Author's Note: Strings of fate get knotted up.
chapter 13
coffehouse
adjective
/'kȯ-fē 'hau̇-zəz /
used to describe a move, player, or style of play characterized by risky,
positionally dubious play that sets traps for the opponent
Sikkim, India
20 September
Yumesongdong; BSAA base operation
06:27 AM
Jake adjusts his sunglasses against the glare of the rising sun.
When he had told Bruce he'd be game for whenever, he hadn't actually meant whenever. He certainly didn't mean the buttcrack of dawn. And why should he have had to have specified, anyway? No way a guy like Bruce has seen a clock before noon.
Not so, apparently. Jake doesn't just know that from Bruce's presence, either—the guy won't shut up about it. "I've been getting up with the sun since it showed up for my birthday. Ling's a real bear if I wake her, though. Don't tell her I said that, eh, compadre? If anyone asks, I called her a tiger."
At least Jake doesn't have to worry about dying today. It can't possibly end like this. Please don't let it end like this. He can almost imagine it; the last thing he ever hears is Bruce chattering like a proud housewife.
Thankful, Jake doesn't have to seriously consider knocking the man out for a chance at silence. "Alright, amigo," Bruce announces, finishing off a cup of coffee Jake is rather sure he didn't need, "I will go procure us some wheels. Back in two shakes."
A shrug is all he offers, the other man making his happy away around the corner to the makeshift motorpool. Bruce never seems to mind how little Jake is willing to share—he's happy to carry on all by himself. It's not that Jake's entirely against the idea of conversation, he starts them often enough (or picks fights, depending on who you ask), but it's just so fucking early. Give a guy a chance to get the sleep out of his eyes before asking for his life story.
As if to emphasize the point, Jake lets out a long yawn, dragging his hand down his face. Maybe he shouldn't have been so quick to shoot down the coffee, and since Bruce is taking his sweet time getting a damn car, might as well head on in and shotgun a cup.
The idea wilts quickly as the main doors open for someone, and Jake realizes it's his partner's bitchy babe. Great. Weren't they up this early to avoid her? With her attitude, she'll be yelling at Bruce for hours. There are worse things, he thinks, as Fong Ling lands her irritated stare on him. Maybe he can catch some more shut eye while they bicker. "You're boyfriend went that way—"
"I don't care, Muller." He raises an eyebrow from behind his sunglasses. "I need to talk to you." The hell would she be looking for him for?
"The mission wasn't my idea," he blurts, feeling a bit defensive. He's never been great at arguing with girls (his industry being decidedly male), and Fong Ling seems happy to play dirty. Her flat look is a loud indication she's not impressed, and Jake doesn't want any part of it. "Take it up with him—"
"It's suicidal!" she snaps, and Jake rolls his eyes behind his sunglasses. This is normally the part where he says he's just going where the money is, but there isn't any money this time. Something I am starting to seriously regret.
She places a thin hand on an equally thin hip. It reminds him a bit of his own bossy girl, but Sherry has more meat on her. Ling's a twig. "No one's come back! No one! It's not a mistake you make twice, but we did."
Shifting uncomfortably, Jake leans his shoulder against the wall of the building and looks out at the glowing horizon. "Two teams of six, wiped out. The only one to make it out, they had to put him down." Jesus, the girl didn't pull punches. "Do you know there names?" she asks, her glare unrelenting.
Jake's answer is to snort and keep his eyes on the scenery.
"Me neither." Somewhat surprising but not impossible; he'd come to understand they arrived rather late into the fall of North India. The water treatment failures were rather earlier on. "I don't know the names of anyone lost down there. I don't want to." Something in her tone makes him look at her, but he's found it's her turn to look anywhere else.
"It is a good idea," she concedes, finding the rising sun as interesting and distracting as he does. A vehicle revs around the corner. They both take a glance down the path towards the sound, Fong Ling peering around Jake as he twists to look behind him.
Finally, "Bring the Don-Gua back."
He looks back at her, darkly amused. "You putting a price on your boyfriend?"
That mean smirk returns. "I can make it worth your while." The lady isn't afraid to throw money around in place of her weight; she knows she's tiny, too. "Fifty-thousand."
