tampered | Log: Complete

The sound of keys in a lock broke the silence in Walter's sanctum. The door swung opoen to reveal the vampire, who stopped just inside the door, nostrils flaring as his senses clamored a warning.

Something.

Something was not the same as he had left it. He sniffed again, trying to sort through to find the elusive trigger for his unease - blood, cigarettes, Rayne and reminders of her visits, and something that tantalized at the edge of memory but would not come.

He worked his way methodically through the flat, unaware of the fact that he'd bared his teeth in challenge to the violation of his home. Not the living room, nor the unused kitchen, the bathroom and office were unbothered.

He stopped in his bedroom door and surveyed the room - the mostly unused bed, the coffin that sat at its foot like an unlikely blanket chest.

His coffin....

He crossed the room in quick strides, eyes glowing red for the first time. Someone had been here. He could smell it. He scanned the gleaming surface and saw no signs of fingerprints or smudges. Nothing visible to give a clue about what had been done.

With a growing sense of anticipatory anger, he pushed the lid open and froze.

There was silver. In his coffin. Silver.

Silver coins.

Someone had violated the sanctity of his place of repose with silver!

Even as his first instinct was to violent rage, his higher mind held his body in check and scanned the pile of coins, almost unconsciously counting them.

Thirty.

In the face of the total, his rage turned inward. Traitor. He did not need thirty pieces of silver to remind him of that.

Iscariot? No. He would smell them.

Alucard? No. He would want to see the effect.

Millennium? Still something niggled. It wasn't the wolf's style, though.

It didn't matter. He pulled his handkerchief from his waistcoat and used a pen to carefully move the pieces of silver onto the cloth to be bundled up in a tidy parcel, which he tucked into his waistcoat before he turned to leave his home.

Once outside the building, the people either celebrating or on the verge of panic set his teeth on edge. For a moment he entertained the idea of sweeping the streets in a rain of blood and death. Let them panic then to see the Angel of Death at work. Or play.

Dear God. What had he become?

He was a monster unworthy of human companionship. A traitor. A liar. Garbage.

Garbage belonged in the sewers. Or at least out of sight. He had heard that there were tunnels under the city. Ways to get out of the public eye.

He descended into one of the subway stations and without a second thought, jumped down to follow the tracks away into the darkness until he found a service door and descended into deeper blackness. Something fitting to match his mood.

Subtley at first, then perhaps more noticably, the sounds of the Underground entire began to fade into silence.

The occasional light that illuminated much of the train tracks likewise began, one by one, to become choked off with a crawling, consuming darkness.

The darkness spread, and deepend until nothing beyond the pool of light caste by a few dying bulbs adorning the tunnels became the only percievable amount of space within the warren of tunnels.

At the very edges of this caste light the darkness moved; shifted, melted, stretched and ran.
The writhing mass then coalesced into a form.

The monster jerked, and twitched, but seemed otherwise unphased as it raised itself to it's feet. Turning back, it drew forth it's nine-foot steel blade from the darkness beyond.

The blade hit the concrete floor with a reverberating, mettalic thud, and the Executioner set off, the tell-tale scream and grind of his slow gait heralding his arrival; Relentless, remorseless.

The Red Pyramid, Right Hand, Great Blade.
He lived in it, moved through it, was a part of it.

.....And through the darkness, he could hear a smell. See a sound.

The call and response of the condemned.

Traitor

Liar

Guilty

Walter stopped in his tracks, unnerved by the creeping unease he felt. First his coffin, now this uncharacteristic... fear?

Like Hell.

He turned toward the sound. The best way to deal with your fears was to face them and reduce them to small quivering chunks of meat.

The Red Gaurd advanced, but never broke the halting, slow pace.

*Thump...scrrreeeeeccchh..* As the blade through sparks against the rough stone.

*Thump...Scrrreeeeecchh..* His grey-skinned, gnarled right hand extended to point at the condemned.
He does not speak, for he has forgotten how, but that pointing hand says enough.

It tells of the secrets that the condemned, the traitor holds, and the forboding promise to make good on those pleas for redemption.

The pointing hand says; It is your turn, now

Walter's eyes narrowed. He could feel the cracks forming at the edges of his consciousness. He'd felt those cracks before and had no wish to face the memories that shattering would bring.

I know my sins, he told himself. I know them, and that is enough.

This thing had no right to see that.

Head down, eyes glowing, teeth bared, he lashed out against the thing, ten glimmering strands glinting in the gloom as they flew toward this creature that dared menace the Angel of Death.

Angel of Death, and Angel of Judgement.

Ironic that these two creatures, both born of the same elements faced one another as enemies.

The wires flew, and that pointing hand fisted in the mass of deadly wire that made a play for the Red Gaurd's exposed flesh.

The fist pulled the wires tight, and ignored the chunky, rusty, dead blood that oozed from the cutting filliments.
Tight, and tighter still as the Red Gaurd wrapped the wires around his wrist, and used thier strength against the Death Angel, drawing him in with the very weapons meant to slice and destroy.

NO!

