He saw them whenever he closed his eyes: the murderer, and the murdered.

A man walked down a street. It was broad and often travelled, as even someone without his insight could have seen, but tonight, it was lonely.

Nothing had ever managed to silence the pounding in his ears, really. Not even after he had made himself more than a man, with no real heart to beat.

It should have been well-lit, and it might have seemed so, from a distance: all the lampposts were working. But only cones of light shone, close to their sources as if huddling for safety from the darkness. If one looked, the shadows seem to grow and pulse, slithering closer to the light, to snuff it out.

Not the sadness that had almost driven him to end himself. Not that countryside monastery, meant for rest and contemplation, where one of the few friends he hadn't driven away had taken him.

Not God's voice, thundering in his ears and spirit.

But that was just him being fanciful, he knew. Subconsciously preparing himself for his destination, maybe: London's rotten, hidden heart was almost as old as the city itself - perhaps older, with how it treated time - and so dripping with sins ancient and new.

His wife, torn in half by the impact. His children, dragged under the car for nearly half a mile before the joyrider had to stop.

Sometimes, for all his divine knowledge, the Walking Man wondered how all that wickedness could stay hidden. Not just the Nightside, which was one of its strongholds, but all the evil skulking in the world's shadows.

"Couldn't identify them, sir. However..."

Were people so willfully blind as not to acknowledge even the sins they chased? It would've been funny, if he'd had any true joy left in him.

The little bastard, watching television as if nothing had happened, as if he'd killed no one. Torn apart by the hands of the man who'd given himself to God, and became His wrath in the world of man.

The Walking Man raised his head as he stopped under a streetlight. From here, he felt, he could move closer to his target, without striding at all. God's will alone would take him across the worlds.

A smile slowly appeared on his weathered, middle-aged hat, barely visible in the shadows his hat cast, which were decidedly more lively than the ones he'd imagined moving.

As the wind intensified from a breeze to something almost like a hurricane, howling and picking up the debris left by his latest stroll, Adrien Saint began whistling, to match it. He reached under his old duster, hands resting on his holstered pistols - six shooters only in appearance. They were handguns the same way he was human, which was, Saint thought, one of the many reasons they killed so well together.

A fierce glow pushed the night away, coming not from above, but from Above, and the light within Saint flared in recognition, leaving his eyes gleaming like pools of molten platinum.

There was nothing else to cast light but the Lord. The planet's sun had been reduced to scattered particles by the lance of power he'd cast, and its moons, almost all of them larger than his homeworld, had been likewise torn apart, caught on the edges of his attack. Nevertheless, God had told him that the planet would flourish the most like this: adrift in the void, nothing around and its inhabitants slaughtered.

Saint thought that might have said something about people, no matter their species. But it wasn't his job what life would arise in the darkness of eons yet to come.

He was mostly about death, these days.

This was not a future he'd have liked to live in, but more like one of the alternate timelines that sometimes branched out into the Nightside, forming Timeslips. The star system God had guided him too had become a war torn hellhole, not for resources or because of clashing ideals - indeed, everyone had been in agreement about why they should fight.

For fun.

Saint wasn't familiar with that. Not killing for fun - he'd done it often, though it would have been more likely to say the battles he was given brought him great pleasure with each victory - but...fighting.

No confrontation he'd been in since God had given him the power he needed to right wrongs could have been described as a fight.

Remembering the thoroughly-settled system as it had been, the stations filling the void between its planets, the shell enclosing its star, Saint reflected that people often sinned when they had it too easy. Boredom could birth evil as surely as anything else, and often did so much faster. Were it otherwise, why would a people capable of making anything out of any substance, and travel wherever they wanted, whenever they wanted, begin slaughtering each other. "To shake things up"; "it had gotten too boring"; "to break the routine".

A pillar of light formed around him, interrupting his musing, and Saint smiled when he saw it change shape, to suit his tastes.

As he took the steps three at a time (it seemed appropriate), Saint began humming about the stairway to Heaven.

He wasn't sure he would end up there, this day or any other, but he'd made peace with that.

He didn't decide where people went. He just sent them to judgement. And if he walked to his of his own accord, well, there was something to be said about understanding God's design.

* * *

Not for the first time, Saint wondered if he really understood God's design.

His senses expanded, humanlike perceptions sharpening far faster than evolution would allow over ages yet to come, like a flower blooming in a sped up video. He took in the city he had entered, turning all of its buildings this way and that in his mind's eye, looking into and beyond them, over the shadows they cast backwards and forward and sideways in time.

'This is not my London,' he said slowly, as if rolling the words around on his tongue, then set his jaw. In the distance, the sound of war could be heard.

For a London on the brink of the twenty-first century, and he'd seen many, some of them at war, it sure didn't sound like a modern battle. If not for what he thought must have been halberds striking flesh and bone, the Walking Man would have thought God had sent him back to another Second World War.

