He woke disoriented and oddly panicked. Something about the familiar confines of his coffin had him clawing for the lid, heaving it away with all of his strength. He dragged himself over the edge of his resting place and collapsed to the floor, breathing hard.
Breathing? Alucard put a hand to his chest. Warm skin against skin, he felt his ribs rise and fall, the air spread through his lungs, the automatic inhalation as his body demanded more. Alucard blinked in the heavy darkness. He couldn't be. There was no possible way to reverse the change.
Alucard pushed to his feet, his movements clumsy and uncoordinated. He hadn't had a mortal body in almost six hundred years. Oddly, the next thought that came to him was clothes. He had none. Alucard had manifested his own as part of his form for so long that he'd had no need of the real thing since the early days of his unlife.
Integra would be displeased. He would need to find a way to be clear to her that he was not traipsing about the house naked for entertainment if he wished to avoid being shot.