MAY APPEAR CLOSER…
Eye contact, that steady, heedful thing. Useful in so many ways too; To see if someone's listening. To figure out if they care. To glean the truth, or to show affection. It can intimidate. It can lure. It can judge, and it can ask questions unspoken or tell tales untold. Hold someone locked in a stare long enough, and you might burrow into their soul. Stay trapped in it for too long yourself, and you'll find yourself changed forever. Or at least so some would have you believe.
Sadja liked to think there was more truth to it than there was myth. After all, your typical Sare's craft relied on their sight. Bind their blinkers shut, and they'd be as much use as tits on a bull. So who said it impossible that a good long stare could leave muddy footprints all over your soul?
And Redfield had taken to doing just that, trampling all over her, with that heavy stare of his.
Least he no longer judges you insane, she told herself. Though now as she sat there across of him, with a pile of spongy things he called pancakes sitting on a plate by her left, and a steaming cup of coffee next to it, she wondered if she hadn't preferred the blissful ignorance.
Now it was a whole lot of different things.
"Mwhad ?" She asked him, still chewing on the spongy thing and butchering the What right and proper.
The muddy blue stare refused to drop away. In front of him, scribbled with a blue pen on flattened out napkins, lay her clumsy attempts at drawing up what she knew about how a Sare worked their tricks. Since he'd asked again just how Ansel had done it, and she'd not found enough words for it, she'd decided to put it down on paper. He'd watched her sketching it while she'd narrated each stroke, and once she'd been done and shoved it under his nose, he'd taken to fixing his eyes on her.
If he was trying to stare her down, like one dog setting the tune for the other, he'd picked the wrong sparring partner. She'd managed to stand her ground in front of the Pariah and his world devouring set of stormy eyes for half a minute. And half of a minute, that was a few heartbeats. And a few heartbeats, that was a long time. Redfield, in comparison, presented himself as a walk in the park. A park that stood very much ablaze.
Sadja washed down the pancake thing with a gulp of coffee, not once letting her eyes wander.
"You asked," she reminded him.
A noise, something distantly related to a grunt and someone's brain cracking down the middle, rumbled up his chest. Though then he looked down, glanced at the sketch and picked the thing up.
Sadja shrugged, attacked the rest of her breakfast. Best let the man ponder life and things that lay beyond that in peace. It was a bitter enough pill to swallow, even without her harassing him. She chewed the spongy thing and let her eyes wander the place. Around them, the small noshery (or café as Redfield called those things) was good as empty. Cozy though, with old sturdy furniture hewn from dark wood, and an old lady, with roots in the same year as the dead trees most like, served the five meagre patrons. She wore a puffy green dress and an almost spotless, white apron. A TeeVee box hung suspended in a corner to Sadja's left. It blabbered loudly in what Redfield called Italian, a strange language by her standards. Not as harsh as what they'd spoke up in Edonia, or flat as the one in Vienna , but more lively in every regard. Even when the news was grim. Which it was, of course. Because apparently grim news was about the only news ever worth showing here, and the whole deal was getting entirely depressing.
A blue banner rolled across the bottom, a red one at the top, and this time there were pictures she recognised. She remembered the cobbled streets and the sturdy buildings, with the pillars of smoke rolling between them. Pictures of dead things, and things that should be dead, but weren't, popped in and out of the TeeVee box. There were uniformed bodies too, crumbled on the ground. Trampled and torn or shot or stabbed or whatever these BeeOwwDoulbeUewws did to them.
She glanced at Redfield, with his cogs still turning slowly as he glared at the sketch. It wasn't difficult to imagine that he'd known these men. Served with them, shoulder by shoulder, as soldiers so did. But he'd gotten out. They hadn't. She frowned.
He still looked all raggedy, even with Edonia so far behind them. The sleeves of the simple, olive green shirt were rolled up above his elbows, and his disheveled dark hair looked in desperate need of a clip. His scratchy beard had made a full return too, untended for a morning too long since he'd been too busy getting chased through an amusement park and tending her torn back to worry about that the day after.
Sadja let her imagination get to work, replaced the beard with a neat trim, made away with the soft shirt and a centimetre of his hair, and wrapped him in the rough greens and greys of the battle uniform she'd first met him in. 'That's more like it,' she thought as she armed him with things mean and dangerous and erased the scowl to replace it with focus and determination.
Not like it mattered though. Here he was, and here she was. Both terribly misplaced. She'd thought, at some point, that she'd made peace with her situation and could live with, or live out, whatever time she'd had left. But things never went as they should for a Shielding, did it? Apparently a Redfield wasn't off much better.
Her eyes flitted back to the the TeeVee box. The gruesome pictures were replaced with the image of a woman, her name suspended in the red banner above her.
Ada WONG it said.
