Depth Perception

Disclaimer: I don't own Pokémon or Hellsing, quite obviously, or I wouldn't be writing fan fiction about either of them. They belong to Nintendo and mangaka Kouta Hirano respectively, and I don't intend on any money-making from this work; this is simply for fun. Aside from that, anything that certainly doesn't sound canon to the Pokémon games or to the manga's canon more-than-likely was my idea. And… I think that covers the copyright issues. This is rated PG-13 for some blood, touching upon the subject of religion by a non-Catholic character, generalized ass-kicking, and… oh, whoopsies, language of course! This fic is also rated "FTA" for "Freakin' Tough Accents [to decipher]" and "UC" for some random, undead craziness. Thus, enjoy the fic, and don't forget to throw away your popcorn buckets on the way out of the theater exits!




















The train rolled into the Roman station around twelve-thirty post meridian, local time—at least, that's what the conductor claimed as I caught him by the sleeve of his oh-so-finely pressed, navy jacket and pushed an answer out of his mouth. I didn't much care for this train ride, and I didn't much care for the conductor either— stupid, portly human with a thick Italian accent. Rather unceremoniously, I let the conductor go and wiped some dried drool from the corner of my mouth, clearly disgusting the elderly couple across the aisle from me and my happy little seat.

This train ride, or series of them really, leading from Switzerland all the way to Italy certainly had not been too enjoyable. Oh, sure, the scenery was great for anyone with an artistic eye for European countryside; but my particular trek across mountains, plains, valleys, and hills in a steel box however was plagued by crying babies, snoring men just behind my head, and chatty older folk. Well, at least this one old hunk of steel had arrived at its appointed destination, with me in one piece and my sanity barely intact.

After further unceremonious social exchanges, primarily in the form of "hurry up, bloody Italians" in my own accented English and "shut up, damned Irish woman" in local Italian, my small amounts of luggage and I found ourselves out on the platform of the train station. The smell of oil, smoke, and general human stench immediately overtook my poor nostrils as I began to unhappily make my way out of the area to find the nearest taxi to take me to a hotel. Ugh, how horrid. I was not even five minutes in Rome, and I already disliked the place.

Secretly, I was hoping that the folks upstairs were correct in their assumptions that Rome was actually a very beautiful city; not that I was here for the sight-seeing and tourist traps, of course. Simply put, I was here on business, just like quite a few other folks on this hunk of rock—or would water have been more appropriate…?

An army of Roman taxis, all snow white and showing off their signs in matching black and white tones, moved alongside the pavement as I stood outside the entrance of the station. The generalized stench of the place had lowered itself somewhere between the platform and the front, but it still irked my senses to a point. No matter; I was bound to be in an equally smelly, if varied in stench, car soon enough.

"Taxi! Taxi!" My cries didn't hail any of the damned things, nor did any of them consider slowing down yet. They simply passed me by, bearing other people on their way deeper into Italy's capital. Damn it, this was just like in New York City! "Oh, b' tha' way, why don't ya? Damned pieces o' junk… TAXI! Poich' il amore di dio, fermata!!" I snapped out in rough, slightly accent-butchered Italian as my free hand shot out into the air. That little outburst, to my complete amusement, made a few heads turn to stare in my direction; I supposed that mentioning their god in vain, especially in this city, wasn't such a dandy idea.

Almost apologetically, I sheepishly smiled and waved the onlookers off as I tried to apologize in a verbal manner. "Mio scusare…" A rather dull sigh escaped my lips as the locals turned away to their own business, clearly not pleased with my attention-snagging outburst. That moment of dull annoyance for me did not last long, fortunately; one of those white taxis slowed to a stop, and the trunk popped open just for my luggage. Finally, I would be on my way once again, like I so needed to do.




"Where are you heading?" The middle-aged, balding Italian, known to my conscious as "Signore Russo", glanced at my face via the rear view mirror and arched a black brow my way. I was seated in the back of his black cushioned taxi, partially amazed by the vanilla smell permeating the air. That had to be the fault of an air freshener on said mirror. Pulling my tired gaze away from the window and the buildings we passed by, I locked his brown gaze in my green one and arched a brown eyebrow right back.

"Hn? Me, Signore? I'm not entirely sure yet; I was whisked away t' Rome wit'out a chance at some real preparations. Er, d' ya know o' any good 'otels I could stay at? I'll even pay ya extra for th' aid." Russo looked back at the road and sat there in silence for a few seconds, apparently contemplating my answer and question. Without too much hesitation, thank the Gods, he slowly nodded in agreement and began to turn onto a different road.

"Alright then, it's a deal. Now, let's see here…" As I tapped the violin case to my left out of slight boredom, my mind couldn't help but conjure the idea that Russo's mind was making a mental map of the city, a la hologram—quite a task, from the maps I had the honor to glance over on the train ride. The taxi driver screwed up his slightly pudgy face in some pretty hard thinking before he glanced up at my face through the mirror. If he had a positive answer, he must've been a savant—that was much quicker than I anticipated. "The Starhotels Michelangelo is a very nice place to stay; it has a high ranking by the guests, and on the plus, it's right next to the Vatican." That certainly grabbed my attention. I tilted my head up a bit more to show how attentive I suddenly was and cleared my throat to speak.

"Th' Vatican, ya say? As in the Vatican City? Th' Pope?"

"The one and only."

"D' they allow pets, this 'otel?"

My next question caused my driver to make a most quizzical expression, and he glanced about himself as we sat at the red light. He was busy assuming from what I could see that I owned a small pet, and that it was busy running around on the floor of his dear vehicle. A bemused, gentle laugh flowed out from my mouth while my head shook back and forth towards his confusion. "No, no, they aren't 'ere wit' me, Signore! I'm 'avin' 'em flown in from England in a couple o' days," I was happy to explain to him, if it would get the man to pay attention to the road again. Although odd to most people I spoke with, that answer seemed to quell Russo's confusion just a bit. Wiping sweat off of his reddened brow with the back of his polo shirt, he hit the pedal once more and drove us along in traffic towards our destination.

"Ah, yes, they do; small pets, from what I remember."

"Wonderful, Signore! This is great news. Thank ya very much for yer 'elp."

He slowly nodded once again and turned right onto another street, whose sign "Via Della Stazione Di San Pi". By the Gods, what a name, I couldn't resist thinking as the taxi continued to roll down the street. Peering between the driver and front passenger seats, my greying eyes caught sight of the object of my initial attention a few minutes ago. The large, cream colored dome of Basilica of Saint Peter dominated the skyline like a domed alien spaceship. Even from the distance we were at the time, I could see its ornate design with enough detail to be quite impressed—for a foreigner in the least. I was overcome with the urge to ogle at, which I did with no shame as Russo pulled up by my hotel. That large dome, the rest of the Basilica, and the beings inside it—my initial reasons for being here—were attracting my artist's eye already like a moth to the flame; it was enough for my driver to tap me on the shoulder, just for the sake of bringing me back from my mind's wanderings.

"I understand that you must enjoy the sights, being a tourist and all, but we're here," he chuckled at me. One thick hand motioned over his shoulder towards a brick structure I was able to label "hotel"; a further view towards the sky yielded a sign marked "Starhotels Michelangelo". Indeed, this was the place we were looking for tourism-wise, but that dome… for my business in Rome, I was truly searching for it.




