Taffer Notes: We find out why Sadja was cautioned against drink, and Redfield finds something he's good at and doesn't quite know what to do with it.
UNHINGED
An altogether angry gun muzzle jerked up and down in front of her, barking unintelligible words as it bobbed up and down, twitching left and right as it went. Indecisive little thing. Couldn't make up its mind which one of her ears to point at.
Sadja puffed out a wheezing laugh, a one-way sort of laugh that hacked itself up her throat and barely made it past her lips. What was it with the thing? Why was it so bloody furious? Even if she didn't understand a word of its rantings, their tone alone was already hateful enough. Downright rude, truth be told.
Though then her wits gathered themselves in a convenient sort of manner, and Sadja realised the lunacy that was a talking gun. She leaned her head to the side and tried to refocus. Up there, looming in her doorway, stood a dark haired, scruffy looking goon. He'd attached himself to the gun with a tight fisted grip, and his mouth was wagging somewhere within the confines of a shaggy, black moustache.
Violence stood written on his forehead, but Sadja thought he also looked terribly thirsty. Lucky for him, she had just the thing.
She lobbed the glass at him.
The goon, unimpressed by her generosity, slapped it out of the air with his gun. It shattered somewhere off to the left.
Arse…
Then he leaned forward, still spitting hatred at her, and grabbed a fistful of her hair.
Sadja's jaw set itself, left her gaping. She felt the ground pressing against her spine, and her shoulder blades resting on the cold. She felt her feet, heavy and lame, uselessly resting somewhere down there.
And she felt the fear, a lazy, clumsy stumble to it as it tried to get her attention, to tell her: This is trouble. Why are you gaping at him? Do something. Move!
Her chest constricted, squashed by a drunken panic, and pinned to the ground by the hatred spilling from the man. It pelted her soul, all pins and needles made of filth and rot. They tainted her as they sunk themselves into her, tore tiny holes as they grew vicious hooks and ripped free in bursts of staggering agony.
Sadja felt sick.
Hatred sat right up there with violent intent. To her, they tasted of death and decay, a persistent retching in the back of her throat that she'd never get used to, and when the goon yanked her to her feet, Sadja found herself drowning in it.
She grabbed for his wrist. Tried to keep him from tearing her hair out. Tried keep her legs under her, too. But they didn't know where to go. Her toes searched for some surface while the world tilted wildly, sent sideways and turning over itself. As if the ceiling would have liked to try itself at being a floor for a change, eager to proof it could do down just as well as it could do up .
Her back connected with something solid. Floor— Ceiling— Wall— it didn't matter. At least it was level and passed for upright, and upright was good.
When the fist boxed into her stomach she had barely any air in her lungs to qualify for getting it punched out of her. And she couldn't fold forward either, since the goon still gripped her hair tight.
"Where is the money," he demanded. He made the words sound funny, a bit clumsy towards the end like he couldn't form them quite right, but at least he set the mystery of why he'd come to ruin her dance straight. she knew why he was here.
Ruin her potentially everything.
He raised the gun to her head, pressed the cool muzzle of it against her forehead. Right between her eyes, where the metal bit deep.
You're daft, she thought at him. Least he could have done was to make himself a challenge. Make himself a threat. Instead he was being an idiot, and Sadja almost laughed into his scrunched up, bearded face.
First, she'd slap the gun away, since he hadn't bothered restraining her arms. Then she'd pull herself up by his arms, wrap her legs around his torso. Next she'd twist her hip and—
Oww…
Bright, white pain exploded against the back of her eyes the moment she tried to convince her limbs to move. It contorted her spine, twisted it about itself. Wrung her like a wet washcloth, bleeding life out of her.
More hatred. That's what kept her nailed to the wall. Not the gun. Not his hands. His hatred. It did a prime job, too. Kept her right in place until his fist came around again and connected with her stomach. This time he let go of her hair and she folded forward like a twig snapped in half.
Sadja gasped for air.
"Where!"
His shout barely slipped through the ringing in her ears, the high pitched chime that kept her mind flailing uselessly.
He lifted her. Threw her back into the wall. Hit her again. Lifted her again. Then came the muzzle, dug into her temple, twisted her head aside, straining her neck.
Think. Do. Think.
She couldn't. Every coherent thought burst apart the moment it tried itself at forming, and all she had was panic.
Panic, and Ceat.
