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

[Tricia]

You stow your bayonets away and nod. "Aye, works for me. Want anythin'? Tea, coffee, bloodshake?"

no.

"Figured I'd ask." You clap your hands together. "Well, since ye're here, have ye heard the good Word about our LORD and savior, Jesus Christ?"

yes.

"Y'see, He...wait, what?"

read tome while caretaker slept. benevolent progeny and extension of vengeful deity. uses torture implement as holy symbol. stories contradictory. Its head tilts. earnest question or delaying tactic to heal wounds.

You shrug. "Both, I suppose. Couldn't hurt ta ask."

deception forgiven. no impact on final outcome. It rises on its haunches, surveys the dying mass of flames, and waves an arm. At once, the fire winks out and the Workshop stands whole once more, white flowers blooming anew as though nothing had happened. destruction forgiven.

"Well, ye've definitely got the bit about turnin' the other cheek down pat. Got some more copies here in case ye'd ever like some o' yer own. Wouldn't want ta force Hope ta share." You helpfully wave a handful of Bibles back and forth beneath its stare.

unnecessary. contents memorized. It prowls forward with the dominant gait of an apex predator, stopping above where Gehrman fell. caretaker crafted summoning bell. suggested outsider untouched by blood could succeed where others failed. likely deception. results still satisfactory. It delicately extends a claw and prods the cross, observing the resulting wisps of smoke with apparent curiosity. caretaker crafted several new weapons during night. elected to use original arms. claimed familiarity more important than stopping power. possibly also deception. results still acceptable.

You furrow your brow and frown. "Ye sayin' he threw the fight?"

no. fought to kill. merely observation.

It rounds on you slowly while maintaining its distance. Its proportions are so bizarre that you honestly can't tell if it has a comfortable way to hold still.

"So how'd you and Gehrman meet?" you ask. You've still got a handful of cracked bones and exposed muscle fibers to fix up. "Ye pass each other on a rainy night and see friendship in each other's eyeholes? Byrgenwerth make a booty call? I'm dyin' ta know." You cringe inwardly as soon as the last sentence comes out of your mouth, praying it understands figures of speech better than Ebrietas does.

caretaker and associates beckoned. offered eternal hunting for return of desired associate. acceptable terms.

"And what do ye get from this 'eternal Hunt?' What does one get for the squid who has everythin'?"

death of great ones. consumption of echoes. hunters receive functional immortality. power to fight. symbiotic relationship. It peers over towards the central area of the Dream, where Hope stands with Ebrietas in her arms, and looms over you. child remains. unacceptable. hunt continues. new caretaker required.

"Hey," you reply, frown deepening, "the Hunt's over. I won. Ebrietas isn't hurtin' anyone."

always hunters. always a hunt.

"I refuse."

refusal forgiven.

The great hands begin to close around you, only for a full-sized Ebrietas to cannon into the creature from the side. The two massive beings grapple with one another, tearing gouges out of each other's flesh, when suddenly the creature releases a massive pulse of energy that sends Ebrietas flying. Her wings thrum, attempting to carry her back into the fray, but another pulse slams her back. Again she rises, again she's struck down. You rush over as she tries to stand once more.

"Stay down. Please. He's mine."

You don't need to protect me. I'll protect you.

"i bloody know I don't need to, but you have to protect everyone back home, Ebrietas, because right now I can't. Let me do this. Please."

Her eyes wobble, looking between you and the lanky creature (hereby dubbed Moonfucker) that seems content to observe, before shrinking back to her miniature form and fluttering drunkenly back to Hope. Moonfucker watches her go, turns back to you, and tilts its head.

unprecedented relationship between human and great one. curious.

"I'm gonna put ye in an unprecedented relationship with the fuckin' ground, ye gigantic bastard." You fill both hands with blades and stomp forward. "Nobody hurts my fuckin' flock."

You rear back to throw steel, only for Moonfucker to fix you with a glare. Your entire body freezes up, then slackens against your will, dropping the cluster of bayonets to the ground. It slouches towards you and cups you in a gentle embrace, lifting you up towards the blood-red moon.

always hunters. always a hunt.