The red lights of the bedside table's alarm clock glared twenty-after-three, although I felt like I'd been in Rome for much longer than a couple of hours. By this time in the day, I had not even begun to unpack my somewhat small suitcase. Instead, my bare feet were propped up on its black leather surface in the single-most nonchalant manner ever formed by the human body. Anyone who would dare walk into the room would first be met with a pair of forest green socks… and then they'd meet my face, if I didn't throw a Bible at their heads for entering somehow without knocking first.

Although most of my form looked fairly laid back, I was actually busy with something else that included my hands, mouth, and this device I heard was called a cellular device—a "cell phone" for the lazy speakers. One elbow was propped upon the cherry wood, cream upholstered chair I had pulled up near my bed, and caught between my fingers was the black calling device.

For the few minutes it took to ring, I lazily scanned my current surroundings from a sheer lack of anything to do. It was a fairly nice little guest room; hard wood floors made up for solid ground and held up several kinds of furniture. A two-person bed with wooden head and foot boards stuck out with its beige and dark green striped covers and cream sheets. Across from the bed sat a wooden dresser that matched the floors—which was littered with my smaller possessions, like any good traveler should do. The floors gave away to cream colored walls, and near the door was a tiny alcove that led to a rather nice looking bathroom in the same colorations and designs as the main room. The French doors to the balcony were opened currently, allowing a nice breeze to blow in. All in all, the room suited my tastes.

Beside my left ear, the phone made a garbled clicking sound as someone on the other line picked up the phone. Bloody hell, that took them long enough, I couldn't resist but think up as my brows furrowed; these calls were bloody expensive, after all. What was I made out of—Italian liras? Thank the Gods; that reminded me that I had yet to exchange my Swiss francs in the hotel's lobby.

"Hello! You've reached Heaven & Hell Extermination Company. This is Ellen. How may I help you?" a woman's thick English accent—Cockney I think—floated out from the receiver. Cringing some, simply because I was having issues deciphering the words, I cleared my throat and took a couple of seconds to decipher what she had just stated. Obviously, I had not listened to the greeting lines of the company enough times.
"Uh, Ellen, good… mornin', is it? Is th' boss there?"

"Oooh, good morning, Angel!" Ellen beamed back at my voice, probably smiling like a circus clown on her end of the line. Sensing that a headache was creeping towards my brainstem, I grunted back a tad harsher than I had intended, "Wha' did I tell ya 'bout callin' me 'Angel'?! Oi! Is th' boss there or not?" The line fell into silence just long enough to force my jaw to clench in annoyance. Fortunately for both Ellen's sake and mine, the woman shortly answered back in a rush, "Oh, aye, aye, he's in. I'll put you on hold now and go find him!"

I had never met "the boss" in person before, actually. I had only heard his voice over the phone once before, literally, although he sounded like a good enough man. He was addressed at fancy social gatherings as "Lord Arthur James Wilkinson", only son of some wealthy English couple. All three lived just outside of London, as the family had for centuries before Lord Wilkinson's time.

He ran some kind of bounty hunter's organization and had a strange habit of poking fun at his own religion, Christianity—that probably explained the company's rather odd name. I currently worked for him, spiriting myself away to wherever the boss needed me to be at any give time of the year. It was an okay job; the hours were more radical than a raging fanatic, but the pay was bloody fantastic. That was enough to keep me in the business, as far as anyone else could see.

"Ah, 'Angel', good morning!"

"Oh by the Gods, you as well, Sir…?" Groaning in frustration, I placed my free hand upon my temples and began to slowly massage the skin. If only I could will the headache away, I'd be in Heaven. Lord Wilkinson's calm, somewhat deep voice snapped me back to attention as the man began to chuckle into the receiver.

"I'm horribly sorry, Miss Williams—this new nickname of yours is spreading like wildfire around the office," he apologized as politely as he could, causing my conscious to perk up at one new revelation. The boss had a sense of amicable humor. Maybe that would make meeting him in public a tad more enjoyable, when that time was to come to fruition.

"Oi, sure, sorry indeed ya are, Sir. Look, I'm 'ere in Rome, like ya asked. Bloody 'ell, did ya 'ave t' g' an' request my presence 'ere in th' bloody middle o' m' breakfast?" I hissed back, stringing my words together faster than I truly meant to. Just as it had occurred with Ellen, Lord Wilkinson grew rather silent before quietly muttering, "Could you repeat that, Miss Williams? I'm usually good at catching your accent, but this time…" I had to take a deep to avoid yelling back into the receiver.

"I. Am. Here. In. Rome. Like. YOU. Asked," I repeated, making sure to try to annunciate my words just for him. The sounds of a human's realization met my ears as my boss "mhm"ed and began to shuffle some papers about on his end of things.

"Why can't you do that more often, Miss Williams? It would make things easier for us," the man answered back, only to add on before I could even think of retorting with the fact that I liked my accent, "Did you receive the files in Switzerland?" What files? I didn't remember any files—ah, wait; I had packed them away in my smaller bag before leaving for Italy. My head pivoted to the right, forcing my eyes to lock onto one of those goldenrod colored file things whose name escaped me for the moment; it was the kind with the little brass fastener that kept items closed or locked into place. For the time being, the file was open, though its contents remained safe and sound inside.

"Yeah, I got 'em, boss. I was glancin' at 'em on th' way over 'ere, but I got bored an' put 'em back. Er, are ya sure I should b' workin' on this particular mission, boss? Assassination ain't m' kind o' thing…."

"Of course I am certain, Miss Williams; out of all of us within this organization, you're the most equipped for the job. And aside from that, you could interject yourself easier into the place than we ever could."

"Well played, Sir," I chuckled back, a tad more amicable in attitude as my headache began to slowly recede. "Grey King t' E1; checkmate! Is this all ya need from me at this time?"

"Indeed, that shall be all for now, Miss Williams. Send your reports every three to four days, or when you find the proper time. Is this understood?" Although he could not see it, I slowly nodded my head and added in verbally, "But of course, Milord. Shall do."

"Good. Oh, and Miss Williams? Try to relax and enjoy Rome's sights while you're there. You were wound up tighter than my nephew's yo-yo last time you were in London."

"Ah, o-o' course… understood, sir," I muttered back sheepishly as my face began to grow warm. He was specifically referring to August's monthly meeting earlier in the year—in a fit of inhuman-induced agitation, I broke my chair when the subject of torture came up on the list of topics to discuss; my chair was probably as mutilated as a maimed body in a torture chamber—there's poetic justice for you, I suppose.

The line clicked in a matter of seconds and died like a heart that had just flatlined. My own cell phone's connection was cut short with the push of a button as I began to rise so I could unpack my neglected belongings. Shortly, with the cell phone safely tucked away into my coat pocket, I listened to the clicks of my luggage as it was pried open like a pirate with his blessed treasure chest. I was a little more relaxed now, given the fact that no one from the company was bound to bother me from a few days. Further on the plus side of life, my headache had faded away to a tiny but dull roar.

Inside the black suitcase were all the essentials of one's average traveler. A few sweaters and jeans were tucked away from the colder climates of my former destination, with only one or two proper outfits for Rome's mild winters stuffed inside. My current outfit of a violet sweater and grey slacks would not suffice here, but no matter—I was due for a new outfit nonetheless, and perhaps shopping could "unwind me" like the boss wanted. Shoes, socks, clean bras and underwear sat in some side pockets along the top half of my bag. It was not these sets of items which caught my attention first.