Jake tips his head, letting out a low, appreciative whistle. "Done." Not that he wasn't going to anyway, but hey, if she's offering, right? Right.
He turns to face the approaching car—an MP Vx3Vrr jeep—and the front doors are swinging closed before Bruce brakes in front of him. Jake grabs hold of the roll bar to pull himself up and in.
"Radio's only playing emergency broadcast shit," Bruce warns, turning the dial up to prove his point. "But I can hum any Neil Young song of your choice."
Jake settles into the seat, grimacing at the offer. "Gonna actively pass on that, man."
Bruce only shrugs, completely unperturbed. "I'll just be going through the catalog then. You chime in when your favourite comes to mind."
Jake mouths 'nope' as his driver begins making good on his threat to hum. Though comically, the earnestness and enthusiasm fades in and out as he takes several attempts to turn the wide jeep around without hitting the fence or the building. With a victorious, "There!" they're facing the right direction and on their way.
"Nice fourteen-fucking-point turn," Jake offers, actually amused by how badly that went. He was laughing too hard to be angry at the time wasted.
Bruce tips his head in acknowledgement. "There is a certain finesse with big vehicles I lack, true." As they near the west entrance, he slows the deep down, ready to talk their way out. Jake elects to not help. If they wound up not going due to some stupid technicality, all the better. "I'm more of a sports car man, myself."
Jake snorts. "I do not believe you."
"Have some faith, brother," is all Bruce says, ever with a smile. Jake reclines in his seat, letting Bruce do his thing with the guard; a twangy greeting by name starting some small catch up.
He can't help but wonder what someone like McGivern is even doing in the BSAA. Jake has yet to hear any tales about his time in the field (though he has learned he was a part of some organization that the BSAA built itself off of), but the mooks just light the hell up when Bruce makes his rounds.
Like a fucking cheerleader, Jake muses as Bruce gets a laugh out of the guards (a second has joined them). Money is plenty of motivation in the world Jake comes from, but he supposes morale must be a heavy hitter for 'official' factions like the BSAA. Bruce isn't the tidal wave of inspiration that the mighty Chris Redfield brings down, but he seems to know every soldier's first name, favourite colour, how many pets, and always makes sure to ask about whoever's parents/significant other/siblings.
Blows Jake's mind a little bit.
It's a lot to remember and emotionally demanding; every soldier lost is a friend, and on top of that, now there's a Fido waiting at the door for nobody at Pop's place. The mercenaries in the circles Jake ran with didn't talk about themselves for a myriad of reasons, but Jake never complained; when someone died, he could pretend the story ended there, and tried not to think about who was left behind.
Bruce dives right into that shit.
If it works, it's not stupid, Jake thinks, giving a small up-nod of appreciation to the guards as they shake Bruce's hand. Just like that, they're on their way. Maybe it's a little stupid. Getting emotionally involved like that with everyone Jake meets would be the end of him, he's sure.
The rest of the drive is unremarkable, Bruce concluding each hummed theme with the title, album and year of release. The man's a wealth of useless knowledge, Jake concludes, nearly drifting off twice on the way to the facility entrance. He's lulled by the uneven road, the ground parched and cracked.
He's attentive enough to listen to Bruce explain that the push up the river will be after they secure the treatment plant. The area has been relying on it since the rivers down south were targeted, but that makes it prime real estate. If whoever did this finds they can't have their way up stream, it's not hard to imagine they'll go for the water treatment facility. The plan is to enter through this nearby entrance. It's a maintenance hatch according to the blue prints, so they'll have to walk the tunnels to the main building, but it shouldn't take too long.
The plan is clean cut: clear out all the monsters they can along the way; make sure the auto-pilot maintaining the whatever operations that make sure the drinking water lives up to its name is good, and finally; secure a path for the staff to be able to come in with only a BSAA member or two to keep things running smoothly.
Only when the current supply is secure will they attempt a river raid.
It sounds almost insultingly easy, but they've lost twelve guys to this place. For however little Jake thinks of the jarheads, he's willing to bet they all know how to point and shoot. To think two whole squads were taken down... Jake blows out a breath. The environment must be a mad disadvantage, and the Charile many. Like, stupid many. Sometimes skill doesn't have anything to do with anything, when the sheer numbers are too much.
