As they see the blood dripping from his gloved hands and the maniacal grin crossing his face, they cry monster, freak, abomination. They point their guns in his face, squeezing the trigger for that final shot.
He hates the drips of sweat that roll down their chests, clinging to their skin; hates the shaking arms that can't aim at anything—not even his head, not even his heart. He finds humans laughably pathetic at times; he tells them, too. He tells them through his insane laughter exactly what he thinks of each and everyone of them.
He is a monster, a freak, a sin against God Himself. He doesn't feel pity, he doesn't feel remorse; confessionals are for the humans. Guilt is for those who don't know how to act, for those who are too afraid to wield a gun. That's why he lives—that's why he always wins. He knows that only a human can defeat a monster and that no true human can bear the sight of blood on their hands.
The point is not to die for one's country—he doesn't care about England. What is a patrioteer but a completely human invention, an entirely human term, that has no relevance? What is England but another dotted line on a map? (The lines have always confused him. The cop once tried to explain it, spouting human nonsense through her sharp teeth, reminding him once again that she had never stopped being human.)
He massacres them. He makes a slaughter house for them, a shrine to their dead carcasses, sucked dry to appease his constant thirst. He sends silver bullets sliding through the skulls because they stand in his way, because he enjoys it, because he can.
He once remarks to Integra on his theory that though he holds the gun and determines its aim, even though he puts the ammo through the slide and undoes the safety, it is not his will that slaughters the humans. It is hers—it's her iron resolve that sends those men to their graves. He refuses to be the murderer—homicide would imply that he is human, and he knows he isn't.
He wants her to realize this. He wants them all to know that he will never be their human plaything, that he has always and will always be the shapeless monster, their nightmare come to life. Sometimes he thinks they forget.
He hates fighting the fake vampires, the chipped replicas; they're still human. Beneath their lust and greed, they're still just pathetic humans looking for a thrill. It disgusts him, repulses him, the fact that these creations can exist—exist, and have the nerve to proclaim themselves a Class A vampire, one of the old kind, something truly terrifying. He wants them to know that they have no idea what they're dealing with. He wants them to be terrified of him in their last moments of life.
He wants them to stand up so he can shoot them in the knees and watch them crawl. He wants them to regenerate so he can recreate the exact same injuries. He lets them shoot him first so he can watch their horror-stricken expressions as he rises from his grave, like a god, like a miracle, like the monster that he is.
It humors him to watch them stare out behind their stolen crimson eyes, terrified beyond their immortality. It satisfies him to hear their cries of denial as they continually refuse to believe that there is something out there that is more powerful than they could ever imagine. It annoys him to watch them crawl on their knees shouting freak at the top of their lungs. He wants to shoot them apart; he wants them to know that he is their death, their grim reaper holding a silver gun in his hands. He is not one to deny himself.
It gets harder, he notes with each mission, to feel the same ecstasy when he meets these imposters. The blood lust is longer coming as he stares down at them in disgust. They are garbage, they are scum; they aren't even fit to be called a human. He doesn't know what they are anymore. Instead, his anger grows as he watches them destroy mortals with a sloppy joy that makes even him sick; he watches them paint the blood of their victims on walls. The waste of it is revolting. Even the monster is retching.
He snaps, the anger and outrage builds from inside until he can take it no longer and has to act. The infestation of the immortal rats has grown to the point where he simply can't drag himself to act anymore—he wastes time, he walks slowly. He is both bored and disgusted with the garbage. He begins to wonder if they even go to Hell, for surely creatures such as them aren't even worthy of unending torture.
At first he sees it as a whim, nothing more, and nothing less. But he realizes soon enough what he had truly been trying to accomplish. Turning the cop into a vampire hadn't been an act of charity or even love. It was defiance. In the instant where he squeezed the trigger he saw his future, forever disposing of imposters—of scum, of garbage—yearning all the while for that chance where he could prove himself… and never getting it.
By offering her eternity, he was rebelling against the mundane future set out for him—he was adding one more genuine vampire into the world. Or so he had thought at the time, but the girl, he had found out slowly, is the farthest thing from a vampire that he could have created.
Despite the crimson eyes and the thirst for blood, the girl is no more a vampire than his own master. She does not drink the blood offered to her, choosing instead to flush it down the human contraptions, growing steadily weaker as she continually denies herself. He tells himself that it is only a matter of time before she has no choice but to take that final step away from her humanity.
It drains him, this realization of his own isolation. He is, without a doubt, the last of his kind; the vampires are a dying race, eroded away by the elements and the strain of immortality, left forgotten in ashes as the human race trample their bones underfoot. He doesn't bother telling Integra that immortality is an impossible concept. Just as humans rotting in their graves, his reign on this Earth will one day come to an end. Humans don't seem to grasp the concept of their own mortality in the first place; he wouldn't waste his time explaining his own predicament.
He finds himself growing weary as the days wear on, staring down at those pathetic shaking humans with their terrible aim. He watches as they take their gun and point it not at the demon standing before them, but at their own heads, squeezing that trigger one final time.
It produces the same end. The obstacle has been removed. The human is dead, slumped against a wall with his own bullet lodged in his skull, the corpse's dead eyes more accusatory than anything he could have said while living. In the glassy reflection, he sees a monster with blood dripping from his fingers, eyes glowing with rage.
If he is the monster, then what are his victims? Men? Dogs? Freaks? As he rips them limb from limb, does their nature change? Do they become exactly like him? Will his reflection in their eyes remain that of the hideously deformed monster if he tears their faces off?
The cop answers his question for him in two simple words.
"They're humans!" she shouts as she surveys his handiwork, her face transformed into another horror-stricken mask, mocking her own crimson eyes and pointed teeth through the painfully human expression.
He knows he has to kill them. That is war, that is the nature of the beast. He is a solider—nothing more nothing less. He holds the gun and determines its aim but he is not the force that kills them. He has to tear them apart and leave them to rot. It's the world's one and only truth.
No one can change—not him, not the cop, not God—not even the Devil can change such a fact.
And yet he still sees the terror-stricken tears in the cop's crimson eyes and he still sees the blood-drinking demon in his own reflection.
AN: This one shot is based off of Order three, elevator action II, from volume three of the manga. XD, probably the only one-shot I'll ever do as I'm not a huge fan of them. Thanks to my beta, who edited. Without her, the run-on sentences would kill you.