Nestled upon one of my thicker sweaters were two belts that were much too small to fit around even an anorexic person's waist. Composed of the same black leather as my current belt of choice, they possessed silver buckles to hold themselves together when I needed to wear them around my upper forearms. A small, sly grin began to etch itself onto my face as I gingerly picked up one of the belts and turned it over to look at its underside. "Ah, so they want me t' use these, d' they?" I mused to myself before widening that smile into a grin at what my eyes saw when I turned the belt over. "This shall prove t' b' a very interestin' mission indeed then…"

Resting in small, metallic-violet cups were three tiny spheres with bi-colored northern and southern hemispheres; most of them were red and silver. Carefully, I plucked one of the small spheres with my thumb and index fingers and held it up in the mid-afternoon sunlight. My face could not help but widened my grin from ear-to-ear at the prize in my clutches…. By the Gods, this was going to be a wild assignment….


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So there you have it; chapter one's done, finally. Feel free to leave critiques/reviews, of course if you'd like; I'd love some feedback, especially since I haven't done any serious writing in a long while. And, eheh, if you're really like, I'd be more than happy to translate the narrator's accent, seeing as some folks have issues deciphering it. I'm probably branching out on a somewhat thin limb anyway by adding in her canonical-accent anyway.

This is why I say not to change the font color.

Because...yeah. x.x When people are using a light-colored skin, white font makes baby Jesus cry. (For real fun, have a look at your thread using the skin "Unseen Forces". I just tried it and lol'd.)

I'll give you a review at some point, but right now I just want to point out that the font color needs to change.

Augh, drat, I was afraid this would happen...

Apologies, Astinus, truely; I c/p'd from Microsoft word (which was in black font coloration at the time), and I was attempting to get it all to default... obviously, that failed miserablly. *scratches her head* Perhaps I should've just typed it all up (copy-typing, of course, so I don't loose my work should the browser decide to close) in the posting box so it wouldn't mess anything up. Drat. *tries to fix the mess*

EDIT: I think I have the problem fixed now.

A Pokemon/Hellsing crossover fic? I can't say too much on the Hellsing aspect, since I've never looked much into that fandom, but as for mechanics and Pokemon, I've had experience.

I really liked the little bit of chitchat at the beginning. I'm not sure if that is typical of Hellsing fics or not, but it served as a good introduction to the fiction.

I also liked the broken English/accent/whatever it was. It made me feel like the character was more substantial, even though I have never personally met someone with that sort of accent. Kind of gave it a mystical quality, in my opinion.

Your grammar was good throughout this with few mistakes. I would do a full review right now, but I should be sleeping as I have class and work tomorrow.

I will give one piece of advice though. I noticed that you fixed it, but for future reference, if you want to remove any formatting, there's a button for it on your posting console. In quick reply, it is the button with two "A's", one of them crossed out and slightly transparent and the A in the foreground solid. That should get rid of any colors/bad fonts you find in the future.

EDIT: It is actually in the same spot in both. Top left hand corner of the console is where you will find it. Hope that helps :)

I absolutely suck at in-depth reviews, especially for fictions that are so well-written, so let me just say that me + Hellsing + Pokemon fiction crossover = me addicted. It's like crack, only in text form. 8D

The only thing I can suggest is that you put quotations around the dialog centered at the top of the story. Might do yours readers some good so we can tell the speakers apart a bit better.

Other than that, it looks good. Is your main character modeled after Seras Victoria, or just completely original? xP The way she acts just kinda... I don't know, reminded me of her for some reason.


Um, please PM me for the next installment, if you can...? (I don't frequent these forums too often, but I'm hoping to change that eventually). So hopefully I'll get the email alert fr the PM thing if you update while I'm gone... thanks.

~ Azurne

Azurne said:

I absolutely suck at in-depth reviews, especially for fictions that are so well-written, so let me just say that me + Hellsing + Pokemon fiction crossover = me addicted. It's like crack, only in text form. 8D

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YAY FANFIC CRACK. Oh gods, I could write a parody on that, couldn't I? Anyway, glad to see someone so enthusiatic about this particular crossover. :D

The only thing I can suggest is that you put quotations around the dialog centered at the top of the story. Might do yours readers some good so we can tell the speakers apart a bit better.

Click to expand...

Yeah, I know. I had some bold+italic vs italic for each speaker's lines, but I was too lazy to add those in last night after fixing my text-color issue. Yes, I admit it! I was lazy!! However, I think I'll add my emphasis things back in now that I'm back from school....

Other than that, it looks good. Is your main character modeled after Seras Victoria, or just completely original? xP The way she acts just kinda... I don't know, reminded me of her for some reason.

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Completely original, if one ignores the fact that I have 1,000,000 versions of this character laying around in IN-CHARACTERLAND. Ahem, so, no, she's not modeled after Seras... intentionally, at least. o_o;

Um, please PM me for the next installment, if you can...? (I don't frequent these forums too often, but I'm hoping to change that eventually). So hopefully I'll get the email alert fr the PM thing if you update while I'm gone... thanks.

~ Azurne

Click to expand...

Although I'd suggest just subscribing to the thread, I certainly have no issues with PMing updates to you (especially since I'm sure you don't want to sift through one-hundred subscribe-posts, only to find that there is no update to be had).

Two days passed on in the blink of two eyes instead of one, although they were bleak and totally uneventful. It appeared that my boss' advice about relaxing had failed to take effect the moment I found time to myself, but that was of no great hindrance to my mood or plans. I was busy going back over the various files and papers in my possession anyway, along with awaiting a package that was suppose to arrive from Switzerland on my heels. At this current rate, it was more on my tracks than on my heels.

Fortunately, I kept boredom at bay just long enough to toss on a light sweater and a pair of those jeans I adored so much and head out into the streets of Rome. Just like the weather reports had stated, it was going to be a cloudy and rainy Thursday; luckily, the rain was somewhat light, but I still forced my navy umbrella to tag along for the day. One never quite knows when those may come in handy, after all. A map always came in handy as well, although I had a slight problem with mine. I had a very vague idea of where I was and where I wanted (and needed) to go. Unfortunately, I couldn't make sense of this map at all, for some reason. Maybe it was because my Italian wasn't strong or that I was not a very good map reader for the life of me; somehow, I doubted that last one was true.

Still, I took my time in wandering down the streets near my hotel, taking in the sights and sounds of the city like any good tourist does. However, something caught my mind's eye a mere half of a block from the hotel; we were really, really close to Saint Peter's Basilica from what I could see over my shoulder. Surely the Starhotels Michelangelo is not within the Vatican City itself, I mused as, like some idiotic visitor, I began to walk backwards so as to get a better view of the astounding dome structure looming over some buildings. Doesn't that mean I'll have to go through customs or something like that? Oh dear; that particular thought forced me to realize that this would prove to be a little more interesting than I had first anticipated. My intentions weren't to cross customs twice in one place…




Fortune blessed me with a keen eye and a great distaste for long shopping trips that involve clothing, or so I'd like to personally think. My endeavor to find some lighter clothing for the oncoming mild Italian winter had gone as expected, perhaps so Fate could spite me; it was long, boring, and possessed more trips upon a tram than I was willing to attempt ever again in my lifetime. I had endured the train ride into Rome, so was that not enough? I suppose not, but at least the afternoon was looking a little brighter.

One of my stops in Rome, which didn't belong to the line of "clothing" at all, was a lovely little café in the Trastevere district of Rome; nestled right along the bank of the Tiber River, it appeared to be a fairly old and packed with character. It was aging, yet it possessed a great sense of European character that had probably existed for centuries before my humble little arrival. The Trastevere district was also packed with all sorts of places for tourists to poke their heads into. This included local restaurants, of course; many years of travelling and my fate-given keen eye easily helped me avoid most tourist traps. After all, "when in Rome, do as the Romans do", no?