You can feel it in your head like a stream of insects. You can't fight back. You can't close your eyes. You can't even scream.

And then thorny vines erupt from your chest and wrench the creature's limbs away, burning where they touch. You fall to the ground, propped up by the torrent of greenery where your heart should be, and gape. The nail can't be in your chest. The bastard tore it out. Ebrietas said it wasn't in there.

You didn't think you could just pull a piece of God out of your chest and everything would go back to normal, did you?

The half-heard statement tumbles from your thoughts, consumed by the righteous fury pouring forth from you. It's hungry, too hungry to be satisfied by the thrashing flesh in its embrace. The thorns are in your mind, in your soul, straining and salivating. They can win this. Can win everything. The only question is whether you're willing to leave your flock behind again to feed them.

[] Man of God

[] Monster of God

 

[Tricia]

The wrathful garden was everything you wanted. No more indecision about your ideal path. No more attempting to reconcile your bloodlust with the teachings of the LORD. You were, for those perfect moments, a pure, untainted instrument of God's will.

But that was in London, with the forces of Hell before you and a congregation with nothing left to learn behind. Your flock here is young and you've so much to teach them. Your world had others to spread the Word, needed only unimaginable strength and a vague direction to point it in. Yharnam, awake for the first time in ages, only has you, and like fuck if you're going to let a stapled-together calamari appetizer take you from them. And Hell, why throw away the chance to rebuild a whole city in God's image?

The thorns are in a deadlock with Moonfucker, digging ever deeper into its thin flesh but giving inch after inch of ground. The fury within them looks to you, pleading for more fuel to continue its struggle, and you decline. It hesitates, as though making certain you know what you want, and leaves behind a faint sense of satisfaction before scattering into the artificial sky. The thorns themselves blacken and wither and the creature staggers back as your flesh-and-blood heart beats anew.

"Sorry about that," you say with a grin. "Usually just wear my heart on my sleeve, but it gets a wee bit excitable sometimes." Your grin grows wider as you watch it attempt to regain its bearings. "No wonder ye need a caretaker. Can't even handle a few fuckin' weeds."

what did you do.

"Respectfully declined yer generous offer. Now get up and let's do some renegotiatin'."

It again looms to its full height and glares down on you. Nothing happens for a few moments, so you spread your arms and shrug. The thing is almost literally radiating confusion, seasoned with a pinch of anger and some minor impatience for flavor.

resistance to mental influence. impossible. explain.

"Despite what some might say, this here noggin's occupied." You scoop up the bouquet of bayonets you dropped before and scrape them together. "Just like yours if ye don't shut up and fight."

Moonfucker hunkers down among the flowers, damaged forelimbs shoving aside Ludwig's grave marker. humanity requires guidance.

"Yep. But not yours anymore."

FINAL BOSS BATTLE: MOON PRESENCE
​

[] Write in...

 

[Tricia]

It spreads its head tentacles like that fast little lizard you like, weaving them to and fro as it circles you. Some of them occasionally lash out, raising welts on your arms but not committing to anything that would put it within your range. Well, it's shut up and fight, so might as well do the same. You pull out as many bayonets as you can and unload with everything but the kitchen sink. Then you add the kitchen sink, which you were supposed to take to the mechanics division months ago, when it uses that rail-thin frame to weave through them.

Though it doesn't connect, the appliance does force Moonfucker to swat it away with its tentacles, leaving them bunched up enough for the next volley to connect. It hisses, backs off, and yanks them out with its forelimbs and the three branching tails dangling from its rear. It's still working on pulling them free when the fuses run out.

The blasts sever two of the tails and a chunk of its "mane," scoring its back with burn. Its rib cage rattles as it bellows and shudders in pain. It stays rattled long enough for you to raise your club, twist it like *this*, and blow up a significant chunk of its left shoulder. The thing wraps itself in its tentacles, wailing as it cradles itself, and you take aim for any gap you can find. This thing's been playing puppetmaster for ages; when was the last time it actually fought hand-to-hand? Hell, when was the last time it got hurt? Besides right fucking now, of course. You see a glint of moonlight on its mask and start to squeeze the trigger.