His impossible spectre stood silent witness to her terrible failing. Sadja spotted him by the door, shoulder to shoulder with three more furious men. The one by his left she knew. She'd kicked his groin. Then she'd kicked his chin. Then he'd shot her. Now he spat orders at his friends, had them fan out to turn her crib upside down in search for the treasure she'd nicked.
Sadja's dry throat heaved for air and fought for words. Help me, she wanted to scream, but all he'd give her was that cruel smile that curled the corners of his pale lips. Even if he'd wanted to, Sadja knew, he wouldn't. Ceat the Goodman had always been big at reaping what you sow.
Ceat the Defeatist likely shared that sentiment.
And she'd sowed these seeds, alright. Had done so when she'd stolen from them, and then she'd watered them with drink. They'd gone sprouting now, growing all through her crib and eager to turn her into compost.
The goon snatched at her hair, fingers tightly tangled into her hair. He pulled her from the wall, and Sadja dug her nails into the thick coat on his arm, clung on so he wouldn't tear her scalp from her head. Her legs still refused to move on their own accord. They dragged uselessly, her bare feet sliding across the floor.
She tried to go for his eyes, made to scratch at them, but her muscles spasmed the moment she even thought to lift her other arm. They tore. Her bones creaked. She creaked . And then they snapped, and she snapped- and Sadja screamed.
Elaya's sheltering Hem denied her. It shamed her. For her weakness. For her sin. It broke her apart from the inside, much like it had done before.
And out there the goons laughed. Maybe Ceat was laughing along with them, mocking her for how she'd let herself come undone. Another yank at her hair and she was moving, dragged closer to the music by the kitchen counter.
Drums snapped at the air, an irregular, sharp rhythm like a volley fired from a stuttering rifle. Sadja reached for the noise, for the drums and the voice as they neared the counter. She tried to steady herself on the notes, tried to find something to hold onto that would let her head stop spinning and her legs to stop folding.
She missed.
Her chin cracked into the wood. Then her shoulder. Then the back of her head as the goon spun her around. A sheet of darkness settled over her eyes, then burst apart with bright, blinding light. No, of course she'd not be allowed that little bit of peace. That silence. No, she was expected to listen to the laughter carried her way on wings of hatred.
Above her, the air split. A staccato of two gunshots mixed into the beat ripping at her ears.
Oh. She'd been shot.
Had she? She couldn't tell.
Sadja's shoulders jerked and she slipped aside. Her stomach heaved. She tasted bile and alcohol. Threw up. Voices knocked against her ears. Loud, angry voices. Shouting.
One goon- A new one? The same one? She couldn't tell that, either- rushed right for her. He grabbed her collar. Wrapped it tight around her neck. Then he pulled her away from the floor, away from her vomit, and up towards her gadget proclaiming that "Lonely is the Night, Your demons come to light and your mind is not your own. "
Another gunshot cracked through the air. Closer— close enough to ring her ears worse than they'd been already. An acrid scent lifted itself against her nose, filled her throat and lungs.
The world began its descent into nothing, granted her thoughts a moment of clarity. She wasted it. Naturally. Her last thought weren't meant to be those of people she loved, but of gigantic boulders crushing her, or of being beheaded or stabbed- and how she'd always figured she'd get shot, but had never expected herself to be right.
And when she slipped, the cage flew open.
From it fled the beast, a fervour in its roar as it broke from its chains and bounded for the light.
They'd looked up to no good.
Six men had piled out of the van, and five of them had headed straight through the front doors with determination and violence in their steps. At first, Chris had thought himself paranoid. Coincidence, he told himself. No need for alarm. The strange girl wasn't the only one living in that tall building. There were plenty of tenants between the first floor and the luxury of the penthouse loft she'd claimed.
Not owned. Claimed. Did the property owner even know she was up there? Or was she squatting? High class, high risk squatting? He'd not bothered asking.
Chris stopped walking, gave his weary legs a moment of rest while he wondered if she even knew what a lease was. She'd probably pay in cash. Pinch a few bills from the money in her closet, right next to that 911 waiting around for just the right occasion.
Like tonight. That might be an occasion.
Chris felt his stomach sink with a leaden unease and pinched a box of cigarettes from his coat pocket. While he turned the probability of them headed straight to the front door around in his head, his wrist flicked once and shook a lighter and cigarette from the box.
Practiced. Easy.
What were the chances she'd deserve the attention headed her way?
Pretty damn up there.
And the chances he'd care?