A small bell overhead and the sounds of many Italian conversations (along with the occasional non-local dialects mixed in) ahead met my ears as I pushed open the door leading into my destination. Any person appreciative of the arts or asked to write an essay on the café might have picked "rustic Roman" as their key choice of words. Beneath my boots was a floor composed of what seemed to be light brown and beige flagstone instead of the wooden panels I expected; chairs of wood and cream colored fabrics sat upon the floors with small tables that seated up to four people at a time dotted the area. The smell of freshly made food struck my nostrils almost without warning, and that forced my stomach to grumble at me about the fact that I needed to eat some of this delicious food.

Ergo, with a smile upon my face, I allowed myself to find a seat and enjoy the view of a large window looking out onto the streets and old photographs from years before to capture my attention before a good meal.




Lunch was rather uneventful, actually. If one ignored the fact that in the kitchens, a waiter dropped an order of coffee, everything ran fairly smoothly in this lovely little café. I was sure to make this one of my frequent stops for a meal outside of the hotel, even if ordering took a good five minutes thanks to my poor language skills. Having accomplished the task of finishing off both my Pizza alla Romana—as there was nothing better to my tastes than a good pizza— and Crostata di Ricotta, cheesecake with candied fruits in it from what I could tell, I paid for my meal and began to head for the door so I could be on my merry way. A full stomach made for a pleasant agent, after all.

A few feet short of entering the outside environment, something else caught my attention. Another large crash, this time someone's actual meal from the sounds of it, resonated throughout the open space that made up the building's main dining area. As I supposed any normal person would do, I twisted my head to the right a bit so I could see what had gone on; it was like looking at a car wreck—you probably don't want to look, but you can't help yourself. And, if I had been driving in such a situation, trouble would've followed my wandering gaze. Oddly enough, as if the café and a car wreck were two truly paralleled realities, trouble did indeed seem to catch up with me.

Before I realized what had happened, I felt my exiting body hit something rather thick and collapse onto the floor. My fall wasn't a particularly dramatic one as it was embarrassing, simply because I landed right on my rear. Later on, I would find the fact that I still held my bags in my hands amusing—however, for the time being, I wasn't so jovial. Grunting in a small amount of dull aches and pains, I craned my neck skyward and found my green gaze staring up at another's matching set of eyes.

"Ye a'right thar, lass?" Oh dear, what a thick accent that was. Squinting up at the large, looming figure above, I stole a few seconds' silence to allow a rather thick, Irish accent to penetrate my conscious. Ah, wait; he had inquired as to my well being. Grunting out something along the lines of, "I think so", I began to pull myself to my feet, only to feel a large hand on my right forearm help lift me up off the ground. Now that I was better situated, I was able to comprehend who I had bumped into in the first place. I didn't exactly like what I saw, either.

He was large, burly, Catholic priest from the beginning glance. Fair skinned and definitely not of Italian decent, he was a blond haired man with what seemed to be a fairly alright disposition; I could sense that given his almost immediate aid to my little trip rear-first. To the contrary of his attitude, whoever this man was, he had a rather rough appearance about himself. His face held a heavyset square jaw covered in stubble with a long scar along the left side of his cheek leading up to his eyes. Those were a lovely green shade and rather commanding in gaze, yet they hid behind round wire framed glasses. Overall, with his black attire, white collar, and tan coat, plus that air of what I guessed to be scholarly, he fit the bill of a priest well. The only thing that seemed to be on the contrary was his muscular nature—I could not explain for the life of me why that seemed unlike a priest, but I tried not to dwell on that for too long.

"Augh, apologies for backin' int' ya, Father," I announced with a small nod of my head before being forced to stare up at him; by the Gods, he was a tall man!

"Nay, it b' a'right, lass; was nothin' more than a simple accident," the priest replied back as he placed his hand by his side again. I couldn't help but nod in agreement, although I really should've been watching where I was going.

"Aye, well, no 'ard feelin's, eh?" I asked back in a rather sheepish voice as one hand extended in an offer to shake the priest's. He too nodded in agreement and shook mine in a grip that almost bordered upon "crushing". I ended up hating my own offering.

I could not explain at that time why, but I felt a very strong sense of "wrong" as our gloved hands connected. It was as if a strong empathic psychic had opened a gateway between our connected bodies, but for those flickering seconds, I felt cold. It was as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice water on top of my form, and I found myself involuntarily shuddering. The priest's suddenly concerned, "Are ye sure yer a'right, lass?" penetrated my conscience, and it was then that I barely managed to pull my hand free from his own.

"H-hm? Me? Ah… aye, I'm fine, Father. I really must b' goin' now," I answered him back, almost unable to hide the undertone of worry in my voice. Although he seemed doubtful, the unnamed priest inclined his head slowly in agreement and gave me a friendly, toothy smile. I doubted he really was that pleased.

"Very well then, lass; take care, an' may th' Lord b' wit' ye."
"Aye, an' may—," I caught the words "the Gods" early in my throat and was swift to replace them with, "—God b' wit' ya as well, Father. Good afternoon."




I rounded the corner and found myself on Via Della Stazione Di San Pi. My hotel was in plain sight, although I was in no hurry to arrive back in my room. My mind was having a great difficulty shaking the sense of "wrong" I felt when shaking the large, still nameless priest's hand. I did not gain a feeling like that often, and more than once had such a feeling preceded trouble for my well being. If anything, that cold and numb sensation followed their work; I didn't feel like dealing with Hellion beings again, to be certain. No, no, if anything, what I had to deal with in my line of work was the last thing upon my mind.

What worried me further was why a priest was out on a day like this. I admit, I had lacked previous knowledge of the clergy at the time and how Catholicism worked. Still, that did not keep thoughts of something amiss out of my mind as I entered the lobby of the Starhotels Michelangelo. He was a priest though, and if my anxiety wasn't busy playing with my head, I would've thought that he was either taking a break from his God's work or was on business—apparently cafés were used as places of business meetings after all.

So why was this cloud of foreboding feelings still looming over me as the afternoon turned to evening, hours after my run-in with the man…?




The clock ticked past eight-o'-one as I sat upon my sole bed, carefully eyeing two of the dual-colored spheres in my possession. Their metallic red and silver surfaces gleamed in the yellow light of the bedside lamp, and I could not help myself as I fingered a small white button in the middle of their sides. Not all six of these objects, about the size of ping-pong balls, were of the same color.

One was pure silver with a strip of red running along the equator; one possessed a blue northern hemisphere and had two small protrusions in red on the top sides; similar to it was one more with three prongs on top instead of two, plus a black upper-half. Last but not least was another black and silver sphere; its sole distinguishing feature was a golden "H" imprinted on the northern part of its ebon surface.

Where I'm from, we called them Poké Balls collectively; they came in various colors and designs, and each held a specific purpose. They were all special to me, but the best part was what was contained inside. Holding up the two in my hands, simply named Poké Balls by themselves, I began to shake with anticipation while my thumbs continued to graze over the buttons that were taunting me so badly to let what was held within out.

The action never truly crossed my mind as, almost by pure instinct, I began to press the white buttons on each and everyone. By the good graces of amazing technology, all six expanded to the sizes of baseballs. As each one finished expanding to full size, I tossed them out towards the rug in front of my bed. Further by the graces of good technology, the spheres opened up and began to unleash their quarry in small flashes of white light.

