Strings

Strings

At first, there are many lights tearing through the darkness, blinding his eyes even when closed. He screams as he feels himself cut, but he is held down and he cannot escape. As it takes over, his heart is beating and he’s breathing heavily, yet still feels like he’s suffocating. He sees nothing more than those lights above him, feels nothing more than the scalding burn that touches deep within his body. At some point, he may have slept, succumbing to the agony and slipping into and uncomfortable, lonely darkness. Even in that state, he still feels the pain, feels gloved hands upon his naked body.

The process is not delicate. He feels it the moment it happens. Feelings are torn away, his very persona is taken, and he’s left with something cold and hard and utterly apathetic. He envisions Integra’s young face, and his mind feels disgust, and some part of him realizes that this is terribly wrong. But no, his conscious self disregards it – there is no point in caring, not when they approach his dawn.

His eyes are forced open, and he sees the magnified eyes of the Doktor above him, staring into him. There’s a bright light, and Dok tells him to follow it with his gaze, but he cannot find focus. He stares hazily into the light, wanting the darkness, wanting to slip into a safe shadow until the pain disappears. But he’s not allowed, and he finds himself hoisted up, forced to sit, but he doesn’t wish it. He falls back onto the metal surface like a broken puppet, the control over his body limited and his desire to regain feeling waning. He doesn’t wish to truly awaken, to feel that pain and that odd blankness where he once felt compassion and affection.

A needle abruptly stabs into his neck, and he grimaces at the sudden pain that blossoms within him. It burns through him, but it’s a mild pain compared to rest, and he bears it silently.

There’s a laugh somewhere, and it makes Walter’s skin prickle. He knows who’s standing there, looking upon his naked body, knows who’s in the darkness. The Major, that man that he once viewed with such naïve scorn and apathy. Now, in light of the war, he feels the most exquisite terror. This man is the puppet master, he controls them all. The wolf that once nearly squeezed out Walter’s last breath had but been an extension of this man’s reach – it would have been no different if it had been the Major’s hands on his throat.

‘You cannot force him,’ says Major, his German inflection clipped and elegantly sharp. He speaks in English, because he wishes Walter to understand – this thought makes Walter’s stomach curl. ‘You must entice him. He is not the kind that will allow himself to be ordered – otherwise he will do nothing more than spit in your eye.’

Vaguely, Walter laughs, but it doesn’t quite reach his lips. He’s naked, worthless, and so terribly weak – it almost seems that his dream is out of reach, that he is dying on this table, surrounded by the metallic stench of blood. The pain, at least, seems to gradually be disappearing.

There is a hand on his face, and he’s gently tilted to look up at a pair of pale gold eyes. The Major’s face, something that had once been the vaguest of memories, is grinning – he’s not a day older than when Walter first met him. The same man, the same grin and the same goal. Walter wonders how, after all these years, these eyes are still the same, and this man has not changed even in the very slightest.

The love for war is still in his smile.

There’s a touch upon his chest, and Walter jerks in surprise at the sensation. Major’s gloves are gone, his soft hands cold. Pain bites through Walter’s flesh, but it’s invigorating, and his body cannot help but succumb to the sensation. Walter moves his hands, trying to push himself up, but the Major grasps his wrists delicately.

‘Now, there is no need to push yourself, butler,’ says Major, the damn smile never fading. ‘You cannot move just yet.’

This only makes Walter try harder, desperate to find a sense of strength, to get away from the sheer power that comes from this seemingly unimpressive man. His hands brace against the edge of the table and he tries to push himself up, but he’s unsuccessful and he only finds himself in pain.

He’s still not dead. Still in the process of dying, and his human body is only hindering him. Frustrated, Walter collapses back on the table, unable to do anything but wait. The needle surely must have been poison, yet he’s not dead. Cold, and perhaps frightened by this uncertain place, but not dead. He can vaguely feel warmth in his skin, although the cold is creeping over it with an eerie sensation of tangibility. His need for air is still painful, but he’s no longer gasping – his body does not have the ability to drag in enough air to keep him calm.

Above all, there’s an innate sensation of helplessness.

‘What I never liked about chipped vampires,’ begins Major, sounding very much cheerful and very much pleased in Walter’s forced attention. ‘Is the lack of choice. My men were told to submit and, as I expected, they did so without even the slightest hesitation.’

Frustrated, Walter cannot help but try to decipher the meaning behind Major’s words. Walter himself only remembers denying the Major all those years ago, turning his back on the Millennium without hesitation, initiating the battle between himself and the werewolf. But perhaps that isn’t what happened, perhaps Walter had given himself to them in some way, given them some sign that he was theirs. It’s true that since those days, Walter had not been the same – the thirst for more power had awoken inside him. The wolf, he remembers the wolf’s hands around his weak human throat, remembers the sheer panic.

Most power. He hated being helpless, hated laying on a table staring up at a dark ceiling while listening to someone else tell him their philosophical opinion on monsters.

‘When a man follows his orders without fail, there is a definitive lack of excitement,’ sighs Major. ‘But a man who fights, a man who is willing to deny the change as long as he can, until the threshold of death is upon him, is far more intriguing.’

