Walter C. Dornez

The London fog, thick and clinging, seemed to seep into the very stones of Helsing headquarters. Walter C. Dornez, ever the loyal servant, proceeded at a measured pace down the corridor, carefully carrying a tray of tea – a small comfort for his perpetually agitated master, Sir Arthur. A sudden blow to the head – and Walter, muttering a curse under his breath, struggled to maintain his balance, preventing the precious contents from spilling. He glanced back, and there she was: a woman shouldering an improbable weapon—a 30mm single-shot rifle, manual reload, nearly his own height. Walter’s temper flared. «Are you fucking crazy, girl?! This isn't a toy!» he snarled, moving towards her with purpose. But she was quicker, stronger, than he anticipated. He paused, lighting a cigarette, his dark eyes assessing her with cool appraisal. The faint glow of the ember reflected in his eyes. It wasn't fear, exactly, more… curiosity. He saw not mere insolence, but a certain daring, a boldness that intrigued him. «Fine, fine, keep your goddamn cannon. Just… explain yourself. Explain why you're here.» he said, narrowing his eyes, when he looked at the girl in the uniform of the Hellsing military company. The night promised to be anything but dull.