"...And that was 'Old King', from the album Harvest Moon, released in nineteen-ninety two."
Maji Wilaya, Kijuju
21 September
Destabilized Zone; airfield office
06:33 AM
Hiro Wesker. Ninth clone. With his father, he's from a family of two. Strict middle class conditions. Kyoto, Japan held more beauty than challenge, and it appears His potential was wasted between the gardens and castles. Having the rare opportunity to put calculus to good use, Hiro made his salary be studying and predicting trend curves for a JP Umbrella marketing group. One of the few of us that actually made it to Umbrella. His office had a decent view of the company atrium, I suppose he had that much going for him. Died of a chest embolism.
I find the 'failure' status of Hiro's portion of the project to be a rather harsh judging. We were, apparently, meant to thrive no matter the circumstances. It's hard to persevere, however, when there is nothing to overcome. I wonder if I would have fared all that differently, in such a bland, uninspiring setting.
Sheva sighs through her nose, shaking her head. That AW folder has been a Goddamn treasure trove of knowledge about Project W. It's odd, having nothing but details and no outline, but she's spent her time slowly reverse engineering the whole concept.
This is what Wesker meant when he had said 'they were manufactured'. Thirteen unsuspecting infants, orchestrated in a pass-fail course for the worth of Spencer's legacy. And apparently Wesker has a lot to say about the ones he outlived. So far, she's got the impression he's the only one that learned the truth.
The whole thing is bizarre, like everything else she learns about Albert Wesker, but what's sitting crooked in her chest is the feeling she gets reading his notes. His odd… almost sideways sympathy for his brothers and sisters. He mocks their lives but is still gentle with them. It betrays the insane, cold man she met in the ruins and threw into a Volcano. She doesn't like it. This weird… longing that his musings convey; like some secret part of him wishes they met, or that they'd had a life as good as his.
It reminds her that Albert Wesker might have been a person, once.
A bad one.
But a person, nonetheless.
Sikkim, India
20 September
Yumesongdong outskirts; maintenance entrance east
06:27 AM
Bruce chews on his toothpick.
The breeze crawls down the mountains, cool but dry. There's a set of cement stairs he stops the jeep by, the metal door there looking dark and imposing against the yellow dirt it's embedded in. It looks heavy and, worse, unused. That's what strapping young men like Jake are for, though, after all.
"Alright then," he says to himself, turning the key and killing the ignition. Jake is already hoping out, Bruce following slowly, stopping to get the windbreaker he tossed in the back seat. Not that he's expecting an impressive current down below, but the tunnels are leading into a facility lined with steam pipes and sixty foot vats of water. There's a high probability the atmosphere will be royally dank. Almost everyone is surprised to learn he was an Eagle Scout, but that doesn't stop him from trying to be prepared.
"It doesn't look locked," Jake calls out. Already in front of the door, he's leaning away from the wide metal handle. "Doesn't look like you can fucking lock this shit," is his follow up mutter as Bruce comes to stand next him.
"Well, most days," and Bruce shakes out the 'breaker, preparing to pull it on. "Who'd wanna break in?"
Jake wisely has full-fingered gloves, though he probably wouldn't flinch away from spider webs stuffed behind the handle. "Not a lot of people looking to bust in to this shit hole?" Bruce's head pops out of the pullover, the fleece lining and dry air launching his hair in every direction with static electricity.
There's a thick thunk as the door catches on all the windblown grime in its hinges, forcing Jake to use both hands to force the door open. The heavy metal groans in protest, but eventually yields to Jake's elbow grease with a sharp whine. The slab of steel swings open, thudding against the sand and dirt hill, Bruce's young companion grunting and stepping back to keep his balance.
"Feel free to help next time," he offers sarcastically, wiping his hands on his pants.
The smell of water and time dredges out from the opening, an aged mildew scent. Bruce steps into it, checking the path down. "I was helping in way for supervision, compadre," is all Bruce offers, noting that the stairs inside are undisturbed; the mountainous desert debris is spread even. That's a good sign.
Maybe we beat 'em to the punch, he hopes, as Jake advise him that his response is 'some bullshit' as he places his sunglasses on the back of his neck.
