Hellsing: Resurrection (WIP)

Chapter 24: Protocol

James lay motionless atop the sheets, not under them, still in yesterday’s clothes, eyes closed but not truly asleep. His room was dim, shuttered, the air stale with sweat and silence. Mandatory grief leave, they’d called it, soft words for a cold box. They’d taken his laces, his belt, even the drawstrings from his hoodie, and of course, the rifle, protocol. As if the absence of rope could strangle what already hollowed him out.

A sharp knock jolted him, dragging his mind back from the gray static it had settled into. He blinked, slow and dry, the ceiling swimming overhead as he pushed himself upright with a grunt. His voice rasped out, cracked from disuse. “Yeah. You can come in.” Probably another medic doing the rounds, checking pulses, counting survivors.

The door creaked open and in stepped one of the medics, young, soft-spoken, the one with the kind eyes he barely remembered from the evac chopper. She hovered just inside, clipboard tucked to her chest like a shield. “Hey, James,” she said gently. “Just checking in. You doing okay? Need anything?” Her tone was careful, like she didn’t want to scare whatever fragile pieces might still be holding him together.

He shook his head, slow, eyes still unfocused. No, he didn’t need anything, at least nothing she could hand him. But then his brow twitched, and after a long breath he asked, voice barely above a whisper, “Do they… do they know when Agent Tony’s funeral is?” His gaze stayed on the floor, like saying the name too loud might break something.

She nodded, her expression dimming. “They’re planning a mass funeral. For everyone we lost.” Her voice was soft, steady. “Three weeks from now. They’re still investigating… and preparing for cremation.” A pause, respectful. “It’s Hellsing protocol.”

James let out a slow, bitter sigh, rubbing his face with one hand. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I know the protocol.” His tone was flat, edging toward contempt. “Can’t risk burying something that might claw its way back up.”

She offered him a small, patient smile, the kind meant to comfort even when it couldn’t. “Alright,” she said gently. “If you need anything, anything at all, just let one of us know, okay?” Her voice lingered for a moment before she turned toward the door, giving him space.

He stayed still until he heard the soft click of the door closing behind her. Only then did he move, dragging both hands down his face like he could wipe the weight off with his skin. With a grunt, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, bones stiff, joints complaining. A long, slow stretch followed, shoulders, back, and arms overhead, like he was trying to pull himself out of his own skin.

The floor was cold against his bare feet, a sharp contrast to the muggy stillness of the room. He shuffled toward the bathroom, not out of urgency but habit, going through the motions. He relieved himself, flushed, then leaned over the sink, staring into the mirror without really seeing. The toothbrush felt foreign in his hand, but he used it anyway, scrubbing the bitterness from his mouth like it might scrub away the rest.

He looked up into the mirror, toothbrush hanging from his mouth, foam clinging to his lip. The face that stared back was whole, unscarred, untouched. Not even a bruise. But a day ago, that same face had been split open, bone shattered, skin peeled back like wet paper under fire. He’d felt it. Heard the wet pop of the bullet tearing through his head. He should be dead. Should still be on that floor next to Tony. Instead, the mirror showed a lie, clean skin, steady eyes, not even a scar to prove it happened. Just a stranger wearing his grief like it didn’t fit.

His reflection twisted, eyes narrowing, jaw clenching as a flicker of anger surfaced. Not at anyone in particular. Just the wrongness of it all. Of being here. Of looking fine. Of feeling anything. His hand trembled slightly before he squeezed his eyes shut, jaw locked, breathing slow and shallow through his nose. He stood there for a moment, letting it pass, then opened his eyes again and went back to brushing, more forcefully this time, like he could scrub the fury out along with the toothpaste.