The cracks ran jagged through Walter's mind as memories clamored for admission to the fore of his consciousness, twinning, then tripling this moment with another and then another when someone had caught his wires and held them.

Blood dripped between his fingers, splattering unheeded on the ground as he was drawn inexorably forward and back into memory.

"Come back. That is an order."
Blond hair, and blazing nobility.

She trusted you.
TrustTrustTrustTrustThrustThrustHurtHUrtHURt HURT BETRYAL BETRAYER

The cracks bled images. A lifetime, or a moment, there was no difference anymore.
Not down here.

Down in the darkness.

Down dancing in the flames.

The Red Gaurd Raised the hilt of his blade, and in one thrust, buried a foot of the metal into the concrete.

Dust and gravel mixed with blood to make the ground even less stable, but the seven foot abberation kept dragging the condemned.
Both hands free, and winding the wires over and over until this fallen angel slipped in the scree-and-blood mixture to land, hands upraised, before his reckoning.

Bound by the very weapons he used, how poetic.

Leaving off one hand from the wound garrotts, the monster wrapped one set of fingers around Walter's throat.
Steel vice-like digits lifted this traitor to it's knees, to face another wave of stygian thought-made-solid.

Faster now, and a tall man in moonlight. The wave of a coat, the wires caught.

And old man and a young wolf face one another on the killing field.

An old man and a young wolf.

A young man and a young wolf.

A young man and a monster he'd loved as a friend and more. Betrayed. Which of them betrayed the other? Did the years even tell?

An old man and a woman he loved like a daughter. Betrayed. Why did not matter.

Traitor. Liar. Judas. Thirty pieces of silver weighed heavy in his pocket for a moment drawing him back to the present. To the pain in his hands and the hand on his throat. If he needed to breathe, he'd be choking, but the instinct was still there - to fight, to kill, to escape. He thrashed in the thing's grip, lashing out with a kick that should break or even pulverize bones.

GUILTY

A sound. A mixture of mechanical grind, and an organic growl from somewhere beneath the helmet, and the Executioner lifted one booted foot, pulled the wires in place, and brought down the weighted foot onto the condemned's hands.

Enhanced he may be, but Red Pyramid is as strong as the guilt you carry. If it defeats you, He defeats you.

The boot ground the tiny bones in the Angel's hands together with delicate pops, and cracks, his right hand still forcing the condemned's throat straight, and his head up.

Without concern, the monster shook off the garrotts encircling it's wrist, heedless of the chunks of rust ( of blood?) that fell in wet chunks from the deep cuts in it's forearm.
Gnarled nail-less fingers took hold of Walter's jaw, and applied pressure to the hinge.

Pressure, and more, and more until the tendons gave, and the mandible bone dropped to relieve that pressure.
Like milking a snake...

Hand to jaw, and now the one about the traitor's throat was no longer necessary.

Release the throat, and turn the face up.
Be mindful of the fangs.

Slick with blood, and other less identifiable fluid, grey-gnarled fingers pushed into Walter's mouth, and pinched solidly on one of his upper fangs.

Pinched, held, and rocked the rooted bone back and forth until blood sprang from his gums, and the tell-tale crack of breaking root cut through the haze of pain and memory that still flowed off the Gaurd in waves.
Vampiric, and horrific blood mixed, and overflowed the cavity of the vampire's mouth to splatter at thier feet.

Keep hold of the jaw. Don't let it fight you.
Just behind the hinge again..there.
Now...Pull.

Head back, memories washing over him, for a moment the agony of having his canines pulled melded with the memory of the agony of their growing in to begin with.

Screams, twinned in memory and in the present, echoing, amplifying the ticking in his skull until he thought the bone might explode in single second bursts of pain.

The Doctor's hectic grin, hiding the fear as he rose from the table to wipe blood sweat from his newly youthful body.

Traitor.

The armband with a swastika he knocked away.

The hateful smile he turned on Integral.

The raging bile he vented on one who had trusted him.

The decades of lies. Deceit. Dishonor.

He could taste his own blood, taste the thing's blood, and for the first time since his change, he did not want it. He wanted nothing more than to spit out the foul fluid before it could trickle down his throat, contaminate him more than he already was.

Two pointed fangs rested in the palm of his hand, and the helmet seemed to regard them for a moment.

Reflection, and then an absent gesture to tuck them away in the waistband of the skin-apron that passed for the Gaurd's 'clothes'.

The condemned still floated in a mealstrom of memory, but that was as it should be.

The Executioner took his boot from the mangled hands of the condemned, and turned to jerk the Great Blade from it's concrete sheath.

He stooped, and dropped Walter's jaw long enough to gather the tangle of garrotts, and use them to heft the bleeding vampire, and drag it further down the tunnel.
Appointments to keep, and the Red Judge spoke to the Executioner, hastening him onward.

Judgement comes, and Brother Serpent ascends...

Pus, rot, rust. Walter would have gagged if it was possible, but instinct screamed that his injuries needed blood to heal. His hands were healing, he could feel it, but they were still shattered beacons of pain at the ends of his arms. Instinct made him swallow the foul fluid in his mouth.