The sun is rising steadily, yellow light cutting into the dusty air, but it doesn't illuminate much for them. Dirt covered stairs and a slanted ceiling is all they can see from there, and it's all they're going to see if they don't get a move on.
Bruce's main concern is keeping these spooks out of the plant. In a perfect world, the zombies down here are enough to keep Them out as it did the BSAA. Things just haven't been going that well, though. With their luck, one of the terrorists will get far enough to get infected and fall into one of the storage basins, poisoning the supply.
"As your fearless leader," he announces, putting a foot on one of the steps. There's no give, and that's safe enough for him. "I will go first."
"Fearless Leader can open the fucking door next time."
"Fearless Leader dictates."
"Is Fearless Leader gonna go, or what?"
Bruce gives a resounding, "No," but begins the decent into the maintenance stairwell. "Let's mosey."
Flashlights blink on, though there isn't much to see just yet. The beams glide across the narrow space, revealing writing in three or four languages. 'Emergency' and 'Exit' are stamped in English along the cement walls in interleaves with the, presumably, same words in the other languages.
The further down they go, the wetter the air gets. There's less dust, but more moisture. The walls begin to dampen until there are beads of water rolling down from cracks in the ceiling. The sound of running water is sprinkled with the snap of the occasional fat droplet slapping into scattered puddles. Their boots begin to make sticky noise, leaving prints in the sludge.
Bruce's hair is beginning to stick to his forehead and neck when Jake calls out to him.
"Hey, boss," and Bruce stops at another door. It's humming on it's hinges, glistening as the flashlight cuts across it. The water way is surely beyond it. "What do you wanna do about the door we came through?"
Good question. They can't leave them all open, in case something gets out. Still, if they need to get out (and probably in a hurry), having that outter hatch shut will be a nightmare to push from this side. "We'll shut this one," he says, jerking his head towards the door behind him. "And leave that one."
Bruce can just make out the the red outline of Jake's hair as he nods. A drop of cool water hits the back of Bruce's neck and he scratches it, trying not to get lost in dark thoughts. Sure, Jake is here for a job, and he's clearly experienced. He's just a kid, though. A well seasoned mercenary, bur just a kid. And if things go tits up...
"Listen," he says, shining his light on Jake's chest so as not to blind the merc. Jake's features are cast into heavy shadows from the angle, but Bruce can see irritation from the tight set of his jaw. He keeps quiet, willing to listen, though. "Don't feel compelled to crowd surf for me. If it gets bad..." He digs in his pocket for the keys to the jeep. "You let them work for their last meal and skedaddle, ya hear?" and he tosses the keys up to Jake.
His gloved hand cuts into the beam, the metal from the keys kicking light out in all directions. He pockets them, but doesn't seem happy about it.
"And deal with your harpy wife? No thanks."
Maybe it would have been a touching moment, but Bruce latches onto a word more than the sentiment. " 'Wife'?" He faces Jake fully, moving the flashlight up to Jake's face, who swears at the light in his eyes. "Did she say that? She called herself my wife?"
His arm up to protect his eyes, Jake gives a jagged shrug. "No, I don't know. I guess..." He shrugs again, lifting his arm enough to glare at Bruce. "...you seemed married, can you put that down, boss?"
Bruce grins, ignoring the sarcasm that comes with the title. "We seem married? Well, don't that beat all."
"I will fucking beat you if you do not get that shit out of my face."
"Could you tell right away?"
"Bruce. Come on, man."
Sikkim, India
20 September
water treatment facility; east waterway
07:47 AM
Jake is starting to see why this place gets to people.
There's aesthetic nooks, alcoves and offshoots everywhere. Things can be hanging out around any corner, and there is just so many Goddamn corners. Zombies get pretty loud, but the rushing water, while not a deafening, certainly eats up anything that isn't trying to be heard. The walkways are slick and slimy, and Jake's glad he hasn't had to run yet; he suddenly has a very real fear of drowning.
The walk's been safe so far, but they haven't left this main route. He's willing to bet each branch they pass is housing something mean. It'd be a lie to say he didn't want to explore. He's itching for a fight, and he hasn't seen one since they moved him to the refugee camp. It'll be good to relieve some stress.
