even the most stalwart soldier's knees buckle. The other Wild Geese joined the din as they fired on the Nazi forces. Seras too took up arms, her custom anti-tank rifle sending oversized bullets careening down the hallway. Again, it was as though magic worked against them. The draculina swore that one of her slugs made a ninety-degree turn and rammed itself right into a wall.

In less than a minute, the Letzes Battalion was back in action, launching a coordinated assault on the Hellsing forces. The Wild Geese soon learned that the pause in their enemies' fire had been for more than simple reloading. Four Nazis with heavy shield stood shoulder to shoulder across the hallway, the rest of their allies falling in behind them. In the back stood the illusionist herself, Zorin Blitz. The artificial vampire smirked as she casually rested her scythe on her shoulder.

Seras and Captain Bernadotte resumed their places next to their allies at the barricade, rifle and revolver firing in sync at the advancing enemy. The revolver slugs rebounded harmlessly off the thick shields, but Harkonnen's specialized bullets punched right through. The crisis was averted, at least temporarily. The Nazis, though surprised, recovered quickly, sending a second row of shielded soldiers to the forefront.

It was no big deal, or so they thought. Seras took out one set of shields; she could take out another. Harkonnen clicked on empty chambers as its twin magazines ran out. The vampiress swore loudly. Of all the times to need to reload! Her hands searched the floor as she kept her eyes on the advancing wall of shields. They felt nothing but the hardwood floor. Peeling her attention from the immediate danger, she looked down.

"Merde!" she cussed, stealing a word from the Frenchman's dictionary. The only things near her were spent shells. Despite all their preparations, her custom ammunition was across the room.

With nothing short of vampiric speed, a tattooed figure charged straight for the barrier. Apparently, Zorin had grown impatient.

"Take her down, boys!" she heard the captain shouting over the roar of gunfire. The stream of bullets focused on short-haired woman running for them at full tilt, but she shrugged them off like harmless gnats.

With a massive leap, she soared over the barricade with ease, landing gracefully on one knee, her right palm pressed against the hardwood floor. Dark words radiated from her hand, spreading across the floorboards like a massive shadowy web. The defending forces spun around to fire at the enemy in their midst, battle cries turning to shrieks of pain as the ricochets and misses thudded into their allies and the well-aimed shots rebounded back at their shooters.

Jean-Pierre had curled himself into a ball like a terrified hedgehog. "I hate spiders," he sobbed, over and over again. Yet even with her keen vision, Seras saw no spiders.

One man, the oldest of the surviving mercenaries, was doubled over. "My arm!" he wailed. "My arm!"

The grizzled veteran stared miserably at his right arm, which was bleeding profusely from numerous lacerations. A chunk of wood nearly six inches long had pierced his forearm and emerged on the other side. His hand had been smashed, most likely earlier in the conflict. His fingers stuck out at odd angles. When, or if, he healed, the hand would most certainly be useless.

"My arm is gone!" he moaned. Seras thought it was a bit of an overstatement, but this was no time to argue.

With a careless flick of her wrist, the tattooed vampire flung her scythe through the sobbing man's neck. It cut clean through, embedding itself in the wall on the far side of its target, quivering.

A wall of fire roared up and the walls shook as a charge detonated on the far side of the barrier. Wood splintered high into the air, sending the oversized conference table soaring across the room and into the far wall. The mercenaries too were knocked back as the chairs and cabinets that comprised the rest of their defenses were torn down by the rush of enemies surging up to protect their commander. Agonizing shrieks filled the air as the Nazi vampires tore into the mercenaries, ripping them limb from limb and draining the corpses of blood.

Seras alone stayed rooted in place as the tattooed woman and her allies advanced until they were face to face. From the corner of her eyes, the blonde vampire could see her fallen allies, ravaged by the last onslaught.

Her blue eyes continued to roam the room, rolling over each of her allies, until at last they locked on the person she had been unwittingly searching for: Pip. Her heart stopped and her breath caught in her throat.

The mercenary captain was sprawled across the floor, an arm sticking out at an unnatural angle, a trickle of blood flowing from the corner of his mouth. The crimson liquid bubbled from multiple wounds to his chest and head as well. Even in death, he grasped his revolver tightly, finger on the trigger. Seras collapsed to her knees as she watched his patch-less eye cloud, then roll backwards into his skull.

"Not you too," she whispered.

