sturmbahnfuhrer: (What's this?)
[The Major didn't think a damn think about eating mushrooms. Why should he? If this place decided it would provide produce, then he would gladly partake of it. Even if it was suspicious, he would do it in order to see what game the town might have come with this time.

He was a bit disappointed when, after a while, nothing happened. He shrugged, before stepping out of his house.

And paused as he found himself on the streets of London, near Trafalagar Square. He could see it, smell it, hear it - see the rubble and fire, smell the gunpowder and death. Hear the screams of the "innocent", of the flabby weak babes the English had produced in the generations since the last Great War.

How he had missed it. Smile widening, he walks off into town, intending to get a much better view of the battle than he had been afforded before.

He isn't smiling for long.]


[Action 1]

[The Major is standing on top of one of the cars parked in town. There's something...off, about him. Despite his clear cruelty, his clear madness, there's a type of composure to him. A cool, even headedness.

Right now, that composure is entirely gone. He's hunched like a madman, arms quivering in anger and occasionally shooting out here and there, as if directing orders. The expression on his face isn't outright anger, almost a dull look, but the tone. That is just anger beyond belief.

He can see it. He can see that the masses of London, who he'd believed - no, who he'd known to be pathetic, weak whimpering children....they're standing up. Alongside Hellsing and Anderson's group of Iscariot forces. Standing up and fighting. Standing up and slaughtering his battalion, his single, iron group of hardened soldiers.

Impossible. Unimaginable.]


Fools! What are you doing? What disgrace is this? Get up! Get up! Don't fall in! Perhaps the children might have sticks and stones to pelt you with, but you have blade and bullet! Kill them! Slaughter them!

What are you doing? What are you waiting for? Did you wait with me to die like this, to die like old men like our fellow countrymen did, to be passively ravaged by the mewling children who have been spawned here?

Get up! Push forward! KILL THEM!

[Action 2]

[You're just walking down the street, admiring the lovely day Mayfield is so nice to provide everyone with when BAM!

You're getting grabbed at by a fat little Nazi officer, glaring utter death at you. Whatever you did, whoever he thinks you are? You've pissed him off royally.]


How? You were but a joker, not an ace, not a true winning card, in the hand. How did you do it? Impossible.

It was my victory. It was meant to be mine. Not yours. Mine.

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The Major

December 2011

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