A/N: Since there's been some confusion, I feel the need to clarify a few things. The Shakahnna spoken of in this story is an original character created by my girlfriend some ten years ago. Both she and I have written several different stories featuring several different versions of her, and I happen to think that she is the finest character ever written, let alone finest original character. But then, I am biased. Having an in-depth knowledge of all Shak's quirks and perversions, I decided to do a 100-Theme-Meme with the premise of "What Would Shakahnna Do?" if she was involved in some of the situations in the Resident Evil games (the fandom in which she is usually based). This is the result. You have all been prescribed one dose of Shak per week. Now take your medicine.

1. Love

Something about being gagged and bound, confined to a claustrophobic little box with no light and only musty air to breathe, seemed to make time slow to a crawl. It could have been minutes or hours since Luis had been bundled into the closet at the back of the abandoned building by the Chief's men; he suspected it was almost definitely the latter. Enclosed spaces had never been a fear of his, but the oppressive nature of his imprisonment was doing its level best to change that.

All he could do to occupy himself and, in some small way, maintain his sanity was struggle.

He had wriggled his hands and feet in a desperate attempt to work up some slack in the ropes wrapped around his wrists and ankles. Unfortunately, he was almost certain that the cord he was tied with had sliced into the flesh of his arms. It was impossible to tell that it wasn't just his imagination, but at times he could feel blood rolling in sticky rivulets along his forearms. After a few instances of that, he lost his will to continue and gave up.

Instead, he threw his body left and right into the sides of the cabinet, trying to make enough noise to be heard outside of the building. He didn't know whose attention he hoped to attract; only the Ganados were around to hear the racket he was making, and they wouldn't respond to it. On the bright side, he could at least be sure that they wouldn't punish him for it, since they responded indifferently to anything that didn't concern them, or their orders, directly. Unless one of the leaders happened by and took a disliking to all the noise, he could pound away to his heart's content, safe in the knowledge that it would achieve absolutely nothing.

That said, his enthusiastic bouncing had already caused the locked dresser to teeter on its squat feet, threatening to send it crashing right onto its doors, several times already. It wouldn't take many more instances of that to discourage movement entirely.

It was with some surprise that he eventually heard the sound of the small, wooden cell's latch snapping off, moments before the door opened and he was engulfed by the sudden influx of dim, grey light. He wobbled slightly and then toppled forward before he was able to stop himself, collapsing onto the floor. Impacting solidly with the dusty boards beneath, he groaned, moments before a strong hand caught him by the shoulder and rolled him onto his back.

At first, he thought it was one of his captors. He snapped his hands up to shield his face, expecting the sudden pain of knuckles slamming into his nose or some other reprisal for the incessant din. Instead, he caught a glimpse through his fingers of a face, round and youthful, framed by an unruly mop of flame-red hair. His eyes also took in the semi-automatic pistol that she was aiming at him and he immediately started to plead with her not to shoot. Unfortunately, that instinct was easier thought about than acted upon, given that he was still wearing a piece of duct tape over his mouth.

She seemed to understand the problem and reached forward, tearing a slit in the centre of his gag with what appeared to be claws extending from her fingertips.

"You alright?" she asked him, looking around nervously, emerald orbs scanning the room's decrepit interior.

"Bueno, gracias Señorita," he grunted, enjoying having the chance to speak in anything other than a mumble again, though he immediately began to wish that she had just torn the adhesive strip off, "you're not like them?"

"Pfft, do I look like fucking scum to you?" she responded dismissively, holstering her sidearm and giving him an unobstructed look at the steel knives that were grafted to her gloves, "how about you?"

"Just in the wrong place at the wrong time," he informed her, to which she was silent for a moment, seemingly musing on his answer.

Eventually, she seemed to come to a conclusion and unceremoniously flipped him onto his front, using her bladed fingers to slice through the ropes that were binding his hands.

"Okay," he began, shaking loose the fetters and rolling over onto his back to massage his wrists, feeling the cramped conditions of the last several hours begin to take its toll on his joints, "I have one, very important question. You got a smoke?"

The redhead looked at him for a few, long seconds, before smiling, drawing attention to the line of ragged scar tissue that ran along her right cheek, giving her lips an eternal upward quirk. She reached into the top pocket of her tactical vest, retrieving a battered cardboard packet from within, which she promptly offered to him.

He stared at the box, and then at her.

"I love you," he blurted.