Chris sighed, got his aching legs moving again. They'd gotten better, by a lot, but his right one still complained after an evening of walking, damaged muscle and sprained tendons throbbing dully whenever he set it down. He'd love a bed about now. Would love a cold beer, too. There'd been altogether too much walking tonight, and not enough sitting in the smokey comfort of a bar. He'd gotten himself lost along the riverbank and then down by tempting train tracks leading god only knew where.
And now you're back here. What gives, Redfield?
He stuffed the cigarette into his mouth, shoved the box back into the pocket, and began fumbling with the lighter.
He made no headway with the stubborn cigarette. Gusts of wind snatched at the meek flame, and he thought he'd likely gotten the whole pack damp when he'd dropped it in the snow earlier.
That ought to teach you, man. Can't piss and light a cigarette at the same time.
Chris closed in on the entrance, his head bowed slightly, for all intents and purposes giving off the impression of a man lost to a battle with his vices. His eyes cut up.
Man number six stood flanking the doors, a smartphone in one hand, and scratching at his neck with the other. At his approach he looked up and lowered the phone.
The stubborn cigarette kindled, and Chris took one long drag from it just as he reached the door. He inhaled slowly, a deliberate breath that drew his thoughts together and allowed him focus.
When he made to grab for the door handle, the thug's posture shifted. An arm came up, discouraging by blocking his path.
"Atvainojiet," he said. Polite enough, Chris thought. Not friendly, but trying. "Ne tik ātri."
Of course Chris had no idea what he'd said. Not like he had to. The man made a point by lifting this coat, revealing the butt of a sidearm holstered at his hip. The grab occupied his right hand, while the left still lingered by the phone. Wide open. Clumsy and stupid.
Right then…
The motion came quickly, without hesitation. Slide left leg back. Draw the right arm back, too. Twist of the hip.
Practiced. Easy.
It ended in a quick, jerky jab cracking into the thug's temple. Said thug's legs collapsed under him a moment later, and Chris had to step forward and heft him against his shoulders before he could crumple on the sidewalk.
Dragging him inside was messy. The lookout wasn't out cold. He groaned and muttered, his disorientated legs trying to make sense of the floor, and getting in Chris' way as he propped the door open with the tip of his boot.
Let's rephrase that question from before: What the fuck are you doing Redfield?
Leaning into the door, apparently, and letting it fly open so he could let the thug slide along with it. The man hit the ground face first.
Chris followed, shut the cold out behind them, and scanned the foyer idly for any more movement. Nothing.
On the ground, the man turned himself over. His clumsy hands searched for his gun, but before he could even get them under the tangled coat, Chris crouched by his side and followed up with another jab to the side of his head.
That one stung.
Chris flexed his fingers, tried to shake the sting from his knuckles and wrist, and glanced down at the thug. Out cold, this time. Still breathing. Maybe.
He frowned. Why didn't that bother him?
It should bother him. Shouldn't it?
He brought a shaking left hand to his lips, allowed his lack of concern to sink in, and took a long drag from the now bent cigarette. The one sided brawl had almost snapped the thing in half.
His eyes cut back to the still lookout, to where his coat hung open and revealed the handgun tucked into his belt. Chris inhaled again, one more drag in case it was his last, and pulled the sidearm free. The cigarette he dropped and ground into the ground with his boot.
A readily loaded Makarov. It lay light in his hand, small and compact. Barely worth the mention, really. But the feel of it lined his stomach with an almost gentle unease, stretching itself taught across his insides and turning to a sickly warmth. It felt real. Solid. Not made of wisps of fog drifting between his ears and clouding his mind.
He didn't like it. Or he did, but didn't care much to accept that.
Later. First let's get you killed, Redfield.
Chris filed the thoughts away and turned to check the Makarov's magazine. Seven rounds. He racked the slide back. Plus one chambered.
Eight little unpleasantries.
He extinguished the cigarette on the floor, rose to his feet, and took the first of many heavy steps towards the elevator.
After this, I'm done and gone.
There was only so much redemption a man could strive for without wearing himself out, and he'd been doing good the last few days.
Or so he told himself as the elevator door shuddered open and Chris trapped himself inside. The trip up passed quickly. Too quickly, and then he stepped outside, the Makarov trained down the hall. Practiced. Easy.
He stepped along with it, his eyes cutting down along its sights, and found thug number five.
By her door.
Her wide open door. Loud rock spilled from the loft, filled the hallway wall to wall, and Chris hated himself for being right.