Shortly, I found myself staring at the sight of my entire team of Pokémon. The ever dog-esque sparking Jolteon and cool Vaporeon stretched out next to each other on the floor and sat down with blank looks to their black eyes. To the Jolteon's left, my Vulpix sat down and curled up against the other canine's spiked yellow side. Her own left side was flanked by my "personal gladiator", a green and white Gallade; as usual, he was standing tall and playing the part of a loyal sentry well enough. He was very much unlike the last two members of my own team. I could already tell this was about to be a fun night, as the dark violet Haunter and blue Gliscor "funny man" pair were hugging each other and on the verge of cheering for freedom's sake. Thankfully, the Gallade shut them both up before we could all be heard.

"Ah, good evenin', everyone," I greeted their somewhat cheery faces brightly while one hand rose up in a lazy, American salute. An assortment of human and animalistic greetings alike answered back my first words to them for this day. Words did not pass from my lips for another minute, as much as they probably all wanted to hear my voice once more. A few deep breaths escaped before I bothered to look all six of the Pokémon in the eyes again, and from my serious look, they all knew I immediately meant business.

"Apologies for allowin' th' lot o' ya out wit'out th' joys o' a group 'ug or anythin'—"
"A group what?" the Haunter interrupted, only to earn a light whack from his Gliscor friend.

"Hug, damn ya, Taunter," I hissed through clenched teeth in an effort to further reiterate that I meant serious business. The group quieted down and stood still as I nodded to the unopened file still seated on the window-side table. Another deep breath passed my lips again.

"We 'ave work t' d', everyone; an' this time, it isn't goin' t' b' a walk in th' park like last adventure in New York. This time, we're dealin' wit' Lord Giratina's folk."

It was as if I had been speaking to a group of humans, according to their reactions. A hushed murmur fell over the team. I rose from the bed and strode over to the file in question and hoisted it from where it lay. Slowly, I turned back upon my heel and planted both feet firmly on the floor as my gaze grew as cold as glass on a winter's day. All six pairs of eyes shifted to the file in my right hand. Realization collectively dawned upon their faces as they all realized that this was no job from Lord Wilkinson's little bounty hunting group—this was a true-blue, serious job; thank the Gods we were so good at our jobs in the first place.

Like a spider on a wall, a smile and approving smile began to creep onto my lips. I managed to capture their attentions, and now it was time to unleash the facts and get down to the grit of the matter. I sat down upon the bed once more with the file by my right hip. Once more, a deep and relaxing breath made its way out into the world as I pulled the brass brackets back and opened the file again. Sheets of paper were easily slid loose from inside yellow walls. Two fingers and a thumb held up the cover sheet for my team to see, and a collective gasp from most of its members drifted through the air.

"Agreed; this is very serious business indeed...."

The train rolled into the Roman train station around twelve-thirty post meridian, local time

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Interesting opening, but first off, the repetition of the word "train" here feels a little bit redundant. Maybe just say "Roman station"?

Also, it's perfectly okay to abbreviate times like "12:30 PM, local time." You really don't have to be so formal. O_o

I didn't much care for this train ride, and I didn't much care for the conductor either; stupid, portly human with a thick Italian accent.

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Try a dash instead of a semicolon. Semicolons really are only used in either lists in which each item already contains a comma or in compound sentences.

Ugh, how horrid; not five minutes in Rome, and I was already disliking the place.

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Oddly enough, this is actually a run-on. The reason why is because before the semicolon, you have an exclamation. Right after it, you have a fragment that technically serves as a substitute for the sentence, "It hadn't been more than five minutes in Rome," and it leads into a compound anyway. So, you'll want to consider replacing the semicolon with a period.

"Signore Russo",

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Comma inside the quotation marks, actually. If you're going with the American style of grammar (which I'm just assuming you are until I hit a "colour" or something and then back off), periods and commas are always inside, regardless of what you're doing with the quote.

Also, hit the enter key after you're done with the dialogue tag, especially if you're leading into a paragraph of action or description. The reason why I say this is because you're technically changing paragraphs from what a character's saying to what he (or multiple people) are doing.

"Th' Vatican, ya say? As in Vatican City? Th' Pope?"
"The one and only."
"D' they allow pets, this 'otel?"

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You'll also want to hit the enter key after each line of dialogue because you're actually creating new paragraphs each time.

whose sign I managed to catch read, "Via Della Stazione Di San Pi".

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I read this aloud, and it sounds a little odd to me. Perhaps just say "whose sign read," given that it's already implied the character managed to catch it?

just for the sake of bringing me back to the land of the living.

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This implies the narrator was nearly dead. O_o

Indeed, this was the place we were looking for, but that dome… I was truly searching for it.

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I'm having a little trouble grasping what you mean here. I think I can gather that the character has been waiting to go to the Basilica, but "I was truly searching for it" just seems odd and contradictory to what was said at the beginning of the sentence.

A two-person bed with wooden head and foot boards, stuck out with its beige and dark green striped covers and cream sheets.

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Comma isn't needed here.

The line clicked in a matter of seconds and died like a heart that had just flatlined.

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As colorful as that image is, I can't help but wonder if it's actually appropriate here. ._.

which caught my interest the best.

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The most.



Overall, this wasn't bad. Other than the few glitches above, I really didn't see too much to note. You do a great job at description to the point where I can really see what's going on most of the time. I really didn't have too much trouble reading through this, to be honest.

Additionally, the character work was well-done. Each one had their own personalities and personality quirks, although I'd like to thank you for not writing the entire fic in Williams' dialect. (I could read it just fine; it's just… yeah.) The interaction between her and Lord Alfred amused me the most, particularly because I could tell Lord Alfred is the kind of person who seems capable of wrapping people around his fingers to get them to bend to his every whim. (Or at least, to the point where Williams didn't seem to mind at all about carrying out his assassination plans.)

That, of course, brings me to the next point. You lead the reader along through the chapter, making them assume they're just reading about a cleaner sort of transaction that's about to happen, and then you drop the word assassination very casually. This, meanwhile, has two effects. First, it makes that conversation all the more amusing, and second, it hits the reader in a way that they're inclined to continue reading to see exactly what happens afterwards with this plan.

In all, yeah, just look over comma and semicolon rules, and consider splitting things into more paragraphs like I mentioned above. And don't be afraid to go with the simpler route of writing things (like the time thing I mentioned in the beginning). Sometimes, it's perfectly kosher. Other than that, I think you're doing fine.

I'll be back to review the second chapter later.

Thanks for the insightful review, Xanthine. You've managed to point out quite a few things that I didn't even catch or realize as I was writing the first chapter. I'll be sure to take those into consideration and fix up what needs to be done. However...

One lil' thing:

"Signore Russo",

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Comma inside the quotation marks, actually. If you're going with the American style of grammar (which I'm just assuming you are until I hit a "colour" or something and then back off), periods and commas are always inside, regardless of what you're doing with the quote.

Also, hit the enter key after you're done with the dialogue tag, especially if you're leading into a paragraph of action or description. The reason why I say this is because you're technically changing paragraphs from what a character's saying to what he (or multiple people) are doing.

