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"I had to pick someone to fill your shoes, didn't I?" It's hardly even a voice, the speakers as mangled as they are, but Henry would know that liquid dark cadence in any body. Against his will the hands on his gun begin to shake, from rage or fear he cannot tell.
William makes a garbled mechanical noise that must be a laugh, falling forward like a puppet with cut strings to lean on the handle of the axe he's dragging.
"And I picked a good one, Hen, I did. You," the rabbit's joints squeal as he drags himself up again to point a rusted finger, "were content to just send me off to hell.
But she,"
He draws the word out with relish so obvious it makes Henry's skin crawl, crackling static like the crunch of biting into an apple.
"She brought hell to me. Countless deaths, each more terrible than the last, far more inspired than your little trick with the gasoline." He can hear the showman now. "Cruelties I could never have dreamed of - using my very creations!" The proud father.
"You don't know what it's like to die, do you Henry." The rabbit's mechanical eyes dilate as the man inside it shoulders his weapon.
"Why don't you let me show you."