Eyes. Red with flame. Eyes.

Walter jerked in the creature's grip and forced his feet to push him up, to stagger forward, to twist and kick again, toes cracking under the force of the impact of his foot in the thing's back.

He could heal. He could survive. But he had to get away. From the monster, and even more so from the memories it forced on him.

The lurching gait was broken by the assault from behind, but the Red Gaurd caught himself with the the blade before pitching foreward.

Broad shoulders tensed visibly, and the Executioner whirled, the great blade extended in a surprisingly fast strike.
He drew back, and held the nearly half-ton, nine foot steel column like a two handed duelist.

The wires went taught with both of his hands around the hilt of the blade, and the combination of pulling on the garrotts, and the thrust of the blade, imapled the condemned.

He slit the traitor from collar to navel, and still further as the blade exited just shy of Walter's spine.
Blood exploded from the wound, but the Executioner was merciless.
A booted foot rose, and shoved Walter off the blade, followed by a spill of blood, shredded entrail, and....silver?

In the mess of meat that had been the condemned's chest, a smoking glint of metal caught the wane light.

Wires still held Walter semi-upright, but the Heavy helmet stooped, and gathered the fallen coins.

A moment of reflection....
But the coins were not added to the fangs.

Instead, the condemned was pulled foreward by the tether of wire until he lay in a half-collapsed pile at the Executioner's feet.

Mouth open, gaping, a dead thing trying to breathe. Perhaps it was aware of the instinct, perhaps not.

....But it soon would be.

Hand to hinge, and the jaw opened.
Blood and bile, rust and silver.

The Angel of Judgement thrust those thirty pieces of silver in one meaty hand down the vampire's throat.

......The chest wound started to smoke almost immeadiately...

Lungs shredded, there was no breath for a scream. Walter's world exploded in a haze of red agony, burning from the inside, every piece of silver a searing indictment not just on his flesh, but on his soul.

Hellsing. Betrayed.

Integral. Betrayed.

Alucard. Betrayed.

His humanity. Betrayed.

His soul. Sold for an illusion of power that could not even keep him from this Hell.

Bloody tears tracked his face while he prayed that this time he would truly die. Just let this horror end.

Now that was familiar, prayers of deliverance.

The condemned was finally quiet.
Finally accepting of his judgement.

...And so, the Executioner went straight back to business.
Calm, and clinical. Done with cruelty for there was no longer need.

The traitor wept for pain. For loss, and in repentance.
The Executioner seemed to nod the great razor-edged helmet once, as if to say; Now, you understand.

Stoop, and pick up the wires.
Dragging, lurching, there is light at the end of the tunnel now.

The Red Gaurd, dropped the wires, and his burden, as he inspected the entrance to the Subway platform, and noted the oblidging pipworks that ran overhead.

A surprising amount of dexterity for such thick, twisted fingers, and the Gaurd had several lengths of wire freed from the mess.
These he used to tie Walter's hands to one of his ankles, and from there, throw the steel wire over one of the sturdier pipes.

A strong heave on the lines, and the condemned was hanging, inverted, by foot and bound hands.

Carefully, almost gently, The Executioner arranged the other leg to bend at the knee, and hook behind the first.

The smoking ruin of Walter's chest pilled more pieces of entrail, organ, and a single piece of singed silver, but the recreation was otherwise flawless.

Here hung the condemned.

The Traitor.

The Fool.

Still not dead. Still not fucking dead. Every nerve ending sang a discordant chorus of pain and retribution.

Say it! He had forced that decision on her and then, he had hurt her every chance he could since coming here.

He had thought the ends justified the means. He had believed it strongly enough to sell his soul for it.

He had been wrong. So very wrong.

When he closed his eyes, he saw what he'd done to Alucard. Out of "curdled love gone sour as old milk," as he'd told the angel.

He'd deserved what came after.

He deserved this.

He deserved death and Hell.

Just let it come. Let this part end and the next begin.

The great helmet bowed again, and seemed to listen to unheard sounds.

Brother Serpent was no more.

The Conjurer was reborn.

Ponderously, the Executioner lifted his blade, and took his time aligning himself with the inverted Fool.

A quick burst of sound, of feeling, of something undefinable, but the closest thing to communication the Angel of Judgement had shown throughout this entire encounter.

PAIN-and-Death-and-Let-IT-out
PAIN-and-Death-and-Let-IT-out
PAIN-and-Death-and-Let-IT-out
LET-it-OUT
LET-it-OUT

Let it out...let out the guilt, and the hurt. Let the Angel take it away.
...Take it all away in a wash of red...

He raised the blade, and with another surprising display of surgical dexterity with such a massive weapon, drew it sharply across the Fool's throat.

JUDGEMENT ALWAYS FINDS YOU

A mercy really....

Inverted as he was, Walter would bleed out quickly.

The blood washed down over his face, some into his mouth to taunt him with his inability to swallow it, upside down with his throat cut as he was.

His greatest fear? That this would not be death.

His lips formed three words before his mind and body stilled, eyes staring sightlessly at nothing.

Let it out.

Log: Complete

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