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My usage of the quotation marks was not dialogue as much as it was the pointing out of of name... er, the usage I was going for there has a proper term and definition, I'm sure, but I've forgotten it. As stated, it was not dialogue in that case. It was pointing out a nickname within the Narration; as Williams was telling the story, she (in a way?) quoted herself. Ergo, she isn't speaking to anyone but the reader. From what I remember from my language arts classes, in this case the comma goes on the outside of the quotations.

But, I could be totally and utterly wrong here-- I'll admit that. I'm just remember this kind of thing from school (plus, my beta did not point it out, so I did not think much of it). I don't mean to go against your judgment, Xanthine. I'm just stating what I remember as fact... which... might be a little fuzzy in the ole' memory bank.


But as for everything else (and this comma issue, if it turns out I'm as wrong as my memory bank is), it shall all be taken into consideration and fixed up. *nodnods*

DGexe said:

My usage of the quotation marks was not dialogue as much as it was the pointing out of of name...

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Oh, yeah. To clarify, the second paragraph was more of a general note. The first one was trying to say for American grammar, comma goes inside, rather than outside. I really don't know why it's an always sort of thing (regardless of when you use the quotation marks); American-English grammar tends to make less sense than its counterparts elsewhere in the world.

Xanthine said:

Oh, yeah. To clarify, the second paragraph was more of a general note. The first one was trying to say for American grammar, comma goes inside, rather than outside. I really don't know why it's an always sort of thing (regardless of when you use the quotation marks); American-English grammar tends to make less sense than its counterparts elsewhere in the world.

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Because... as my mother put it...

"We bastardized the English language, I'm sure"

Actually, that was because of the proper-sounding tones to British accents... but.... still...

Hey, Xanthine, about Williams' comment to the flatlining-like-a-heart-business; ahem, she has an occasionally morbid sense of humor. Many years around a certain Ghost-Type can do that to a person, apparently... ^^;


EDIT: There we go. I think I've managed to fix all the corrections you pointed out.

DGexe said:

Because... as my mother put it...

"We bastardized the English language, I'm sure"

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Your mother is very wise. *sage nod*

Hey, Xanthine, about Williams' comment to the flatlining-like-a-heart-business; ahem, she has an occasionally morbid sense of humor. Many years around a certain Ghost-Type can do that to a person, apparently... ^^;

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Ah. In that case, it's okay then.

Yay, a week later, and I'm done with chapter 3! I was afraid I had already lost inspiration, but the weekend saved me. So, here it is, installment numero tres! Enjoy!



To Miss Williams and Team;

Your assistance is needed posthaste in the sovereign-state of the Vatican City, encircled by the city of Rome, Italy, upon the continent of Europe, on the planet of Earth.

The folks upstairs always had issues when catching people's attentions when a new assignment reared its ugly head. Even now, with the seriousness of our own new job at hand, my team and I were utterly bored by the wording they always choose to address us lower folks in. Even so late into the evening on that Thursday night, as I tried my best to get things in order for the impending series of troubles our case was bound to bring, this file was utterly boring in its start. It seemed the folks upstairs needed a lesson in good writing skills—they were lacking terribly.

I was seated at the window-side table, trying my best not to look like some college student cramming my work two days before a large final paper was due. Still, I could not help myself as I loomed over the files, with a pad of paper resting on top and a pencil poised in my right hand at the ready for important notes. Room service had been summoned once more to bring up various kinds of food for the team, seeing as the stores in Rome seriously lacked Pokéchow.

Fortunately, because of my bad habits of feeding scraps to Pokémon for most of my life, most of the team had grown accustom to eating human food. But still, the man who brought the food up could not help but give me a funny look at the sight of only myself in the room and six, tiny spheres on the bed. "Who in Christ's name could eat all this food?" I heard the man mutter to himself as he disappeared down the hall.

A letter was intercepted en route to Targoviste, Romania from Pitié, France on the fifth of October. Within this letter was information regarding a former charge of yours by the name of Collin Salieri.

"Is this… pepperoni pizza of yours appetizing, Miss Williams?"

"Th' pizza isn't on m' mind, Regnorik," I muttered back as my gaze remained on the file in question. The Gallade, towering over me at a good six-foot-and-one-inch, slowly eased himself into the chair across from my own and peered down at the papers in question. Unfortunately for himself, I had them in such a neat pile that all he could read was the introductory piece I was skimming over currently. "This report is— we've got some bad trouble on our 'ands, ya know." Regnorik slowly nodded in agreement and folded his arms across his chest, taking heed of the crimson horn sticking through the middle of his upper torso.

According to the letter in question, addressed to Master Salieri from a name signed simply as "Alluvium", stated for the man to detour to Rome and the Vatican City on his way to the South American country of Chile. Alluvium directed Master Salieri to infiltrate the holy city and seek out the current Pope.

"Who's the 'Pope', kiddo?" The low, raspy voice of Taunter interrupted my train of thought once again for this evening, sneaking in like some pesky little fly to get right in my face. In this case, the oddly mis-colored ghost was floating right next to my left ear. Although I was usually very used to such otherworldly interruptions, this time my concentration's disruption caused me to nearly jump out of my chair. That in itself earned Taunter a nasty, disapproving glare from the Gallade across the table.

"Really, Master Taunter, must you be such a pain?" The ghost laughed quietly to himself at mine and Regnorik's matching glares—he even went so far as to hold his side and point at us as he made that raspy racket he called a voice.

"P-perhaps, 'Master' Regnorik, but she still hasn't answered my question!" Before I could stop myself, I allowed a huffing noise to escape my lips as my left hand shot out to smack Taunter upside one of his more prominent head spikes. The poor git didn't even see what hit him, as he reeled back from the strike and grumbled in pain. "O-ow…" I smiled a tad too sweetly for anyone's tastes and began to answer back just as "politely", "Th' Pope, m' fine ethereal twit—"

"—Hey! I'm not a twit!" Of course I was bound to be interrupted.

"… He's th' one in charge o' these… Catholics."

"That religious group Wilk hates so much?"

"… His last name is 'Wilkinson', Taunter, an' e doesn't 'ate Catholics. Not all Protestants 'ate Catholics an' visa versa… just th' fanatics. Now then!" Turning sharply in my chair, I settled the poor thing against the table and scooped up my papers with one hand and the pizza with the other. "I'm still readin'. Get!"

What Alluvium desires concerning the Pope and Master Salieri, we are not entirely sure of. The letter was very brief and obviously withheld important information. An assassination would be our most logical assumption, seeing as Salieri's superior would have nothing to do with either with the Pope's position or with Catholicism. However, this is merely a postulation. After all, we are all aware of how unstable Salieri can be.

What would happen if the Pope was assassinated, if this letter was correct in the first place? Surely it wouldn't be too harsh—the consequences, of course. They could elect a new man for the job, right? If not, there had to be some way to appoint a new pontiff. That fact alone put up enough warning signs in my head to something already being amiss, and I could feel a small headache creeping back into my brainstem once again as I tried to make sense of this passage for a bit longer.

Ergo, Miss Williams, we request that you and your team infiltrate Vatican City before Salieri can do so himself—cut him off at the pass and find out what exactly is going on. Furthermore stop Salieri before he can cause harm to the Order.

Ha, the Order— the Order of things within the Universe, as it was known in more understandable terms… how many times had I heard that in my lifetime: one hundred—one thousand—one million? The mindset of the Seraphic baffled me once again as I carried on with the letter enclosed to me. I had been witness to at least one Order rearranging thread of existence, and I understood its complications to the fabric of the universe's entire existence. And yet, this was more than just a little puzzling. How in the world could one man's death unwind the entire fabric of our being? Especially when that man was of a religion entirely unrelated to ours?