Then the third tail, which snuck around out of sight while you were busy, wraps around your right arm and crushes it to bits.

The club falls from your hands and you desperately stab at the limb, not even bothering to avoid stabbing yourself in the process. It's not like you can feel it at this point. The surviving portions of its hairdo slam into you while you're occupied and put on a drum performance Keith Moon would be proud of, complete with broken instrument courtesy of your left tibia. As the whippings continue and reddening clouds rise from the earth, you abandon the stabbing and pull out a Bible, teleporting away just before the clouds burst and rain down noxious blood.

You rematerialize inside the Workshop and scramble for your life, searching for any of the new toys Moonfucker mentioned. Only the usual arrangement of old blades Gehrman kept above his desk are visible and the fact that you're dragging one of your feet behind you doesn't help your search. Then, as you start to get desperate, you spot it: a carved cross on the floor. You lift a false floorboard to reveal, carved on the opposite side, "Don't fuck this up."

The secret compartment holds a bident with a switch on the shaft, a flail constructed of leftover Amygdala bits with a fuse on the head and a button on the handle, and what can only be a six-barrel Gatling gun. You don't see any ammunition, but looking down the top barrel reveals an Amygdalan eye. There's also, hidden beneath what turns out to be an instruction manual. another copy of How to Pick Up Fair Maidens, presumably stowed away for safekeeping before Maria's visit.

While you're looking at the illustrations in the manual, which show the bident humming with electricity when the switch is thrown and the flail's chain detaching and exploding when the button is pressed, Moonfucker tears a chunk of the wall free and reaches in with its good arm. You stumble back and hear something clatter to the ground when you hit the wall.

The shovel.

You grin wickedly and brandish the thing at your hesitant foe. "Ready ta get inhumed, ye lackin' Kraken?" When your wordplay remains unappreciated, you press the button. Some unseen mechanism coughs, sputtering to life after a few false starts, and the head begins jackhammering back and forth with impressive vigor. Perhaps a slight overabundance of vigor, now that you think about it. As you struggle to maintain your grip, the thing leaps from your hand like a trout on crystal meth and careens gaily about the Workshop. The two of you stare as it bounces out the door and rapidly tunnels out of sight with the slowly fading roar of a dying lawnmower.

perhaps caretaker warning referred to practicality and not danger.

"Could be."

[] Write in...

--

CURRENT STATUSES:

Anderson: Right arm just all kinds of fucked up, broken tibia, bruised everything

Moon Presence: Left forelimb injured, two of three tails severed

 

[Tricia]

"So, you as disappointed as I am?"

likely not.

You break the awkward silence first, sending a stream of pages and nails into the ceiling, floor, and walls around you. Moonfucker shoves in a hand to disrupt it, but the ward comes to life mid-swing and sends the hand packing with a fresh set of burns in tow. It pounds at your shield with quick tentacle blows as you hoist the Gatling Laser into the the air, aim for the face, and let rip. Staccato beams tear through the Workshop walls and the creature bolts out of sight. You take full advantage of the reduced heating issues and punch hole after hole in the thick wood, catching glimpses of writhing flesh every few moments.

When your glove starts to smoke and the freshly-ventilated walls start to creak unpleasantly, you spin the weapon down; bringing the entire Workshop down on your head, while totally badass, would not be tactically sound. After awkwardly cramming the spear and flail into your sleeves, you take a moment to lean down and hold the bits of your shin together, listening intently for any sign of your quarry.

Right about the time you start getting some tingling back in your foot, the roof buckles under a booming impact. You raise the gun and unload once more; the fifteen drop bear pelts in your living room attest to your familiarity with the old "nobody ever looks up" trick. You don't get the screeching or the burning you wanted, though, and another hit on the opposite side of the roof draws your fire. Still nothing. Then Moonfucker sticks its head through the nearest unwarded wall and, in the microseconds between you noticing and shit going way south, the timeline becomes clear.

