Anderson Quest: Killing Vampires and Werewolves and Leprechauns (Hellsing/Bloodborne)

Where the Dream's meticulous craftsmanship hides its artificial nature, Rom's hidey-hole feels like a rushed copy-paste job. The water swirls in repetitive fashion and the horizon trails off into impenetrable mist well before the limits of your sight. Rom herself shows only the barest hints of life, tail twitching and flowers dancing in the stark moonlight.

"Evenin'," you say as you pull out lengths of exploding chain and walk towards her. "Name's Alexander Anderson. Pleasure ta meetcha."

She doesn't even turn in your direction. You get to work putting together an extended web of chains that she shows no interest in disrupting. Shame she doesn't seem to have a neck; would have been a perfect target.

"This is the good stuff. Three times as powerful as Semtex by weight." You run a couple of lengths under her belly, weaving through her legs. "Lost a lot o' fingers before I got the hang of it." Another bundle at the base of her head; you'll make a neck if you have to.

"Yurie and Ebrietas tried real hard ta get yer attention. Ye mean a lot to 'em. They coulda just sent me down here and not bothered." You take some moments to look over your handiwork, searching for places where you haven't run out of real estate. You've got enough munitions set up to punch a hole through an Abrams; Hell, there's probably enough to peel open two Abrams(es?) stacked together.

Rather than trigger them, however, you crouch down in front of her face. When the tried-and-true technique of waving your hand in front of her eyes fails, you close your eyes in prayer. If anyone can get through that thick head of hers, it's the man upstairs. You beseech Him to open her mind, give her a voice, anything to make this either unnecessary or at the very least sporting.

You open your eyes and see only your reflection in hers. Of course it isn't that easy.

"Fuckin' fine," you grunt, mustering your endless reserves of aggravating snark in a last-ditch effort. "Ye've got ten seconds before I roast ye like the potato ye are."

You back up, counting down in your head, and aim down the sights of your club. Seven, six...

"Ye bloated-arse, chicken-legged, weed-covered..."

Five, four...

"...pumice-headed, English dental mascot-lookin'..."

Three, two...

"...bastard offspring of a roly-poly and Buzz Aldrin's left bollock."

One.

The world erupts, your laser shot engulfed by the cataclysm of fire and smoke. You pour on the hurt, switching to bayonet volleys when your gloves start to smolder. Your eardrums hang on for dear life as you reduce the area Rom once occupied to a Chernobyl reenactment. Once the smoke and raining bug parts clear, carried away by the churning water, you catch sight of Rom's ruined form in the instant before it vanishes into light. You wait for the sky to come tumbling down around you, but the sound dies away with little fanfare.

You spread your arms wide, palms-up, in the universal symbol of frustration. Said frustration dwindles when you catch sight of a figure you're absolutely certain was not there five seconds ago. You jog towards it, making out additional details as you go. It's a woman in a blood-stained wedding dress, her flesh as white as the veil atop her head. Her strong cheekbones make you think of Arianna, as though this woman were the original mold since worn down by the ages.

"Oy," you call, "how'd ye get in here? Who are ye?" She's as unresponsive as the late Rom. You stomp forward, not in the mood for any eleventh-hour bullshit. "What's..."

You follow her gaze.

"Oh, fuck me."

The sky finally comes down, scored by the woman's sobs and the wailing of an unseen child. You rebound into consciousness in an unfamiliar chapel, tripping over your own feet and wiping away sweat as you stagger through the open door. The colossal moon remains in the sky, though the woman is nowhere to be found, and the earth rumbles beneath your feet.

Send lawyers, guns, and money: the shit has hit the fan.

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