Seras had always considered herself a strong woman. Her father had been shot in front of her when she was only a child. She watched as her mother was brutally murdered and then sodomized by her very killers. Seras had been stabbed and shot, and beat to hell at her orphanage, resorting to violence for survival. Even as a police girl, she saw her squad ripped to shreds by the vampire priest in Cheddar. Then her master came and saved her, giving her a second chance at life. He too was gone, stranded on a ghost ship in the middle of the ocean, dead for all she knew. Integra and Walter were somewhere in the battleground that was her hometown; she would likely never see them again. The corpses of the Wild Geese lay around her, increasing by the minute as the Nazi assault continued. Not once did she get a chance to say good bye, and it looked like that trend was continuing.

"Not you too," she choked, her vision swimming red with tears of blood, as red as Pip's lifeblood dripping onto the wooden floor.

"Seras Victoria," the Nazi woman said scathingly, intruding on her enemy's silent misery. "I expected more."

The blonde draculina glared at her assailant, but said nothing.

"First Lieutenant Zorin," a uniformed vampire called. "What would you like us to do with the survivors?"

"Kill the little gnats," she commanded. "They're unnecessary. We can have plenty of fun with this blonde little tart."

Seras let a feral growl escape from between her fangs, dropping into a crouch. Her eyes, once deep cerulean pools, were as red as the blood streaming down her cheeks. She bared her fangs and pounced.

The dense fog, thick as pea soup, yellowed as the ghostly ship drew nearer to the London harbor. It roiled across the surface of the water, engulfing the vessel like a hungry demon.

The true demon, nay devil, sat in on the deck in the middle of a faded swastika of blood. He had regressed to his original appearance, the face he wore as Vlad the Impaler. The blood-drinker stroked his beard as he processed the information his vampiric senses gave him.

London was embroiled in battle: he could taste the metallic tang of blood and the sharp, peppery taste of gunpowder. The artificial vampires of Millennium were in the city, and he could smell their revolting stench from here. The Catholic dogs were in attendance as well; their hypocrisy stank even more than the pale imitations. The clash of steel and dull boom of explosions rang across the water. Apparently Millennium and the church despised each other as much as he despised them.

Despite his keen senses, there was one person he could not find. He couldn't sense his master's mind, and when he tried to contact her telepathically, he was met with silence. Their mental link was private; she had no reason to ignore him. Alucard could only conclude that she was in danger: unconscious, drugged, or worse. With the ocean dampening his powers, he had no way to know where she was, why she wasn't answering, or even if she was okay until he made it onto solid ground again, and that terrified him.

His powers strengthened as the waters grew shallower, but he seethed and fretted when he still couldn't sense his master. Alucard began to wish that he could communicate with Walter like he could with Seras and Integra. If that wrinkly old coot let something happen to his master, then the vampire swore he would rip his out the aging butler's intestines and wear them as a scarf. The lack of telepathy was to the elderly human's disadvantage, really, for he would have to explain the Hellsing director's condition to the No-Life King within scarf-making distance.

Alucard settled for contacting Seras, which did nothing to ease his nerves. In her mind, he saw red, an endless red haze. Her conscious thoughts were absent, locked away by swirling cryptic words. They were in constant motion, changing and morphing like desert sands in a storm. The tiny black letters were... mesmerizing...

Es wird gesagt, dass, wenn sie ihre feinde und dich selbst kennst, werden sie nicht in hundert schlachten gefährdete werden. Wenn sie nicht wissen, ihre feinde aber selbst wissen, gewinnen sie ein und verlieren ein. Wenn sie nicht wissen, deine feinde noch selbst, werden sie in jeder einzelnen schlacht gefährdete sein.

The dark words rushed through his mind, and the vampire could feel his thoughts starting to grow fuzzy. He brushed the cryptic text away with a determined thought, breaking his mental shackles. The No-Life King narrowed his crimson eyes and growled.

With a loud metallic thud, his ship rammed into the dock. Alucard sprang into action, rushing toward Seras's location with frightening speed. There was no time to waste; someone was playing with his apprentice's mind.

If you like what you read, check out my other Hellsing fics: Forever Alone, on my Kanotari account; and Predator on Halloween and Bored Meeting on the Team Dragon Star account.

For those of you who are familiar with my writing, you're probably wondering where all the humor is. It's coming; don't worry. There was just a lot of exposition to trudge through first.

Pip's guide to French:

Mignonette: feminine of mignonnet, dainty, pretty, from Old French, diminutive of mignon, lover, dainty; also a type of flower

Merde: shit

Va te faire foutre: fuck off

A votre sante: to your health

Vous le chiens: you dogs

*I just googled a lot of French insults. Correct me if I'm wrong, please!*