1. Asshole uses sound of you firing to disguise its movement.
2. Asshole waits for you to stop shooting.
3. Asshole uses tail to thump roof in two successive places and draw fire.
4. Asshole uses distraction to fire some sort of death cone that makes your everything hurt.

Your ward breaks beneath the blast, which peels away clothing, flesh, and even bits of muscle beneath it as it blows you off your feet. You hit the ground on your busted arm, roll with all the grace of a Cooper's Hill cheese chaser who's three sheets to the wind, and stumble back upright. It got a lot of you, but nothing too deep; you should be un-peeling yourself any second now.

Aaaaaany second now.

Your bits aren't growing back.

Okay, new plan: kill it before it can pull that shit again. You trail blood as you will your ward armor back to life and charge the creature's still-visible head, which is either admiring its work or out of juice. Not quite healed, your foot buckles beneath you and slows you enough for it to regain its bearings and leap away before you can get a good swing in. You charge outside and spot it looming in the flower field, a pillar of squishy confidence. It waits for you to re-enter the arena, leaps free of your attempted warding, and rears its head back, showing the same glint as before. Your leg screams as you tense to leap away, but a sudden muffled rumbling draws both its and your attention downwards.

The shovel bursts from the earth, careens into the creature's damaged shoulder, and severs the limb in an explosion of gore before retreating back underground. You look at the emergence point to see a team of Messengers high-fiving each other; they offer you a thumbs-up and dash off in pursuit of their impromptu projectile as the tentacled bastard writhes in pain.

Helpful little shits, aren't they?

[] Write in...

--

CURRENT STATUSES:

Anderson: Right arm still destroyed, tibia cracked but functional, partial flensing across body, regeneration disabled

Moon Presence: Left forelimb, pieces of "hair," and two of three tails severed, burns along tentacles and remaining arm

 

[Tricia]

The thing is so preoccupied with being a gigantic baby over one measly lost limb that it's in no position to dodge when you unload a fresh volley from the Gatling laser. Bursts of superheated whatever-these-things-actually-shoot punch fresh holes in its mane, torso, and remaining arm before it finally gets its shit together and goes back on the defensive. You hobble after it like an octogenarian chasing Halloween TP-ers, firing all the while. As you pursue, more blood clouds rise from the earth, but even with approximately 1.5 good legs, you dodge them with ease.

Shit like that only works once.

You switch to bayonets as you herd it around the arena, never giving it room to breathe. This thought triggers brief musings as to the nature of its respiratory system, raising questions you're sure you can answer with a little impromptu vivisection.

It's figured out your exploding bayonet trick and does a solid job of never lingering too near the blades it dodges, but the sheer quantity of blessed steel sticking out of the ground limits its safe havens. The steady rain forces it ever closer to the line of pointy fencing circling the arena, where a bevy of blades with rapidly dwindling fuses wait. Your bayonets detonate at the base of the spikes, sending them flying, but none make successful contact as Moonfucker wobbles past. Without remote detonation, you had to rely on the sort of timing you'd struggle with even if your torso didn't look like peeled grapefruit, and getting shit to explode in a specific direction isn't easy.

You might have gotten a little overambitious with that one.

Finally, as its real estate continues to dwindle, the creature rushes back in with a flurry of blows from its tail and tentacles. You tuck your chin and slide the bident into your hand as whipping strikes crack against your armor. When you lash out, however, its assault slackens. It's not just accumulated damage; it's pulling away from your thrusts with near-panic and hesitating to exploit the openings that you, by dint of having a sack of bone shards and pulped muscle fibers for a right arm, inevitably leave.

You've put the fear of God into it.