Thug number five, who'd been staring into the room, noticed the movement from the elevator. He turned. His shoulders twitched and his eyes widened, and then a hand dove for a gun by his side.
No, you don't.
Chris squeezed the trigger. Once. Twice.
No need to think. Practiced. Easy.
The shots rang loud, echoed through the narrow corridor, and Billy Squier declaring this to be a Lonely Night found himself drowned out by the high pitched ringing in his ears.
Then thug number five dropped and Chris filed his lack of remorse for that away. Preferably somewhere dark and difficult to reach.
He kept moving. Kept the Makarov at the ready, a straight line of his arm extending into the steadily weaving barrel of the gun. Practiced. Easy.
The death of thug number five hadn't gone unnoticed. Chris just about let his coat tail peek into the loft when three ill placed shots peppered the doorframe. Frantic shots. Not well placed. Amateurs.
He set his shoulder against the door. Closed his eyes. Exhaled.
When his eyes opened he let himself slide forward and fired blindly into the loft. The thugs scrambled for cover, and Chris was granted a brief moment to take stock.
Three men. Two by the couch. One by the kitchen counter. He'd been dragging Sadja to her feet here. Pulled her up in front of him, held her up. Like a barely moving human shield.
Then things got… weird.
The nausea came first. It had no small. No taste. It slammed into him, a tangible urge to vomit that went right for his stomach, wringing it tightly and ever upwards. A mouthful of vile rot sat between his teeth, like he'd bitten into a side of roadkill, and he almost lost his late night bar snack dinner.
Inside, the three men did not go unaffected. He heard them gag. Saw one fall to his knees.
And then the small radio he'd picked up earlier this morning sputtered, its notes falling to the Pop-crackle-pop of static.
Crackle .
Growl.
A throaty snarl hacked itself from the speakers, rolled right through him. It scraped at his bones with rough, sharp claws. Broke them open. Sucked the marrow out of them. It told him Not another step- Pack your shit. Turn around. High tail it down the stairs.
And Chris got the message. Crystal clear. He simply chose to ignore it. When the radio said Pop , and Billy Squier stuttered himself back to life singing of a man on the prowl, Chris took a shaky breath and rounded the corner into the loft, the sensation of something alien and dangerous still clawing at his gut.
Sadja cowered behind the beast.
She let it rip Elaya's Hem to shreds around her, let it throw their filthy hatred back at them with enough force to send them stumbling.
Confusion flared brightly out there. Panic. Their feeble souls didn't know what to make of the predator stalking between them, its claws raking through their insignificant shades and tasting the promise of their demise.
It happened quickly.
The girl grabbed the thug's sleeve tightly. Her right leg snapped up, pushed into his hip. She hooked the other behind his left foot. Tore him off balance. And he fell.
The moment he hit the ground, Sadja leapt onto him, a tangle of limbs that snatched forward, all knees and elbows and one tight grab for a fistful of dark hair.
She slammed his head into the ground, and Chris picked up the sickening crunch of bone breaking. Another thing to file away for later, for when he could reflect in silence on how much force it'd take to crack a man's head open.
The remaining thugs refocused. Their attention snapped to Sadja and their fallen friend, and with them came their guns. They raised them in sluggish unison, and Chris lined up his next shot.
He clipped thug number three in the shoulder. Missed. Got number two twice in the chest when he turned to face the gunfire instead.
Empty, Chris counted. The slide on the Makarov locked open, confirming that it had just turned useless. He threw it to side.
By the time it clattered to the floor, Sadja had crossed the distance to thug number three. The man had barely regained his composure, and had just enough time to bring his arm up so she could slap the weapon he pointed at her aside.
She drove a fist into his diaphragm and let him fold forward. Then she slid forward, reached around his neck with one hand to cup his chin in her hand— and twisted her body around him.
Easy. Practiced. A dancer wrapping herself around her pole.
The thugs neck followed her as he pivoted around his axis. But necks were not meant to bend that way, and when he hit the ground, he also stayed there.
Chris watched her catch her momentum with an extended arm and come to a halt by the dead man. She glanced down. Tilted her head. Once left, once right— and then up towards the wide window with her reflection staring back at her. She froze. Her chin came up, jutted forward as if to challenge herself through the glass. But then her eyes flicked to the side and caught his reflection behind her shoulder. Her brows pinches. He could see her jaw flex, her teeth grinding. Could see her breathing slow.
Chris blinked and stood a little straighter.
What the actual fuck?
