Disclaimer: I do not own Trinity Blood.
Abel wrapped an arm around Sister Esther. The roof was going to collapse any second now. The only other thing to do is to go Crusnik but—Tres was busy firing at the last goons from Fleur du Mal NEO. These goons were a special case—they were vampires' toy things, zombies. Something that was dispensable and easily manipulated. They hungered for the fresh pulsating life that raced through the bodies of the three church members isolated in a corner. Tres was merely pulverizing them to help them stay deceased, unmoving and not a threat. There was rubble flying everywhere as the Gunmetal Hound rained bullets in the abandoned church. The living "scatter-brained idiot" was now commanded to do something—
"Father Abel Nightroad, requesting input in terminating undead civilians."
The Killing Doll was merely a few metres away from the brain-dead flesh-crazed zombies when Abel Nightroad, Vatican Papal State AX Agent Crusnik, secured Esther Blanchett to a safe corner of the now-nearly-rubble church –and stated audibly enough for Hercules Tres Iqus, Vatican Papal State AX Agent HC-IIIX Gunslinger, merely a meter away to hear over the gunfire, "Nanomachine Crusnik 02 forty percent limited performance—authorized." The rabid zombies seemed to be dumbfounded just a moment but returned to the Gunslinger and kept their eyeless sockets on the prized AX members.
It happened quickly after the walking corpses started moving. The AX Agent codenamed Crusnik was on the move—eyes no longer winter-blue but a shade redder than blood, fangs bared, and his right arm mimicking a mouth too awful for even a vampire to imagine, creating a vacuum for the blood of the Crusnik's victims. He slashed with an elegant force that seems to defy physics, each lovely wave of his scythe ripping several bodies to shreds all at once enabling them to walk no further. Bullets and scythe crashed through dead meat conducting the symphony orchestra with a deadly ballet to air its path as a massacre opera.
The Gunslinger took a brash step for any other normal Terran man to make—but he's not any other Terran male. He released both of his Jericho M13's magazines from their grips' cavities and reloaded within a fraction of a second—both of his spring-loaded clips launched a new magazine from their wrist drivers and filled the grip with a fresh batch of ammunition and engaged a new bullet ready to fire. Before the second passed, he shot two points each microsecond for the Jericho's to load—ricocheting to great angular distances and tight curbs. A normal Terran man could not have calculated at such a high-level in less than a second; or in a heated battle to ward of death— literally.
No one uttered a word throughout the bloody gore-scorched opera, except the scream that pierced through the last mementos of the church's magnificence. A few moments later the ruin of a church buried a mass of undead, leaving more for the forest to decompose.
Three people were at the side of the ruin: one standing—"Gunslinger to Iron Maiden, mission complete. Requesting medical transfer facilities for Sister Esther Blanchett"—one holding an unconscious Sister Blanchett—"Esther…"