The drumbeat of strikes continues to drop its tempo, turned away by nips from the bident and the burning shield of scripture. It makes sense, you realize; this thing's a scavenger. It could hold Ebrietas off on its own turf, but if it could take care of itself against full-grown Great Ones, it wouldn't have bothered with this whole Dream bullshit. The simplest solution is the usually the best one, after all, and there's no simpler solution than mauling the shit out of whoever or whatever is giving you trouble.

"What's the matter?" you grunt as your bident skims its mask. "Didja think I'd just quit if ye turned off my regen?" You can feel your shin splintering beneath you, your torn flesh screaming as you demand more and more of it. "I'm not goin' away, do ye hear me? Yharnam's my fuckin' turf now, so quit runnin' and try and take it from me."

It halts its retreat and surges towards you, desperation or bravado dredging up newfound fury. At least it's a good listener.

--

CURRENT STATUSES:

Anderson: Right arm still destroyed, tibia cracked but functional, partial flensing across body, regeneration disabled

Moon Presence: Left forelimb, pieces of "hair," and two of three tails severed, extensive burns along tentacles, torso, and remaining arm

 

[Tricia]

You pivot and meet its charge head-on, jabbing and weaving from a fencer's stance as Moonfucker throws heat from every conceivable angle. These aren't the careful, probing blows from before, but the wild "fuck you" haymakers of someone who really, really doesn't want to deal with this anymore. The bursts of electricity from your own glancing blows only ramp up its recklessness until it's practically falling over itself an an effort to be rid of you.

Good luck with that, dickhead. You stay on him like stink on a Protestant as the exchanges grow ever fiercer, running your mouth all the while.

"Come on, is that all the big bad chessmaster's got? I know ye look like a kindergartner's macaroni art but I expected better. Ye tryin' ta hurt me or touch my heart through the power o' dance?"

be quiet.

"Fuckin' make me, ye colossal prick. Why don't ye call yer whore mollusk of a mother and have her take a swing if I'm hurtin' yer feelings so bad?"

The creature breaks away with a powerful leap, offering no rebuttal as to his mom's celestial sluttiness. At the peak of its arc, it rears back and sends another of its blasts roaring down. Your shin finally gives out again as you jump out of its way, leaving only your good leg and your ruined arm in the blast radius as the earth rumbles beneath the impact. Your sleeve and pant leg disintegrate and the flesh beneath them doesn't fare much better, stripped away until two of your limbs resemble tilled fields of battered muscle with bone hillocks scattered haphazardly throughout.

It hurts like a motherfucker. Specifically, like someone trying to fuck YOUR mother. Papa Anderson went through a lot of painkillers during the conception process.

You don't have time to bitch, however, because Moonfucker just hit the ground in an every-point landing. Its remaining arm folds beneath it when it tries to rise and its legs succeed only in accomplishing a very brief and very humiliating wheelbarrow impression. As you stagger to your feet, grumbling about how much grass and dirt you're going to have to pick out of your bits before your skin grows back, its body begins to shimmer and come apart. For a moment, you think it's finished, but then it raises its head to watch you.

The bastard's pussing out like a bitch.

"Oh no you don't," you say, dragging yourself forward through sheer anger. "Oh no you don't. Oh no you-"

Oh no you don't!

The creature slams back into solidity with a near-audible crunch. It flings its head about wildly before fixing it on a point behind your shoulder. Ebrietas, still tiny but dripping confidence alongside her usual drippings, hovers triumphantly near the fenceline.

I may be a child, but you were so busy losing to Father Anderson that you lost your grip on this place. I'm making the rules now, and the first rule is "no leaving without my permission."

"What if it's got an escort?" you say with an ear-to-ear grin.

Well, she replies with the mental equivalent of a smirk, I suppose that would be fine.

You put the bident back in your sleeves and pull out the Boom Flail, gritting through the weight as you march forward. A certain monologue comes to mind, not exactly biblically accurate but too appropriate not to use.

"The path o' the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who, in the name o' charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of the darkness. For he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children."

Moonfucker still can't recover from its last shot, writhing angrily but going nowhere as you close the distance.

"And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know I am the LORD when I lay my vengeance upon you."