We have already arranged for Lord Wilkinson to help you out whenever and wherever he can, but this Task shall fall mainly upon your shoulders alone. We wish you the best of luck.

Sincerely,
The Seraphic Order

Slowly, I turned the letter over a few times to make sure I had not missed anything. Although my knowledge of Christianity was limited at best, I still recognized the initial dangers to a key player of the religious field when their life was on the line—and on that note, possibly from a source of danger they were not aware of. Even if this really wasn't Order altering, his death could at least be thwarted for the time being. Such a thing might have even gained me a good reputation with a few key people I worked under. Easing the letter back down onto the table, I decided to chew upon my pizza for a few seconds longer before dealing with the next few sheets of paper in my care.

The next few papers turned out to be a very long document concerning the current man in charge of the Papacy. According to the slightly yellowed pages' elegant black ink, his original name was Padraig O'Bryant; his regnal name was Alexander IX, and he was obviously of Irish decent. He became pope three years earlier, at the age of sixty-five. Although originally blonde in color, his hair was grey now; his eyes were still blue as ever according to this file. He was also a staunch Catholic. Great; I was going to protect a man who probably would love to have my eternal soul damned straight to the ninth ring of Hell. Wasn't that bloody wonderful?

With a deep and heaving sigh, I dropped the files back onto the desk and finished off the last couple of bites of my meal. By this point in time, Taunter had rejoined Vladimir by my dresser, where it looked like they were playing poker or something like that. Regnorik had not budged an inch from his seat, although he did make an effort to reach across the table to gently shake my arm.

"Miss Williams?" his voice gently floated across the room, soft spoken as ever. "Do you know how to even go about getting things started on this job?" Whether he was genuinely wanting to know or simply being subtle jerk, I wasn't entirely sure. Still, I at least had the sense to glance over my shoulder to the Gallade and grin weakly at him. My reply sounded a tad sheepish and childish, but at least it was an honest statement; "I'll get t' work on tha', Reggy. This is an odd one, after all"

"Well, you had better hurry—we don't have all the time in the world."

For a few seconds, I just stared at the Psychic and Fighting Pokémon as if he had turned into Giovanni of Team Rocket himself. I didn't even directly respond to the feeling of tiny paws against my pants leg. If this wasn't Stating The Obvious 101, then I had no idea what was.

"… Regnorik, ya really can b' a twit," I finally announced as blunt as possible while my body bent over to gently scoop up Rosiary off the floor. A small, playful chuckle escaped the other's telepathic voice, and I lazily began to stroke the curly reddish-brown head fur of my Vulpix kit. Despite my reaction to how he announced the obvious, he had a very serious point. For all any of us new, Collin was already in the Vatican, doing whatever it was he was supposed to do. However, I did not feel prepared to get right to work, especially tonight.

The evening was interrupted for a while by a knock at the door; firm, yet not too obtrusive, it had the sound of a delivery man. I carefully handed Rosiary over to Regnorik and moved across the wood floors towards the entrance, and as usual it was not an easy move. After all, I had two members of the 'eons and some of my clothing to maneuver around. In spite of that, I managed to make it to the door without landing flat on my face or rear, much to my own delight.

When I opened the door, a young man, black haired and green eyed, grinned at me from behind the crimson attire of a bellhop. We both stared at each other for a few seconds before a grin of my own crept onto my face.

"Daniel! Good evenin' t' ya, m' boy!"

"Good evening, Miss Williams. There's a special delivery for you," the young man announced as he pulled out something long and trapped in a cardboard box. Daniel, simply put, was Wilkinson's third-hand-man. If something needed to be done in another country by the next day, he could be counted on to get it done and over with without a hitch. Obviously, he had been tasked with my very special little delivery for the time being.

"Aye, aye, o' course! Hurry, give me tha' b'fore someone pries in 'ere an' sees it!" I announced perhaps a tad too rudely. My hands reached out for the long, skinny box in question; however, Daniel moved it just out of my reach and began to slowly shake his head.

"Now, now, hold on a minute, Miss Williams," he chided me before flashing a grin once more. "I'm supposed to deliver this, yes, but I can do it with your… thing looming over your shoulder." Thing? What thing? Arching one brow at the American, I began to pivot my head over my shoulder—ah, but of course. There was Taunter, leering with that green jack-o-lantern smile of his. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, and instead I calmly answered back, "Yer a lil' too late for tha', Danny."

The following look of confusion upon the man's face was wonderful to witness—truly an act of heartwarming expressions for the weary, he scrunched his fair boyish face up and glanced back at his now empty hands. Behind me, Taunter began to pull the box free from the confines of his mouth; perhaps in a past life, my ghost had been a bag of holding.

"Y-you—"

"—Eh, sorry, Daniel. He's an annoyance like tha'. Now then, is there anythin' else ya need t' inform me o'?" I watched as the "bellhop" reached into the upper half of his attire and pulled forth a letter. Already, the smell of some kind of fancy perfume wafted through the air. To top that off, the envelope's cream surface was actually sealed in what appeared to be wax of a golden color.

I recognized the seal immediately; the shield and family crest of the Wilkinson household was hard to miss, with its pair of medieval styled dragons and roses decorating the shield's field, and the tiny inscription of Draco invicta—"unconquerable dragon" from what I could remember—floating just beneath the shield on a tiny banner. With a slow and slightly uneasy nod, I plucked the letter from Daniel's hands and toss him a few liras for his trouble.

I softly closed the door and sniffed at the letter a few times. If I had not known better of my boss, I could have sworn that he was an admire ready to profess his love for me. It was a sweet, intoxicating smell, suitable enough for any British woman of noble lineage that Wilkinson would cross paths with. Why he decided to make his letters smell of expensive cologne, I would probably never know the answer, but it was enough to catch the receiver's attention.

"My, my, Miss Williams, do you have a lover that you have failed to inform your team of?" I tilted my head up and found Regnorik's crimson gaze locking onto my own. A fleeting smile danced across his snow white face. With a dull snort, I gently pushed my way past the taller Pokémon and flopped unceremoniously onto the bed. My childish actions disrupted Vladimir's attempts at building a house of cards upon the covers and caused the Gliscor to flee momentarily. Taunter joined my side soon after, bearing the box and a mirthful grin for all to bear witness too.

The Ghost and Poison type's clawed fingers slipped through the flimsy packaging to grab a hold of the prize inside. The noticeable sound of something hard striking the insides forewarned the rest present that his method of intangibility was not going to work this time around. Idiot, I thought to myself while my body heaved itself up into a seated position. I reflexively grabbed at Regnorik's nearest elbow and directed the pointed bone that made up his arms up against the flaps. Like a hot knife on butter, the boney structure broke through and cut a neat slit along the top of the box. There, ladies and gentlemen, as success at its best.

My fingers eagerly pried at the opened box and jerked all four flaps on the top back. If we could have, we would've all peered into the black hole that was the inside; however, only I received the first peek. What met my eyes was a circular glint of chrome and the flash of a red stone or two. Bingo—the prize was mine.

"What is it, kiddo?" Behind me, Taunter began to peer over my shoulder and form a rather awkward "o" shape with his toothy mouth; he kind of looked like an undead leech, and that… wasn't exactly comforting. With a light snort, I tilted my head back over the left side of my body and announced with a small, sly tone, "Wha' d' ya think it is, Taunty? Wha's always in this box when th' guys bring it t' me?" Six faces formed their own individual grins as I slipped one of my hands into the box. Almost immediately, the feeling of cold metal met my palm and the sound of a metallic yet faint scraping noise reached all our ears.

