[He knows, logically, it probably is a trick; they are in some sort of hell, after all, and it seems to play on ones weaknesses, but he can't help but hesitate at the sound of Maxwell.]
Integra's here. There's no reason Maxwell couldn't have been among the new arrivals as well.
[It's a fair possibility, isn't it? He didn't notice Integra during orientation, so perhaps he passed over Maxwell as well.
He doesn't get any closer to the ice, but he stares at it, transfixed, trying to make out the bodies that periodically thump against the surface. There's a spiderweb of cracks developing under their hands. He can see nails scraping at the ice, cracking against it, bleeding.]
He'll die if it isn't a trick, Alucard, and I don't know if we come back this time, in this place. [Maxwell's already paid the price for his sins. If he's here, then Anderson wants to help him.] It's some sort of- perdition, I'd rather be certain-
[He's wrong, of course, because the moment his attention is diverted from the pool, a hand snakes out of the ice and snaps around his ankle. That would have been easy enough to kick off on its own, except there's more, hundreds of hands rising from the ice and groping at him, seeking to drag him down into the water. The device slips free of his fingers as he wrenches himself back, raising his bayonet above his head with the intent of slicing himself free. But cold, clammy hands curl around his face and the shock of who they belong to, of Maxwell's snarling, pallid face coming into view, renders him momentarily still.
"We're the earthly agents of divine punishment. You taught us that, Father, to kill the heathens, kill the heretics, kill the monsters; I only ever did what you taught me, and you killed me for it."
A small, feminine hand curls around the handle of his bayonet, and he finds himself struggling to bring it down as Yumie climbs onto him and wraps her arms around him, holding him close.
"You left us. You left me." Her fingers gradually manage to wrench the weapon away, throwing it out of reach. "You weren't there to save me when the butler came. It's cold, Father, in limbo. It's so cold and I miss Heinkel."
The hands claw into his clothes, into his skin, and by the time his mind has kicked back into gear he's already being dragged steadily toward the water. He turns and attempts to wrench himself free, but there's too many of them, much too many to be able to untangle himself. His groping fingers simply catch uselessly on air and ice. He recognises the faces and voices, now: his students, and they whisper cold, damning things in his ear.
no subject
Integra's here. There's no reason Maxwell couldn't have been among the new arrivals as well.
[It's a fair possibility, isn't it? He didn't notice Integra during orientation, so perhaps he passed over Maxwell as well.
He doesn't get any closer to the ice, but he stares at it, transfixed, trying to make out the bodies that periodically thump against the surface. There's a spiderweb of cracks developing under their hands. He can see nails scraping at the ice, cracking against it, bleeding.]
He'll die if it isn't a trick, Alucard, and I don't know if we come back this time, in this place. [Maxwell's already paid the price for his sins. If he's here, then Anderson wants to help him.] It's some sort of- perdition, I'd rather be certain-
[He's wrong, of course, because the moment his attention is diverted from the pool, a hand snakes out of the ice and snaps around his ankle. That would have been easy enough to kick off on its own, except there's more, hundreds of hands rising from the ice and groping at him, seeking to drag him down into the water. The device slips free of his fingers as he wrenches himself back, raising his bayonet above his head with the intent of slicing himself free. But cold, clammy hands curl around his face and the shock of who they belong to, of Maxwell's snarling, pallid face coming into view, renders him momentarily still.
"We're the earthly agents of divine punishment. You taught us that, Father, to kill the heathens, kill the heretics, kill the monsters; I only ever did what you taught me, and you killed me for it."
A small, feminine hand curls around the handle of his bayonet, and he finds himself struggling to bring it down as Yumie climbs onto him and wraps her arms around him, holding him close.
"You left us. You left me." Her fingers gradually manage to wrench the weapon away, throwing it out of reach. "You weren't there to save me when the butler came. It's cold, Father, in limbo. It's so cold and I miss Heinkel."
The hands claw into his clothes, into his skin, and by the time his mind has kicked back into gear he's already being dragged steadily toward the water. He turns and attempts to wrench himself free, but there's too many of them, much too many to be able to untangle himself. His groping fingers simply catch uselessly on air and ice. He recognises the faces and voices, now: his students, and they whisper cold, damning things in his ear.
He's going to die here, he thinks.
And he deserves it.]