It tries to "say" something, but you can't make it out over the sound of a giant lump of Amygdala slamming into its face at high speeds. You press the button and limp away as it detonates, destroying the creature's head and engulfing the rest in hungry flames.

Huh. Going by the smell, it could have actually made a pretty decent calamari appetizer.

NIGHTMARE SLAIN​

Well, now that you're done being a cool guy who doesn't look at explosions, this seems like the perfect time to collapse and sleep for a few hours/days/months. Moonfucker roasts behind you and you wobble to the ground, shutting your eyes and ignoring the unpleasant sounds of your regeneration slowly getting back to work.

Moments later, you're shoved back into lucidity by the ground wobbling and the sky smelling a bit turquoise.

Sorry! Sorry! Still getting used to it.

"Don't worry about it," you say, rolling over onto your back. "Just make sure that fire doesn't spread too much."

Hope kneels down beside you, watching the creature burn.

"Ebrietas did not aid you against Gehrman because I told her not to. I believed Gehrman had a plan. I am sorry for the pain he put you through."

"He did what he had to and so did ye. No hard feelin's. Could have warned me about that sword beam, though. Or at least showed me how ta do it."

"I am afraid that is a secret he took to his grave, Hunter Anderson."

"Bollocks."

The two of you bask in the morbid warmth for some time, Ebrietas helpfully snuffing out any enterprising sparks. Hope looks down on you and smiles. "Do not get too comfortable. As you said, we still have quite a bit of work to do."

You force yourself to a seated position and give an exaggerated sigh.

"Yeah we do, don't we."

[] Epilogue

 

[Tricia]

Has the moon always been that small? Like, the rational part of your brain understands that it's just normal-sized now compared to the Extra Jumbo McDouble from earlier, but it's kinda jarring.

Sitting on the chapel roof with a tart, spiky fruit the Churchmen insist is a local delicacy in your hand, you watch the colors of the horizon tussle amongst themselves for prominence as twilight gives way to morning. The silence is every bit as bizarre as the aforementioned moon issue; the majority of the squad is off securing water and food sources or looking for survivors or doing all the other tedious shit that comes after the climactic battle. You offered to help out, but they insisted you'd done enough for the night. They even decided to delay the victory party until afterwards, the responsible bastards.

You take another bite, spit out a seed that leaves a visible dent in the cobbles when it lands, and compare the serene scene before you to the chaos you saw between Rom's death and your Nightmare adventure. The way they tell it, the fight was in full balls-out swing when the moon suddenly flashed and blinded everyone. When they could see again, the giant monsters both living and dead were gone, which didn't work out great for Djura considering he was climbing one of them at the time. Still, one little fall and one measly concussion weren't enough to dampen his spirits; he perked right up when Steffon asked him to put together the biggest, baddest wheelchair Yharnam had ever seen, especially after you handed him some of Gehrman's design sketches you and Hope found in the Workshop.

Yurie had a similar reaction when you gave her Micolash's equations. She'd tagged along with the water crew, but she was so distracted that they'd elected to just bring her back and let her lock herself in a meeting room with some writing equipment and a few dozen sheets of scrap paper. The sound of scribbling hasn't slowed down in hours.

Aside from her and you, the only current occupants of the chapel are Agatha, Steffon, Annalise, Iosefka, the girls, and their patients. Arianna and the other Yharnamites went back home to gather their things, although the paranoid guy had to be coaxed out with food. Ebrietas and Simon are leading the search parties via air superiority and a couple of Churchmen went off to the Grand Cathedral to see if Amelia's still all fuzzed up.

To everyone's relief, the transition cleaned up the exorbitant amount of viscera and none of the oldies got drank-from-the-wrong-cup-in-Last-Crusade'd by the correction of temporal fuckery. It actually, for the first time in what feels like forever, looks like smooth sailing from here.

"So, are you going to teach transubstantiation? Because I think these guys would be into that."