Out of the long, slender box came out what was known as a rapier. Its sleek, steel blade shone in the small lamp's light, still fairly sharp from a lack of recent activity. Its handle, composed of more steel, fit nicely into my right hand as I lifted the weapon up to inspect it. It bore a fairly simple design over all; intricate swirls of metal, plain as day, worked around the top half of my hand for added protection as their ends bunched closer towards where the hilt connected with the blade. One ruby was set, on the very top of the pommel, and it was carved with a rose motif in the very center. It had cost me a good sum as the weapon so stood; anything more ornate, and I'd probably still be paying off the debts to this day.

In such a one-hundred year period as the 1990s, most would find a rapier outside of fencing lessons and matches to be most peculiar—especially if that weapon was in the hands of a "civilian". To the contrary however, I had taken up an interest in swordplay thanks to Regnorik. When we travelled extensively together around the world, I had insisted that he teach me what he knew. A sword was needed, as was a hefty sum of money. Here I was though in the present day, with that very weapon in my hands.

I wasn't a master at it. Even after twenty years or so, I still wasn't that grand. But why was it here though, in Rome? Frankly, if I had to have a weapon, a gun probably would've suited my tastes in such a world as this one. After all, my rapier was a practicing weapon, not one to be utilized in actual combat by my somewhat unskillful hands.

"This must be a very special assignment, Miss Williams," the Gallade announced as he gave the blade a gentle, thoughtful tap with one finger. I carefully held up the weapon as one does to inspect a cue stick for bends in the wood. By some miracle of the gods, it appeared as if it had survived the trip from London.

"Nutters," I simply answered back with a small huff; "How am I t' hold th' damn thing if I don't have its bloody sheath?" As if to answer my inquiry, the sound of the box falling over with a thud louder than it should've been met our ears. Rosiary, apparently the most curious out of us all (or maybe she was just lighter on her paws) scurried over to the opening and shoved half of her tiny frame inside. That was quite the sight to see, watching a month old kit squirm and whimper inside a box like some kitten. Thank the gods she couldn't even spew embers yet, or the box and its other contents would've been under a very dire threat.

"… Ah… I see… I pulled it out o' th' sheath." With a slow nod, Taunter pulled his mouth into that typical, stupidly malicious grin and pried the Vulpix free. Setting the bladed weapon by my side, I slid down to the floor and turned the box about to peer inside. Yep, there it was; the metal sheath was still inside. Perhaps that explained why my weapon seemed to be alright. The nerve of them, sending my sword in a feeble box!

"Gliiiscor?" A blue pincer, about the size of my face, dropped into view from above. Clutched harshly between the two halves was Wilkinson's letter, suffering under the grip it found itself in. I wasn't too surprised by Vladimir's curiosity because I mirrored it pretty well myself when the letter sprang back to mind. Cordially thanking the oversized bat, I tugged the item free once he gave some slack to his pincers. Even five minutes after having received it (and probably many hours on a plane), the letter still smelled faintly of cologne. Just how did Wilkinson do it?

"Dear Miss Williams," I began to read aloud a little while later, seated upon the bed once again with the rapier, sheathed, in my lap; "I shall b' in Rome in two weeks on a business meetin' for Heaven & Hell; however, I am still open for business wit' ya concernin' yer current job. If m' service is o' need t' ya while I am there, do not hesitate t' call m' number." I paused for a moment to eye the team with a look that bordered on slight suspicion.

While they all chuckled in their own ways about how my accent was butchering the letter's words, I began to wander mentally for a couple of seconds. "If my service is of need to you while I am there, do not hesitate to call my number" sounded more along the lines of something on "borderline innuendo". And with my knowledge of Wilkinson's womanizing and flirtatious manners, that wouldn't be of a surprise at all.

"Lauren, finish the letter!" Taunter announced, pulling me back to the matter at hand. That was a nice little interruption, actually; I didn't really want to think about my current boss hitting on me.

"H-huh? Oh, right… ahem. M' stay might not b' long; at most, three weeks is the maximum time. On th' other hand, I suppose tha' if ya get int' a scrape of yer own, I'll have no choice but t' stay longer an' help ya out. … He's such a bloody arse!" Once more, a few snickers fluttered through the room, yet out of the corner of one eye I saw Aquaria gently holding Rosiary's ears to her head. "Oh quit tha', Aquaria! It's not like she can speak th' human language like Regnorik an' Taunter can!"

"Perhaps not, but we can still understand her," the Haunter shot back with a half-serious glare. I doubted that he actually gave a damn. Rather nonchalantly, I waved the Ghost and Poison type's words off and began to read the letter once more.

"I hope t' hear from ya soon, Miss Williams; may th' Gods— yer's an' mine, watch over ya all. Sincerely, Lord Arthur James Wilkinson."

With another of my usual dull snorts, I dropped the letter onto my dresser and turned around to move my rapier to a safer place. The biggest priority of my room was to hide this from the cleaning ladies. No doubt was in my mind that the Roman authorities would descend upon me in an instant if someone found a random rapier lying around. The closet sounded like the best idea of them all for the time being. It possessed a high shelf that I could place the weapon on when not in use, and if I could not retrieve it, I was sure that Taunter, Regnorik, or Vladimir would do the honors. A few short minutes later, the issue of "Where in the room is Carmen Swordiego" was settled.

"Alright, th' lot o' ya, find a good place t' nap for the nig—no, Taunter, you can't share m' bed." A flurry of undead protests (some of which sounded like necromancer incantations of another language) flooded my ears until Regnorik did us all a favor and pushed the two halves of the ghost's body together to shut him up. That did the trick nicely. "Hn… at th' most, Regnorik can; I can trust him wit' not puttin' m' hand in hot water!" Although he didn't look too pleased with a potential interruption of any good joke, the ghost turned his back to us all and muttered maliciously, "I don't need a bed to embarrass you as you sleep…"

That was certainly "comforting". With a shake of my head, I turned about and scooped up my pajamas before heading to the bathroom to get changed. Ten minutes later, I found myself curled up in bed with Taunter just in line with my sight, and the envelope of Wilkinson's letter on the bedside table. Regnorik was curled up on the top of the covers, back to back with me, while Vladimir hung upside-down from a small overhead light. Rosiary found herself curled up between the bodies of Sparx and Aquaria, and Taunter… knowing him, he was probably going to go cause some mischief while the rest of us slept.

For twenty minutes, I found myself unable to properly fall asleep. I continued to stare at that envelope a most unhappily as once again my mind wandered down various paths of thought. This entire case, from the possible assassination of a pope to Wilkinson supposedly hitting on me did not feel right. Even though most of my jobs were dangerous, this one felt like it bordered on down right devastating. They all wanted me to utilize my team in this one, and for good reasons. However, risking my team over something like Collin was a very unsettling thought. I could stand death, but if I even lost one of my team mates, it would probably drive me down the same road he had traveled along.

Shuddering, I traced my eyes over the letter's red ink and felt the same cold sensation I had when shaking hands with that large priest back in the café. This carried on for the better part of another twenty minutes as the ink's wording began to etch itself into my slightly disturbed mind. Sleep wasn't going to be easy tonight.

Miss Lauren A. Williams
Via Della Stazione Di San Pi
Rome, 00165, IT

Well, at least he hadn't addressed me as "Angel".