"What the hell do you think we'll find down here?" he asks. The lights are off, probably some kind of preventative measure from the last crew to leave here, and the white light of their torches hop around, skipping from the slick floor to the shinny walls and forward into the dark. Despite Bruce's insistence on going first originally, he's since retracted that statement since he has a not-wife to go back to. Jake's not impressed with the gallantry.
"Moose and squirrel."
"What?"
Jake turns around, pointing his flashlight at the wall to let the reflection illuminate Bruce.
"Moose and squirrel," he repeats, this time with a lame Russian access. Jake stares quizzically at him, frowning. "Rocky and Bullwinkle, man," Bruce sighs, like this weird conversation is somehow Jake's fault.
"I don't... know what that is," he answers honestly. Assuming they're done, he turns around, and begins moving forward again. He keeps his light on the wall, looking for another directional arrow.
"No." Jake stops and turns, finding Bruce hasn't moved from his spot. "There is no way I'm so old I'm saving the world with someone who doesn't know Rocky and Bullwinkle." Jake stares. "Way Back Machine?" And stares. "Fractured Fairytales?" And stares.
"War-torn Eastern Europe, boss." Jake rubs at his damp neck. He's grown more used to this, working with people that grew up in the Western world. They're always so surprised when he doesn't know a childhood staple. "Didn't exactly grow up watching TV."
Bruce tilts his head in acknowledgement of that. "There were comics," he offers, like, once again, this is Jake's problem.
"...weren't a lot of that shit either," he advises caustically. His tone suggests 'drop it'. Jake isn't overly opposed to talking about his childhood, but it's not a great story. Kind of a downer. He'd rather skip it. Bruce makes to keep going, and Jake just leaves him behind.
Finally, the reach a three-way junction, the water disappearing beneath a jutted office. Bruce had past the time running children's shows past Jake, becoming increasingly more depressed at every decline he received.
"Surely ya'll have seen the Animaniacs."
"Is that that Japanese cartoon shit?" Jake asks, testing the door, and finding it unlocked.
Bruce lets out a theatrical sigh of 'oh man.' "Let me adopt you, compadre. Give you a proper upbringing."
"Absolutely not—"
Jake's divided attention nearly costs him his life. He pushes open the door, lulled by the water and Bruce's chatter, forgetting their are monsters—and one falls right on top him. He couldn't hear the moaning through the door, but he can now; the ghoul groans up at him, Jake struggling to push it off his chest and maintain his balance.
"Got'cha," grunts Bruce, taking the zombie by its arm and throwing to the ground. The tunnel is lit with orange-white light from the flash of Bruce's muzzle.
Flushing with adrenaline and embarrassment, Jake shines his light into the office, and drops the two moaning fools inside. He bites off a curse, wanting to blame Bruce for the mishap, but mostly mad at himself. That is exactly the kind of rookie shit that got all those BSAA members killed, and Jake takes some pride is being better than the jarheads. Is that what killed all those guys? Fucking boredom?
He cracks his shoulder, clearly annoyed, 909 gripped tightly, and Bruce claps him on the back. Jake shrugs him off roughly, stomping into the room. "Let's see what we've got in here," is all Bruce says with a nod, like Jake hadn't just screwed up. It's fine; it's not like he wants to talk about it. But he'll be pissed for a bit.
"Well, hello."
Jake looks over to Bruce's side of the room, his flashlight trained on some kind of—oh.
Bruce fiddles with the switches, looking to catch a current. Finally, he latches onto a signal. The breaker flows energy into the machinery that still functions, and they're given a small amount of light. It took more time than either man would have liked, but it's enough to see ahead of them. Although whether or not they were properly prepared for what they might find is now yet to be seen.
"Let there be light!"
Several of the bulbs Bruce sets to light immediately flicker and burn out, the high ceilings dotted with squiggly orange lines as the hot filaments cool. The result is inconsistent blobs of light scattered arounf the open room and down the water channels. It's not entirely helpful; the bulbs are caked in dust and matted with cobwebs, making for an odd colour of yellow to be cast over debris and forgotten machinery.
