Abilities: The Major has a fully mechanical body that, provided it's still functioning, grants him immortality. His body is made more durable and he can only be killed with a shot at the head. Beyond that, his mechanical body doesn't give him any particular advantages. His aim with a gun is notoriously terrible, having only shot only one target in life. A competent fighter would never lose to him in a fair fight, which is why he stays out of battle himself and plays strategist.
Third Person: It had been a good war. Everybody acted out their proper roles and their performances exceeded his greatest expectations. Sitting by the window seat, the Major looks out into the distance, but pays little attention to the sight in front of him. His mind replays the events of fifty years past again and yet again like how a satisfied husband would watch videos of his wedding and kids. The “why's” and “how's” of being in this train were irrelevant; he knew in his heart he was on his way to the warriors' paradise, Valhalla. And in an instant, perhaps a dozen seconds after regaining awareness of the world around him, the Major now stood, feet firmly planted on the train terminal.
“Oh.” He folds his hands behind his back and takes the first steps of his stay in the city and out the terminal. The Major takes a brisk walk over to where he may get the best view of this twilit city. Taking a quick look, that would clearly be the nearest Watch Tower. He can see it in the air, stretching above the structures around it. Be it cosmic irony, he notices on his way there that most buildings have a distinctly Victorian quality to them. A thought crosses his mind.
“I have burned you down before in the birth place of your aesthetics. Is this some indirect request for an encore? How montonous!”
He no longer has the patience to stroll around to confirm whether he was in just another Britain. The Major makes a run now for the Watch Tower. There, he could see the city for what it was, from above.
Despite his mechanical form, his mind still registered pain, tension, and stress. Cyborg though he was, he was an out of shape cyborg and going up the winding steps of the watch tower pushed his body to its limits. His smile held as he looked up at the orange light shining from the opening above. He stretches out his arm as if wanting to grab it for himself. He steps into the glow at the top of the tower, his destination, and stumbles his way over to the railing, grabbing hold of it, breathing for air. He looks up and the sights flooded into his eyes, not of just the city, but of the nature beyond. The nature beyond is irrelevant and he focused his sights back onto the city with his eyes drawn to the ruins of a once proud stone wall.
His smile stretches wide as he takes it in and the presence of the other watch towers. “Whatever is it that you tried protecting yourselves from?” he mutters, voice filled with glee, “Yourselves, perhaps?” Wherever he turns his head, he sees the footsteps and debris that “war” has left. This is no peaceful town. This is a place that mimics the visage of peace, but it is a fickle mask that would slip off sooner or later. This was no second act to the burning of London. Standing upright, having mustered enough energy, the Major stretches an arm up into the air, as if he was holding in his hand a glass filled with champagne.
[CANON] The Major | Hellsing | Not Reserved | 2/2
Abilities: The Major has a fully mechanical body that, provided it's still functioning, grants him immortality. His body is made more durable and he can only be killed with a shot at the head. Beyond that, his mechanical body doesn't give him any particular advantages. His aim with a gun is notoriously terrible, having only shot only one target in life. A competent fighter would never lose to him in a fair fight, which is why he stays out of battle himself and plays strategist.
First Person: http://rubycity-ooc.dreamwidth.org/270111.html?thread=6946591#cmt6946591
Third Person: It had been a good war. Everybody acted out their proper roles and their performances exceeded his greatest expectations. Sitting by the window seat, the Major looks out into the distance, but pays little attention to the sight in front of him. His mind replays the events of fifty years past again and yet again like how a satisfied husband would watch videos of his wedding and kids. The “why's” and “how's” of being in this train were irrelevant; he knew in his heart he was on his way to the warriors' paradise, Valhalla. And in an instant, perhaps a dozen seconds after regaining awareness of the world around him, the Major now stood, feet firmly planted on the train terminal.
“Oh.” He folds his hands behind his back and takes the first steps of his stay in the city and out the terminal. The Major takes a brisk walk over to where he may get the best view of this twilit city. Taking a quick look, that would clearly be the nearest Watch Tower. He can see it in the air, stretching above the structures around it. Be it cosmic irony, he notices on his way there that most buildings have a distinctly Victorian quality to them. A thought crosses his mind.
“I have burned you down before in the birth place of your aesthetics. Is this some indirect request for an encore? How montonous!”
He no longer has the patience to stroll around to confirm whether he was in just another Britain. The Major makes a run now for the Watch Tower. There, he could see the city for what it was, from above.
Despite his mechanical form, his mind still registered pain, tension, and stress. Cyborg though he was, he was an out of shape cyborg and going up the winding steps of the watch tower pushed his body to its limits. His smile held as he looked up at the orange light shining from the opening above. He stretches out his arm as if wanting to grab it for himself. He steps into the glow at the top of the tower, his destination, and stumbles his way over to the railing, grabbing hold of it, breathing for air. He looks up and the sights flooded into his eyes, not of just the city, but of the nature beyond. The nature beyond is irrelevant and he focused his sights back onto the city with his eyes drawn to the ruins of a once proud stone wall.
His smile stretches wide as he takes it in and the presence of the other watch towers. “Whatever is it that you tried protecting yourselves from?” he mutters, voice filled with glee, “Yourselves, perhaps?” Wherever he turns his head, he sees the footsteps and debris that “war” has left. This is no peaceful town. This is a place that mimics the visage of peace, but it is a fickle mask that would slip off sooner or later. This was no second act to the burning of London. Standing upright, having mustered enough energy, the Major stretches an arm up into the air, as if he was holding in his hand a glass filled with champagne.
“Make it a good one.”