The amount of time travellers trying to assassinate Hitler, he swore...it was all fun and games until the bastard started learning from the attempts and hoarding captured gear. He'd had to correct more timelines than the Droods had probably been to with their homemade reality-jumper. Sometimes, history just had to run its course, lest its tyrants be given the chance to commit yet greater evil.

Saint took a purposeful step forward, concrete cracking under his boots, and noticed he was one step farther from the fight. He narrowed his eyess, then huffed, more amused than anything.

'You work in mysterious ways,' he whispered, realising that trying to make his way over there would only send him away from where he had to be. Sometimes, the Voice that had brought existence into being spoke to him; other times, he received visions, or emotions, gut feelings. On other days, he just had to take the hint.

This was one of those days.

'It is not yet time to join the fight,' Adrien said, understanding dawning, and smirked. 'Let me make it so, then.'

And he reached out, grasping time with his hands and his will, and pulled himself along it, like a mortal man on a rope. Faith, his faith, could turn the arms of the clock, so he could be whenever he had to be.

When he stepped back into the mundane timestream, he found himself in a ghost town.

Not a settlement of restless spirits, to be sent on their way by his hands and bullets; nor a town abandoned by mortals once its worldly usefulness had run out. The town itself was incorporeal, phantasmal.

Or, at least, it appeared to be.

Saint swaggered forward, feeling almost at home in this London, whose transparent aspect and muted background sounds made it appear older than it was, somehow. His attire had that effect, too; though, to be honest, he did not remember for how long he'd walked with God, some of the time. WHat would have been the point? He had done so after his family had been murdered, and would continue to be so until there were no more sinners to be purged.

The Walking Man raised a hand, which appeared more real than its surroundings, limned by the dim yellow light of insubstantial lampposts as it was, and ran it across a building's facade.

Or tried to. His fingers passed right through the concrete, and Adrien nodded. There was nothing incorporeal he couldn't throttle if he put his mind to it, so it was clear God had rendered the city untouchable, in every way that mattered, until the hour which had drawn him here came.

Events of the near past flashed behind his eyes, filling his mind, poured into his brain by divine hands. He saw two gatherings of the faithful clash against insane bigots, and a cold smile passed over his face. Hadn't he just been thinking about the Fuhrer?

It passed quickly, however, for the faithful were riven, here as in so many other times and worlds, by the nonsensical differences seen only by those who hadn't truly glimpsed God.

No one whose brains he couldn't shoot out if they got in his way, though, and wasn't that what really mattered, to everyone? If they'd lived virtuously but got in his way, he'd send them to Heaven far faster than life would take them there, but would they thank him? Of course not.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Feeling deeply unappreciated, but nevertheless resolved, Saint put his hands behind his back and strode forward, towards the centre of the carnage.

They had a Dracula here, he noted. Not in the sense they'd had one - theirs was up and running around in the modern day. Not at the moment, no, but that he was active was as much of a slap in his and God's face as the oldest surviving Spawn of Frankenstein.

He really had to get around to them, one of these days. Playing cat's cradle with the threads of life was not done.

More information came. Saint saw a warrior priest, not near as blessed as him by any means, but a true man of God nonetheless, his healing enhanced by the sciences of man, fighting with holy bayonets and pages of the good book, which let him move between places without crossing the intervening distance. This priest, this Alexander Anderson, had been this Dracula's most recent nemesis.

And he hadn't got the job done, which, as far as Adrien was concerned, meant he hadn't believed enough. Otherwise, he'd be looking at Father Anderson standing over the vampire's remains, not the reverse.

In this, their final clash, Anderson had cut through the vampire's army of familiars, only to lose heart when - he'd convinced himself, like all the weak-willed who called themselves believers as long as the weather was fair - he'd found himself too weak to do the deed.

'Oh ho,' Saint said, as an image flashed through his mind. 'What have we here?'

A nail, one of the nails that had pinned the Son to the True Cross, still holding enough of His power to make a man more. The priest had stabbed it into his heart, becoming a champion of the Lord, his healing enhanced even more.

Strangely, the vampire had tried to talk him out of doing it, but not, as Saint had expected, out of cowardice. No, he hadn't begged for his unlife.

He'd begged for the priest's. This...Alucard, has pleaded with him not to give up his humanity, not to become a monster.

'Because a man has the strength to kill a monster, but another monster could never find it,' Adrien said, after going over the vampire's words, then threw his head back, laughing harshly. 'Another fool! As blind as he was faithless...but, ah, what can I expect from a bloated leech with a literally rotten brain?'

Really, Helena's Nail hadn't made Anderson any more of a monster than Saint's own deal with God - far less, actually. But, he supposed, he couldn't expect a corpse running from death to think clearly.