It adds a lot to the imagery, and Bruce begins to grouse he liked it better with the lights off. Jake's inclined to agree. The room they're in now is still decently lit, revealing left over parts, a strewn pallet. There's a large series of windows, spanning the wall that faces the water. It's all square panels from the waist up, but like everything else here, the glass is opaque with grime.
"This ain't the operations room we needed, right?" Jake asks, just to confirm. It doesn't look mechanically inclined enough.
"Corretomundo," is Bruce's response. There's a desk against the wall opposite of the view, buried beneath boxes of papers. He attempts to flip one of the tops open, and audibly grimaces when all he can do is peel it back. Water and shade has made the cardboard and their contents moldy. "Won't learn anything here."
Jack finds the door opposite of where they came in locked. "Dead end," he announces, stepping carefully over the body on the ground.
Bruce is reading a calendar pinned to the wall, looking for who knows what. "Check for a switch or something," he tells him distractedly, apparently finding something worth reading on the outdated piece.
There's another panel, aside from the one Bruce screwed with for lighting. It's jutting out, coils of wringing hanging underneath, and Jake briefly wonders if that's safe before remember this place usually isn't so moist.
There's a broken out lamp on the floor that probably used to live on the rest of the closed off area is bear. Glancing over the machinery, Jake can't ascertain what it was for. Bruce continues to read aloud to himself, and Jake continues to ignore him, crouching down to look beneath the controls.
Ah-ha… Isn't it nice, when there's a big, red button? Several bits of rust flake off as Jake stuffs his hands between bundles of wires, hoping none of his fingers get devoured by spiders, because that's the kind the shit day this is—
click
There's a pause, followed by the sound of something heavily moving. Jake pulls his bite free hand back and stands. Let's see if that worked, and for no good reason he can come up with, it does.
"We're good," he says, shinning his light down the tunnel. It's the opposite side of the junction, sporadically lit up by the dirty, hanging lights. The dust and wet air spared nothing, coating the bulbs in a film. He looks back at Bruce. "You get the shit you need?"
Bruce shrugs. "Wasn't much to get." His tone is bored as he moves past Jack, who watches him oddly.
"Why'd you fucking you read it, then?" he asks, following behind with his gun drawn. That encounter did more than wake them up; it let them know they've reached the monsters.
"Oh, I didn't want to get electrocuted," he states simply. "So I read some stuff while you played with open wires."
...
Sikkim, India
20 September
water treatment facility; central waterway
09:32 AM
Bruce can't fathom Jake's silent treatment.
Still, it's just as well. The excitement has picked up, and idle chatter has to take a back seat. As if to make a point, an ashen man lurches into the pathway out of an alcove. He's wearing a blue jumpsuit, the shoulder and ankle nearly black with blood. His yellow safety helmet is still strapped to his head but twisted to the side, covering a part of his slack face.
Still on point, Bruce lifts his gun, waiting for the poor guy to sway into an angle that's better for a headshot. Not that bullets don't go through hardhats, but they will ricochet at odd angles. Safety first.
The gun is loud in the wide tunnel, and Bruce grimaces at the spray of blood and bone. This atmosphere has kept the bodies fresh, and every exit wound has been especially wet. Demonstrating his point, brains splatter along the wall, followed by the wet slap of a busted head hitting the cement.
He liked it better when the water was too loud.
The man is very dead, but they give his body a wide berth as the move past it. This place it too noisy. He'll be sleeping with a fan on for a week. The tunnel opens up to another junction with another office, only this one is much bigger. On the second floor, too, requiring the iron grate stairs to their right to reach.
This is probably it, he thinks. He's going to tell Jake they'll take a breather up there, do a quick clip count, when—
"Jake?!"
—a voice much higher pitched than his cries out for his partner. Even with the lights on, they train their flashlights up high, shining on the girl in the door way. Thin, blonde, and looking about as confused as Bruce feels. "Compadre?" he asks, not taking his STI Eagle off the girl. Jake takes a running step past him, towards the stairs.
"Sherry—!"
Author's Note: Teasing! Just teasing you all. The length of chapters is going to kick up from here going forward, as your reviews said that longer chapters are okay. Predictions for Jake and Sherry's reunion? Be kind to one another. We update Tuesdays.
R&R