You nearly jump off the roof in surprise at the familiar voice, losing your grip on your meal and fishing around in your sleeves for a weapon as you spin to see The Crimson Fucker himself standing behind you with a smile on his face. He extends a hand to reveal that he somehow caught your fruit.

"How the fuck didja get here?"

"Well, long story short, Walter went evil, we fought for a bit, then I accidentally absorbed a Nazi catboy and now I can be everywhere and nowhere because quantum physics."

You narrow your eyes. "I majored in child development and minored in kickin' arse and even I know that's not how quantum physics works."

"Yeah, well, tell that to the Nazis." He tosses the fruit back to you and you catch it on a bayonet. "Oh wait, you can't, because we killed the shit out of them."

"Ha! That's what I like ta hear." You take a bite and offer him one, which he declines. "So, what brings ye ta this neck o' the woods? Lookin' for a rematch?"

"Ah, come on, I'd have thought you of all people would know better than to saddle a classic with a crappy sequel. Nah, just stopping by to say hi before going back to see Integra. Been too busy killing myself a few million times to do anything else, so I passed the time by watching your little adventure. Figured it would be rude to just slip away after you finished."

You open your mouth to ask for clarification, realize the answer is probably "fuck you that's how," and close it again. Alucard hefts the Gatling gun with an approving nod.

"So, what's your next move, Statutory Papist?" He holds up a hand before you can object. "I know I apologized for the pedophile jokes but I came up with that ages ago and I've been dying to use it."

"I'll let ye have the one. Anyway, gonna get Yharnam back on its feet and then start spreadin' the Word. We're gonna party like it's 313."

"But with less lead piping, I hope." He puts the gun back down and looks at the sunrise through those shades of his. "Well, wouldn't want to keep you from that. I've gotta be going; by my guess, it's been about thirty years since I last saw Integra and, well, absence makes the cock grow fonder. Anything you'd like me to pass along when I get back?"

"Shit, thirty years? Well, if any o' my posse's still around, tell 'em Anderson ain't dying anytime soon."

"I'll tell them and the Pope. It'll be hilarious."

The two of you watch the sunrise for a few moments before the sound of approaching footsteps emanates from the roof's access hatch.

"And that's my cue," says Alucard, doffing his hat.

"Don't want ta meet the crew?"

"It's funnier if they think you were talking to yourself." He starts to dissolve, then stops. "Shit, before I go: your ward cockblocked a Great One and it was awesome. Toodles."

Leaving his grin for last, your old nemesis vanishes into thin air just as the hatch opens to reveal Iosefka and the girls.

"Were you taking to someone?" Fiddle asks.

"Ah," you smile, "just an old sonofabitch I knew once. How goes the doctorin'?"

"All they need at this point is rest and time," Iosefka replies as the girls beam. "Do you know when the others will be back?"

The four of you look up to see Ebrietas' distinctive shape closing fast, along with several dark shapes approaching from the ground. "Any second now, looks like."

Simon hops off of Ebrietas' back as she touches down and, soon after, Eileen and the Kegs join you on the roof from the hatch.

"Found some wells and we've about got the pumps working," Djura reports. "Should have a steady supply of water in a day or two."

"The roads are still there and still functional," says Eileen. "It'll be a while before we can get commerce going again, but it's doable."

"More survivors than we expected," Simon continues. "The Churchmen are working with them to get ready for the next steps."

Ebrietas hands you a freshly drawn, meticulously labeled map of Yharnam, complete with locations for survivors and every type of infrastructure. You're pretty sure it's to scale down to the millimeter. This is what it looks like right now. We're still working on whether to have the people temporarily stay nearer the Grand Cathedral.

"Damn," you say, looking over the map. "Fine work, the lot o' ye."

The sun shows its face after its long absence, bathing the lot of you in a warm, now-unfamiliar glow. It's legitimately amazing how much better this fucked-up city looks with proper lighting.

"Now," says Eileen with folded arms, "I believe you promised us an explanation 'in the morning.'"

"Shit, I did, didn't I?" You smile as your friends and disciples lean in. "So the trick with the sleeves is..."