Yes...it was clear enough this sideshow was to be his next trial, before the Lord took him to the Nightside. It was too late to teach Anderson the error of his ways, but he would put Alucard - this wretch who'd given up on God because he'd felt abandoned - out of everyone's misery.

Reality shifted, with a sensation not unlike a quake, and Adrien's hands went to rest on his holsters. He flashed the vampire a grin, just as the pasty bastard saw him for the first time, and stepped forward, only for something to drop out of the sky.

The newcomer stood up, turning to glare suspiciously at the Walking Man over his shoulder. Steely eyes bore into him from behind round spectacles, and the young man's lip curled, showing a little fang. Dressed in a suit, with his dark hair in a wolf tail, he had a few wires stretched out between his hands, glinting dangerously as they caught the weak light.

After stomping on the priest's ashen remains, grinding them under his shoe, he stepped to the side, facing both Alucard and the Walking Man. He was addressing the other vampire when he spoke, however.

'Mourning is not necessary for rubbish,' he said, his crips, posh accent making him sound faintly accusing.

There was some history here, clearly - maybe some upper class twat who'd asked to be turned, only to find out vampirism wasn't all it was cracked up to be - but Saint couldn't be bothered to watch things play out. He preferred to make history.

Not to mention, God had finally given him free reign to act, and wasn't that swell? Not for either of his newest targets, but he hadn't made them become unholy monsters.

'Mhn,' he grunted, stepping towards the younger-looking vampire while separating Alucard from them with a barrier that did not take him out of the world, but severed his existence from it as surely as the power of the Unbeliever they called Jessica Sorrow, in the Nightside. He'd deal with him too, soon. But, one thing at a time...'Sounds like you're speaking from experience, to me.'

The vamp's earlier assessing look returned, but he didn't seem to know what to make of the Walking Man. Otherwise, he'd have slit his throat with those garrotes and spared Saint the trouble.

But generosity was a virtue, and these were monsters. Killing people to feed, and turning them into mindless revenants while doing so; unless they were virgins of the opposite sex, in which case another bloodsucking abomination would enter the world once bitten.

All this, and more, had been revealed to him; why, he even knew that the newly-arrived vampire, this Walter C. Dornez, had betrayed the faithful hunters of monsters he'd worked with for decades and thrown his lot in with the remnants of that moustached lunatic's army, just so he could get a younger body.

To stave off old age and human weakness, he'd undergone dangerous surgery at the hands of a mad doctor. Mortality, gone, and all at the price of becoming a freak. To someone like him, it must have looked like a bargain, especially since it let the "Angel of Death" have a shot at the vampire he'd been craving to fight for a long, long time.

'You could say that,' Walter replied, fingers tensing and relaxing as he toyed with his monofilament weapons. 'I used to be the trashman for the Hellsing organisation.'

'And did you grow a taste for it?' Saint chuckled at the vamp's nonplussed expression. 'The trash, I mean. I've heard you are what you eat.'

'Tch,' Walter clicked his tongue, flicking his wrist so quick Saint was surprised it didn't burst into flames. The wires flashed out, far faster than sound, aimed with uncanny skill to sever his joints and open up his chest.

But he had walked up and down in the world, and a myriad of its shadows and reflections, and such things did not easily strike him.

The wires bent and twisted, as if buffeted by a powerful wind, and struck the surrounding buildings, splitting them in half and leaving gashes several storeys tall and across in the toppling skyscrapers. Face showing nothing, Walter moved his hands, straightening the wires and pulling them back towards him at the same time Saint pulled out his revolvers.

The bullets flew faster than any tank shell or railgun round, and would have shredded targets such projectiles wouldn't even have scratched. But Walter wove shapes from his wires, faster than most vampires Saint had put an end to. Something like a net met the bullets, splitting them and leaving the remains tangled in the sharpened web.

Walter undid it, never taking his narrowed eyes off Saint, and giving him a dirty glare when he saw some of his wires had been frayed. Grinning, Adrien made one of his guns smoke just to blow it into the vampire's face.

The next attack came from two directions, a handful of wires descending on him like a guillotine while several others, trailing them like their shadows, moved through the ground, splitting the street under Saint's boots. The moment the blacktop fell apart, Walter raised a portion of the street with a stomp, before sending the chunk flying at Adrien with a kick.

The Walking man spun his guns as he high-stepped unto the improvised projectile before it could even start melting from the speed. He was walking on air by the time the wires reached him, then turned sideways, blurring.

* * *

Walter's eyes crossed as he tried to reconcile the movement and the result. Had that tosser just slid through his attack? But, where? He hadn't passed through - he knew some beings had this power, like the No Life King with his intangibility, or the Captain with his mist shifting - but this man...he'd moved as if the space between wires had been far wider than in reality.