When she turned around and started walking towards him, Sadja swayed with each step. It wasn't a clumsy sway, but a deliberate one. Her hips followed a rhythm not far removed from the music still blaring from the radio, but just enough out of tune to not quite fit. "Red lights, Green lights…" Billy Squier sung, while she stepped around the body crumpled at her feet.
Her eyes cut from one thug to the other, then back at him, and she sniffed with her lips drawn back into a thin, pale line. A smile curled one corner of them. A smile that told him she expected him on that floor, too.
He'd have much rather preferred the quiet, curious stare she'd reserved for him so far. The one that made her look like she'd ask him why he'd stuffed his clothing into the round rumbly thing while she'd stood in front of the up until then unused washing machine in her bathroom.
He took a step back.
"You're welcome," he said, hoping she'd take that and it'd be settled and she'd stop looking at him like he was competition that needed eliminating. Or a dinner that needed having. He didn't really feel like being dinner.
His hands came up, but his hope withered against the tilt of her head and her slow, calculated prowl into his direction, one light step after the other.
Chris realised he was in trouble.
He'd not been worthy, not earned the right. How dare he sully her. How dare he, such a base, simple creature, set her ablaze. She balled her right hand into a fist and stalked closer. Every step burnt. Each step she took only singed her worse, the pain maddening her and driving her forward.
He backed away. Useless words came up his throat and his tongue wagged along with them. She paid them no need. Didn't understand them. Didn't want to, or need to. She considered to tear his tongue out though. Make him stop talking, because it annoyed her, and she didn't like things that annoyed her.
Sadja stepped closer, and the heat turned to the unbearable. She ground her teeth and faltered.
Stop, the soft and gentle and altogether idiotic part of her insisted, but the beast would not listen.
It'd show him. It'd set this straight.
It rushed him.
He stepped from her path. More words. So boring ! She wove around him, tried to get at his back, where she could snatch at his neck and tear him down. But he turned with her.
Come on. Stop.
No. She wouldn't. She darted in, aimed a quick jab at his side. His forearm came up. Deflected the strike.
Scalding hot— scorching her.
She yelped. Withdrew.
You're going to get burnt, she warned herself. The beast hissed. She hissed. They hissed. They snapped a knee up to crack it into his hip, and he slapped that away too. Child's play. The oaf was getting them and he was getting them good, and the beast fell forward with rage, blindly leaping into the fire.
Whatever grace she'd shown before was long gone, replaced by something far less effective. Anger. Rage. Things so blind they had her dart in without much heed the third time around.
He directed her rush to the side, wrapped both arms around her torso, and trapped her own against her side. Then he dragged her back into his chest and held her with her feet wildly kicking off the floor.
She cried out, a shrill cry of pure agony as if he'd just stabbed her. Repeatedly.
What now?
She kicked again. Let out another shriek, and he figured that about now the whole fucking building was awake— in-between the gunshots and her howling there couldn't be a soul possibly still asleep.
He had to get out of here.
Lock her in the bathroom— lock her in th— her forearms snapped up. Pushed at his elbows. Not much, but just enough to give her wiggle space. She was strong, unexpectedly so, and Chris knew what was coming and still couldn't stop her.
He cursed through clenched teeth as she twisted her hip to the right, sliding past him, and snuck a leg around his. Her knees dipped. She dropped. Not by much. Just enough. A nimble little fucking thing that grabbed for his knee and yanked him off balance, sent him falling backwards.
They both went. Chris barely managed to keep one arm around her neck to pull her along.
Strong. Nimble. Light as a feather too, but that didn't stop her from knocking the air from his lungs when she landed on top of him. He wheezed and tightened the grip around her neck, placing his other hand against her head and locking her kicking legs with his.
"Calm the fuck down," Chris hissed at her when he felt confident he had enough air in his lungs, but she only struggled harder. Her screeching was interrupted by alien words that he figured were colourful curses aimed at him. They were fighting words, regardless. She wasn't begging to be let go. Likely telling him she'd tear his balls off or stuff a cactus up his—
"Oh.. shut.. up.." He tightened the grip around her neck and started counting.
One… Two… She arched her spine, slammed back into him. Winded again.
Three… Four… She banged her fists into the floor, then pummelled them at every bit of him she could reach. That sort of hurt.
Five… Six… Her hands clawed at his arms. They would have been peeling the skin off him if he hadn't been wearing the coat.
Seven… Eight… She went for his head instead, but her efforts were clumsy now, weaker. They barely left a scratch.
Nine… ten…
And she was out.