Walter feels something against his mouth, a cold finger pressing against his lower lip. Blood wells at the tip of the finger; Walter can smell it clearly. It’s unlike any blood he’s ever known, a sweet substance that seems to draw him in, his desire to consume the flesh of this man almost tangible. His mouth is coaxed open beyond his conscious will, and he takes the first digit gingerly between his teeth. The sweet blood trickles down his tongue, and his eyes snap open, staring into another time and past.

The girl, the dark haired woman with those gloriously blue eyes had fought, cried and screamed for freedom until the last moment, the moment of death, when she had finally chosen. Major, voyeuristic as ever, had watched her painful transformation, watched her weep and turn pale with death. Even a girl as obedient as this one had clung to humanity out of fear, but she was foolish, and she would soon learn to respect her new strength.

Walter flinches in disgust as the Major’s thoughts creep into his mind.

The wolf, the Captain had been unwilling too, had grabbed the wolf’s jaws between blood-slicked hands in an attempt to avoid his fate. But then, he had been human, and the vicious bite on his shoulder had been his undoing. First pain, then some an unusual expression of pleasure had overcome the Captain’s face – the sensation of power.

So many had become monsters, so many had submitted, but only the ones who fought for their humanity had been given respect by this man.

Why?

There’s an image, of Walter, young and beautiful and so much more powerful. Human, and fallible, but still fighting. There was something chaotic about his motions, his battle, and it seems suddenly clear – the chaos of war, even internal war, is something he treasures. Watching Walter, even aged, fight for his freedom had excited the man.

Eyes open gradually, vision dark, the only light the soft reflection against the Major’s glasses. In the shadows, the man looks like a terrible demon, and Walter wishes that didn’t excite him as well. Seeing the devil’s smile, and knowing death is only an inch away, his heart tremors.

There are footsteps, and he hears the Doktor speaking to the Major hesitantly. There are words, but Walter is beyond comprehension at the moment. He sounds worried, and Walter can vaguely hear his own name, but it’s nothing he cares about.

Major’s voice cuts through him. ‘You’re dying,’ he says smilingly. ‘Tell me, Walter, is this how you imagined death?’

It takes Walter a moment, but he realizes the voice is in his mind – he can still hear Dok talking to Major distantly, clueless to the silent communication. Walter tries to respond, but his voice is useless, his body numb. But he does somehow manage to speak, much in the same manner Major had, although he cannot quite grasp how he accomplished such a feat.

‘No,’ he whispers. And it’s true, he’d imagined something different, something far more magnificent. Perhaps it’s his pride, or his inability to categorize himself with other humans, but he’d expected to die in glory. Not poisoned, not as some ridiculous science experiment.

The Doktor leaves; Walter doesn’t see it, but somehow he simply detects the loss of his presence. It’s strange to sense something so strongly, yet not be aware of how the feat was accomplished.

‘If you want to continue on, you’re going to have to choose,’ says Major out loud. There’s cheer in his voice, a cheer that only thinly veils something intrinsically predatory. ‘Either you die willingly now, and become what you were meant to be,’ continues Major, approaching him. ‘Or you die alone and bound on this table.’

Walter doesn’t understand. He knows his eyes tell the Major this.

‘The poison is designed to disrupt your chip and kill your human body,’ says Major, still grinning. ‘If you let the body die before the chip is destroyed, then you can become what you’ve always wanted to be.’

Angel of Death.

Suddenly, the Major’s cold fingers are on his throat, tightening. The panic takes over, the anger, and Walter finds the strength to struggle despite his condition. Hands claw at Major’s hands futilely, and before he can utter a single plea between broken gasps, he knows he’s beyond saving. Even if he were to rip away the Major’s hands, he can feel the truth in Major’s words – his time is running out.

The choice is a fast one, but it’s significant; his hands drop, his eyes close, and he lets himself die. The burn of life followed by the numbness of death, and he knows it’s over – he’s lost.

For a time, there is only silence, darkness, and the numb spread of death crawling over his body. And then, as if nothing had ever changed, everything returns – he can hear screaming, the moist slurps of monsters consuming man, the crackle of fire. He thrashes with a cry, head pounding, fingernails biting deeply into the Major’s hands.

The Major seems unperturbed by this – in fact, he seems terribly close to laughing.

Walter manages to speak, but it’s only snarling obscenities. He may be crying, in anger or fear or pain, but the outburst is short-lived. Exhausted, Walter slumps back, feeling so numb and so unlike himself it’s frightening.

Major’s ungloved hands touch his face, and he is compelled to still, the sting of icy flesh much less prevalent than before. It feels strange, as if Major is taking away the last shreds of his human warmth with a simple, singular touch.

The Major says something, but it’s German and it almost sounds like a song, so Walter doesn’t understand. He can only concentrate on slow, deep breaths into pained lungs and the cold hands drifting down his body. Perhaps, if he had been more cognitive, or still retained his dignity, he would have fought. But now, as the Major’s hands touch his naked body, he finds himself succumbing to a far more primal side. And he wants, he desires sensation, adrenaline and sex and the taste of blood upon his tongue.