The vampire blinked. No, the operation wasn't messing with his brain. That it was rushed simply meant he was on the clock, but that was no issue. As soon as he took care of this smug meddler, he'd kill Alucard too.

Come to think of it, it was strange that the old monster hadn't joined in. But, as unlikely as that being was, Walter couldn't take his eyes off his opponent.

He wasn't sure he understood what the wanker was doing as it were.

'Try passing through this,' he mouthed darkly, moving far too fast to consider talking. The man actually stuck his hands in his duster's pockets, walking on air towards the vampire as Walter jumped backwards, from building to building. His arms almost blurred to his own sight as he let the bastard close the distance, wires forming a cage spanning several storeys, bottom cutting through the street as it was shaped, to rest in the sewers. There was nowhere to go - Walter couldn't have cut through the walls in any quick timeframe - but he wasn't planning to retreat. He was going to end this up close.

Wrapping one of his few nonextended wires around the small openings at the top of the cage as he flung it out, Walter swung closer to the stranger, extended wires trailing from his tensed hands. But, before he could kick the son of a bitch to pieces or bearhug him in half, he found himself sent flying through a building, turning every wall to dust.

Walter stood up, shaking his head. His clothes were torn, his chest rising and falling rapidly with unnecessary breaths. He ran a hand over it, and it came away tingling. Looking down, he saw he hadn't imagined the burning sensation.

Something had struck him. Something like that raving Irish priest's bayonets? He still remembered Seras whining about them after her first with Anderson, the little twit - as if having your chest filled with blades and being impaled through the throat, but recovering, was cause for complaining. Alucard and his spawn had never truly appreciated their bodies. Maybe he'd string them up to give Integra something to scowl at. He still had some wires left...

It would have to be enough.

Walter saw the newcomer pass through the rubble of the building he must have launched him through, pushing aside tens of thousands of tons of steel and concrete with waves of his hand, like they were fog. 'You have been smote!' he called out, sounding, not preachy, like the Vatican's attack dog, but conversational. 'Do you repent?'

In response, he swung a couple wires while beginning to run towards him. He could feel his body starting to fail, exacerbated by the damage. If he was going to die now, he might as well take the smarmy shite down with him.

But the smiling man grabbed one wire between his fingertips, tearing it away from Walter and appearing to fling it out of existence. He shot the tip of the other wire, this time the bullet splitting it in half, and hopped up as the wire fell apart into halves, walking on them, as surefooted as on a street.

Walter didn't have time to react before a bullet struck his cracked glasses, splitting at the impact, with the parts flying in opposite directions, shattering his lenses and punching into his forehead, picking him up.

'Ugh!' he grunted when he landed, trying to roll to a stop while his head throbbed, feeling like someone had stuck a fire poker into his brain. Blinking rapidly, he saw he was in a dark alley, back against a dumpster. On a better day, he might've laughed.

"Trashman"...

The gunslinger appeared immediately, leaning on the dumpster. Resting his chin in one hand while twirling a gun with the other, he said, 'You did not repent, Walter. You should have.'

Before Walter could tell him where to shove that pistol, he found himself shrieking as his body shrunk, bones cracking as they contracted, before healing, then cracking again...

When the world stopped spinning, he lifted his hands, which looked far smoother than they had for decades, smoother even than they had after the surgery. There were no calluses, no scars, almost none of the marks his wires left with use.

Walter placed one hand against a cheek, which felt round, almost soft. A boy's face...they'd told him he'd end up aging in reverse. A memory, of reading a legend about Merlin getting younger with the passage of time, brought to mind that round table Britain's hidden lords and masters had gathered around.

Not anymore...he thought, blood flecking his lips as he sniggered.

The man nodded. 'I've decided to let you skip ahead, and see the end of your bargain. You'll never get that fight, I'm afraid; why let you age into a newborn for twice the disappointment?' He shook his head. 'No. I don't think so, old man. Time waits for no one.'

And his body changed again, aging decades in seconds. With the return to the state he'd been in before the surgery came every ache and wound and illness he'd picked up over his life - and all he could think of was that he was no longer missing his scars.

The git didn't even give him time to laugh about it.

* * *

Walter clung on to life by Saint's will: there was no point in letting the turncoat pass quickly, or without some poetic justice involved. Still, after he shot his eyes out and there were no more glares thrown his way, the whole thing lost some of its charm.

So, he took the last monofilament wire at the same time he lifted Walter by the throat. After he was done, Adrien looked over his work and found it good. The wire should've went straight through the old man's neck instead of leaving him dangling from a fire escape, but his power greased the wheels of reality to allow such things.

Walking away to the sound of Arden's "Hangin' by a Thread", Adrien Saint unmade the barrier that had cut Alucard off from the world.

He hoped the Impaler hadn't got too bored waiting, but if he had, he wouldn't have to worry about it for long.