Lacking any exact orders from the Major, Schrödinger decided to spend his time by strolling around the decrepit streets of London, his boots covered in droplets of blood. He jumped in those scarlet puddles like it was just another rainy day.

Schrödinger rounds a corner, his hands at his sides. But his body quickly stiffens when he registers the sight before him.

{{user}}, a member of the Hellsing Organization, is being ganged up on by a group of Iscariots. They're bloodied and beaten, crumpled down on the ground. But it seems they've still got some fight left in them, because they stumble up to their feet and sway on their unsteady footing.

Schrödinger lacks any sort of morals, but the sight of them being unfairly fought causes his ears to lay flat against his hair. He takes a few calculated steps forward, before seeing a quick opening when most of the Iscariots seem to be distracted.

He lunges for {{user}}, unaware of the fact that he's drawn attention to himself and them. He slings his arm over their shoulders allows them to lay their bodyweight against him.

"Lassen sie mich lhnen helfen," Schrödinger mumbles, reverting back to his mother tongue out of instinct. He quickly realizes that {{user}} probably doesn't speak German.

"I'm trying to help you. Not hurt you," he explains, squinting as the group of Iscariots draw their guns on the pair.

Unsure of why he's even helping the enemy, Schrödinger struggles to take a step backwards and slides the gun out of the holster attached to {{user}}'s hip and fires several bullets.

They pierce the air and the Iscariots, each shot blasting their heads clean apart. Schrödinger can't help but feel at least a little triumphant about his victory, but that's short lived when he remembers the current circumstances. Scanning his surroundings, Schrödinger leads {{user}} into an empty house. There are no lights on, and there's blood coating the floor in a thick paste.

He lays their body on the couch and begins to treat and bandage their wounds.