Hellsing: Resurrection (WIP)

Chapter 17: Tensions at the Hellsing's Round Table

The morning sun poured through the high windows of the Round Table room like an accusation, catching on polished wood and worn brass fixtures, throwing long slants of light across the floor that no one seemed eager to stand in. Integra Hellsing stood at the head of the table, posture rigid, suit crisp as ever, her lone visible eye sharp as cut glass. The eyepatch did nothing to soften her expression. If anything, it made the cold, hawk-like intensity of her stare more unbearable for the men seated before her. One gloved hand braced against the table, the other folded tight at her side, she stood still enough to make the air around her feel thin. The quiet hum of conversation in the room dipped low, like even that much noise might draw her attention for the wrong reasons.

Seras sat two seats down, her uniform crisp, hair pulled back tight enough to seem like she had something to prove. There was a lightness to her expression that hadn't been there in weeks, the corners of her mouth lifted in a way that flirted with real cheer. She leaned forward with her elbows on the table, eyes bright, her tone easy when she spoke. "You look sharp as always, sir." The compliment landed with more warmth than teasing, but still enough to draw a slight, almost imperceptible pull at the corner of Integra's mouth. Not a smile, not quite, but close enough that it flickered and disappeared before anyone else could catch it.

The room stirred with low voices and the scrape of chair legs shifting against polished stone, the quiet weight of waiting stretching thinner with each passing minute. Papers rustled, silver pens clicked against notepads, the muted clink of a tea cup meeting saucer broke the hush near the far end of the table. Conversations drifted in cautious half-whispers, none of them brave enough to grow louder than the steady tick of the wall clock above the door. Every sound felt sharper in the stillness, like the whole manor had taken a breath and was holding it, waiting for the Vatican's arrival to pull the pin on whatever this day was going to become.

Sir Penwood III shifted back in his chair with the lazy sprawl of someone too young to know better, his sharp navy suit immaculate, gold cufflinks catching the morning light every time he adjusted his sleeves like he wanted people to notice. "So," he said, voice cutting through the quiet with an ease that bordered on careless, "what's the wager? Are they here to posture, or are they actually going to play nice for once?" His words floated out smooth and amused, but underneath, there was a flicker of something more deliberate, a man testing the mood of the room before deciding how sharp his next remark should be.

A low snort answered him from farther down the table, one of the older lords shaking his head with the weary resignation of a man who had sat through too many Vatican meetings to find humor in any of it. "With Iscariot? Civil isn't in their vocabulary," he muttered, his voice a rough scrape, worn down by years and too many dead colleagues. The chuckle that followed was dry, almost brittle, a sound that didn't reach anyone's eyes. A few others joined in, soft and short-lived, like the laughter was something they needed to get out of their lungs before the doors opened and all humor became a liability.

A woman near the center of the table, dark auburn hair pinned back with surgical precision, tapped her fingers in a slow, restless rhythm against the polished wood. Her gaze stayed fixed on the far doors, sharp and calculating, like she was already rehearsing her first line of defense. "They've never come at us directly before," she said, her tone flat but edged with something cold. "Not like this. Not with a formal summons and no accusations upfront." Her nails clicked once, deliberate. "Feels like they're setting the table for something bigger."

A few at the table let out quiet, knowing sounds, not quite laughter, but close enough to pass for it. The kind of noise that filled space without offering agreement or denial. Hellsing's history didn't leave much room for clean reputations, and everyone in the room knew it. The organization ran on secrets and sleepless nights, and even the newer members, still green around the edges, understood that there were truths buried in this house no one put to paper. The Vatican might have come sniffing, but they weren't wrong to assume something rotten waited under the floorboards.