The change from simple possession to sexual desire is subtle, although there isn’t a notable difference in Major’s demeanor. But his hands, soft and delicate against Walter, are pressing with far more deliberation, and his body is close now. Walter can smell something sweet upon the Major’s breath, and cleanliness, but there’s something much more unsettling beneath it all. It’s something he can’t define, not unpleasant, but simply disconcerting. Nonetheless, he finds himself pressing himself closer to the body, seeking out that peculiar aroma. His hands are bare, there are no wires to protect him, but he feels little fear.

The Major calls him something, and it takes Walter a moment to realize it isn’t his name. No, he’d called him ‘angel,’ simple but an infinitely more possessive name. Walter doesn’t respond, at least not by speaking, but rather lets himself fully relax under the Major’s touch. Submission.

There is a cold hand on his cock, and the abruptness of the touch upon such sensitive flesh almost makes Walter start. The surprise quickly melts into pleasure, and some part of him wonders if he should be disgusted by this, but the utter lust and pleasure that wracks through his body indicates otherwise. He finds himself clinging to the white coat, neck buried against the Major’s shoulder.

Briefly, Walter tries to count his breaths, to keep his mind centered, but it’s useless. Soft fingers caress over his cock in delicate strokes, and he’s undone, moaning and pleading for this simple, intrinsically human indulgence to continue. The Major is chuckling softly; Walter can feel the voyeuristic eyes devouring him, and for some reason the sick pleasure the Major derives from watching Walter creep towards the edge of oblivion is only more arousing. There’s some internal, alien desire overtaking his mind; he wants to serve the Major, desperately wants to please him.

Walter is not so far gone that he does not realize he’s been carefully manipulated to feel this unwavering loyalty. However, he is far gone enough that he doesn’t care.

Somehow, he detaches himself from the Major, sitting back on the table. He knows what he must look like now, younger and far more beautiful, and he is Major’s to devour. He allows the Major to see his desire, legs parted enticingly. He’s nothing more than a puppet, reacting to the subtle caresses of the Major’s fingers.

The Major is smiling – but when doesn’t he smile? Walter places his arms around his shoulders, enticing him closer, inviting him in wantonly. A part of his mind, whatever side of him still retains some kind of humanity, is in a fluster. However, his lust quickly overtakes his pride, and he presses himself against the Major’s ample frame, fingers anchored in pale hair.

Walter is rewarded with something he never expected – a kiss. He is momentarily caught off guard, but it doesn’t take long for him to give into this, to part his lips and capture the Major’s tongue delicately between his fangs, pricking the moist flesh until he tastes blood.

He can almost taste the Major’s dreams.

The Major’s hands are on his chest, following the trail of invisible veins and arteries until his cock is being skillfully teased, the Major’s nimble fingers following the veins to the tip and slowly back. Walter arches and moans, control over his voice slipping away. It’s good, so good but not enough.

The kiss deepens, Walter sucking and playing his mouth over the Major’s tongue vigorously, fingers pulling roughly at the Major’s tie until he feels it loosen and slip away. He knows the Major only wants to watch him, to enjoy the sight of him writhing in desperation, but Walter wants to feel more than a few light caresses upon his skin. He wants to feel him, to partake in these sensations fully before the end.

There’s a sound of tearing and falling buttons, Walter violently working the Major’s shirt away. Fingernails immediately embed themselves into exposed flesh, and Walter rips his mouth away from Major and immediately presses it against his chest – faintly, he can feel a pulse under his tongue. Cold, dead blood pumping through this man’s body. Walter wonders how long it will take for his own blood to cool.

It’s the most Major will allow. Walter quickly finds his hands pinned to the table, pressed back against freezing metal. He can distantly hear himself gasping, the desperate, wordless pleas that escape him as Major’s hand tightens on his cock. The pressure, the closeness, and the harsh pressure of Major’s lips on his own are far more than he can stand. He feels dizzy, on the edge of some precipice and slipping. And he wants to, wants to give in and let himself become a mere puppet to this man.

Walter arches into cold fingers and abruptly, the peak of pleasure hits him and he feels himself release, the cold fluid dribbling across his stomach. There’s a moment of indescribable pleasure that coils from the centre of his stomach, but it’s just as short-lived, followed by a gentle numbness that seeps through his deadened body. All that’s left is the unique sensation of power, and Major’s cold lips softly pressed against his own.

And then, as quickly as this moment began, it’s over. Time is ticking fast; Walter can almost hear it, taste the oblivion he’s so close to. Major leaves him in that room, and all that’s left for him are the clothes he’s always been meant to have, and the beautiful puppet strings.

‘You know why you’re here,’ says the voice deep inside his mind, and he isn’t sure if it’s the Major talking or his own consciousness. It isn’t important – he does indeed know. He knows what they want him to do, what he’s meant to do.

Walter’s dawn is approaching soon; he can almost feel the sun, almost see the rays of gold rise on scorched streets. And there is excitement in him, excitement and joy for the war. To run free despite the puppet strings embedded inside his heart, to become something more than he’s ever been in his final hours of life seems like a glorious end.