Character musings

...or something like it.

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[Wesker+Jill+Chris+Claire+Leon+Excella+Krauser+AdaWTF] All the distractions kill the compassion
its_game_time wrote in transgenicprose

The stage was set. The pieces had all come almost too perfectly into place -- easily, even, without a single hitch in the final stages. Then again, all of the players had been hit just right -- hard, fast, blind, each of their strengths reduced to their weaknesses based on the years of data that had been collected. Years of study, years of work, years of nothing short of utter dedication to this one cause.

They never stood a chance.

Competence wouldn't be confused with arrogance. Arrogance made lesser men sloppy, prone to mistakes, a constant error throughout history. Arrogance on behalf of these players had cost them, after all.

Even the strongest of them wouldn't find an easy answer; this compound had been constructed to hold the worst of what they could each dish out, in addition to housing the many challenges they would face. The compound was large, it was deep, it was dangerous; even the famous George Trevor would have been impressed, just as he would have been pleased to know that even after his death, he continued to contribute to a greater cause.

Years of effort, finally about to pay off in what would be nothing short of a spectacular show.

The data was, in the end, all that really mattered. Each of the subject's DNA had been sampled, saved, and assigned to an appropriate handler. This stage of the project was for reference, a rare kind of field data -- if any of the subjects died in the process, it would be no major loss. The group had what it needed.

Hundreds of cameras watched the compound; dozens of monitors switched between them all automatically, at the moment seeing nothing but long, empty halls of stone for the most part, occasionally areas of brick, wood, and even plaster. Environmental variety was an important experimental factor.

Four of the largest monitors were the main focus of every eye in the conference room. Each screen showed a small room, much like a cell, nearly identical except for the forms that inhabited each. Two per space: one male, one female, all currently out cold.

The drugs had been measured precisely; whatever each individual's tolerance, they would all wake within minutes of each other at the most.

Now there was nothing to do but wait, and watch.

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[Claire gives a minimal nod, not voicing her concern just yet -- over his reaction, that tired look that she can't help thinking has nothing to do with the drug, or more general worries. He hasn't been the same since Jill's death, and she wonders if it's still weighing as heavily on his shoulders as it was the last time she saw him. Probably. Chris has always taken the loss of loved ones hard, but Jill was...

Jill was a special case, whatever had or hadn't come of it.

But Claire doesn't bring that up; it's not the time, to say the least.]

Yeah. I can move.

[Which she does, backing away a bit and turning aside as she stands, both arms crossed now. She chooses to keep track of Chris with peripheral vision only for the moment, instead keeping her direct focus on the door as she waits for him to gather his wits.]

I don't remember much about when I was grabbed. Any ideas who it could be?

[To tell the truth, Claire figures Chris has to know, if anyone does. Otherwise this has to be someone who's been off the radar.]

[He wishes he had an answer for her, but answers have been harder and harder to come by, especially after Jill's death. Umbrella-- gone. Wesker, if he'd survived where Jill hadn't, was gone. There were always rumbles, some in Europe, some in Africa, but they weren't much. Groundswells, that was all. Little groups with rumors and they were put down without mercy. The B.S.A.A., as much as he believed in his work, had become a strong arm to rumors. Everyone was waiting, holding their breath.

And them, this.

Chris stood as Claire he, half turned to keep himself modest though it was a lost cause. He tried not to focus on it. Someone had tried to make them uncomfortable and he refused to be a victim. Always had.

No. I want to tell you yes, but I've got nothing. We've had no real leads since--

[Since Wesker. Chris had told Claire that much, even though it had been confidential. He'd told her that much, the mission, the blame he'd assigned himself. She would have read it on him anyway. Always had.

He turned to the door. Steel, set in the stone.
] This might be old-school. Who else would know us both? Dragging in two loosely-connected units like ours is a stretch, but... guess we can't discount the idea.

[He looked at Claire and dragged up a smile.] Same shit, different day, right? [They'd joked over that phrase, in the beginning. When she'd come looking for him in Raccoon City and only gotten out by the grace of a rookie cop named Leon S Kennedy. And then later, in Antarctica. Claire should have washed out of all of this. Should have had a normal life. But would he have wanted anyone else at his side?


Chris shook his head and tried the handle-- and almost jumped when the hinges screamed with rust and the thing opened, inch by slow inch.

Dread crept in to overwhelm the nauseousness.

Stay behind me. Let's go.

[Claire frowns at his response -- first in thoughtfulness when he has no answer, and then in something closer to understanding when he cuts himself off.

Still, it's not the time. They have other things to focus on, and she knows better than to risk unnecessary distractions.

She does crack a tired smile at the old phrase, though. As much as she hates to see more pressure piled onto Chris' already full plate, she's still glad to be with him, in a way -- it makes her feel safe, as if they can get through anything as long as he's around.]

Yeah. Story of our lives.

[The fact that the door has been left unlocked is a little more unnerving -- wouldn't that mean those responsible expected the two of them to leave? And were probably waiting for them in some form or another?

Still, it beats sitting around and rotting away in a cell. Claire moves behind him quickly, watching what she can see over his shoulder. She hates not knowing what to expect -- and while she has absolutely no idea what might be waiting for them, she has a bad feeling in her gut that's telling her she can probably make a few accurate guesses.

Chris may be in the lead, but it doesn't feel right not to add something -- so,]

Be careful.

[Chris doesn't know which is worse, being a captive in a cell waiting for the move of an unknown... or being a captive left loose into a trap. No, he knows. He would always prefer having his own reins. Maybe it's an illusion of power, but it's one he'd take, every time. He trusts himself, and he trusts Claire, even if he worries about her at the same time. He steps into the doorway and glances back over his shoulder.]

You too. We stick together. Quiet. Pick up anything that could be a weapon. [The serious shell of his face cracks just a little and something like a wry smile peeks through.] You know the drill.

[And.] We'll get out of this.

[Chris believes himself. He has to. Whatever this is, wherever they are--there's an exit. There's always an exit, even if they'll have to make it themselves. He starts down the hall. It's as dark as the cell; there are bare lightbulbs interspersed overhead, but they're not lit. It means there has to be a switch somewhere, or better yet, a main breaker. And the darkness isn't total, there's light coming from somewhere. It's just enough to see each other's faces, to give recognition, as well enough to follow the lead of the the electric wiring on the ceiling down the hallway.

He moves, filing away the sounds of their bare feet as friendly and keeping on the alert for something different. Without thought, Chris' hands have curled into loose fists.

[Claire does as told, smart enough not to question the professional and trusting enough to believe in her brother. There's a distinct lack of heat in the place, enough to be uncomfortable but not a hindrance to her movement. She spares a hand to push her hair behind her shoulders, irked that they -- whoever "they" were -- literally stripped her of everything she had. Weapons, she can understand, but what's the point of being this drastic?

She trusts Chris to watch the front, so Claire keeps most of her attention beside and behind them, just in case something decides to take advantage of any nook or cranny they might overlook in the darkness. It's automatically something in her mind, not someone.]

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