Something-something-suspect and Neo Umbrella scrolled by below. Sadja craned her neck. She was pretty. A smooth, heartshaped face, a pair of dark eyes and full sensual lips, with straight jet black hair that sat neatly against her cheeks. Ada Wong vanished from the box, and on came an entirely different scene. One that made her heart beat hard with excitement.
"Huh," Sadja tapped at the table in front of Redfield. His eyes snapped away from the sketch, first to settle on her, then following her own stare at the TeeVee . The amusement park came into focus. The vehicles from last night were there, along with Nivans and his men. Or at least she thought she'd spotted his youthful face in there somewhere as the picture wobbled all over the place.
Redfield didn't seem to like what he saw. Not the men in their uniforms, or the ones in bright yellow that were wheeling things covered in tarp into wide metal beasties. Sadja figured Ansel was tucked away into one of them, along with the two Sarehounds, dead and ready for close inspections. Though while he disapproved of them, a grunt of distaste standing witness, something entirely more vile came bearing down at him the moment the pictures flickered back to Miss Ada Wong.
Whatever it was, it stoked the flames in the furnace. Stoked them high and violent, had her gates catch fire. She caught fire. And for three hurried heartbeats, Sadja hated the woman. She loathed the sensual curve of her lips, the smooth, alabaster skin, and the contrast of the jet-black hair against it. An almost unbearable urge to end the woman right then and there trapped a boiling breath in her lungs.
Her world dissolved with the need for retribution, with vengeance pumping hot and cold through her veins.
Reaper take you, Redfield…
She breathed out his hatred. The man himself didn't let the turmoil show. His jaw clenched and his brow furrowed, but then he wrapped her sketch up and waved it towards the door.
"Let's bail," he told her.
No room for argument there. She ditched the remains of the spongy goodness (it'd taste horrible anyway, with her throat burnt and scorched) and hurried after the furnace as he retreated from the scene.
"No, Sir…" - …for the third frigging time now.
Piers squeezed the phone between his shoulder and ear. He would have preferred "Yes, Sir. We know what happened." and "Of course, Sir. Nothing to worry about." and most definitely "Yes, Sir. We found him." But all he had was No . Empty handed, once again.
Too late.
If they'd only been a little faster, gotten off the airfield five minutes earlier. He clenched his jaw, grabbed onto the Humvee's doorframe, and turned to face the buzz of activity against the backdrop of an otherwise idyllic early spring morning. The blood had still been wet, the bodies still warm. A fresh trail had led them right to them, red splatters on the concrete ending at three Unknowns lying in the sawdust.
Five minutes. Five fucking minutes.
That's all it might have taken. He watched a Terra Save agent's back and forth with one of their B.S.A.A technicians as they loaded the last of the bodies into the waiting trucks. But almost getting here on time meant jack squat. Too late was too late. His supervisor's voice quipped though the phone, had him grind his teeth together. He wanted to tell him to shut up, to can the congratulations that were in there somewhere, because there was nothing to commend him for. As far as Piers was concerned, this was a failure, not a success. He'd come here to bring back Chris Redfield, not contain some situation that no one knew even existed.
Sure, he'd made the B.S.A.A lab rats squeal with glee. Thanks to him, they had something new and exciting to sink their needles and drills (and whatever the fuck else they prodded and poked shit with) into. But him?
Piers didn't get it. He didn't want to get it. All he wanted was things to be put together as they'd been before. He wanted his CO back where he belonged, not out there . Doing God knows what. With God knows who. For God knows whatever reasons. Whether he'd just snapped, or fallen to PTSD induced amnesia, as Piers sincerely hoped, didn't matter.
"I'll keep you up to date, Sir. We'll be shipping back by the end of the day. Yes. Yes Sir. No, I won't let up."
He dropped the phone from his shoulder and caught it halfway down his chest. Of course he wouldn't let up. Who the hell did they think he was? Where he lost sleep, others patted him on the back for his efforts. Where he shot halfway across Europe on the slightest chance of a break, others focused their efforts on their own issues, or, as Piers thought, sat idly by. Even Chris's own sister had resorted to providing resources, rather than her own energy. And Jill was off doing her own thing, rather than trying to chase down her old partner who'd spent a good part of two years of his life searching for her.
Who had their priorities right and who should be re-evaluating them wasn't any of Piers's business, but he wasn't about to let that stop him from judging them. Quietly. Didn't want to mess with those ladies, they were both equally scary.
Piers rested his arms on the steering wheel. He couldn't blame them, really. This was a goose chase. If Chris didn't want to be found, then Chris didn't want to be found. That Piers chose not to care, that was his problem. But this? The bodies? Four mysteries in need of solving? Four things that didn't fit into any of the B.S.A.A's numerous drawers? Those four weren't something he had to concern himself with, instead they were someone else business to sort out, even though they seemed to come packaged with his chase across Europe.
He squinted against the sun finally cresting the white-capped mountains.
And just why was Chris Redfield tied up with it? Now that was simple enough; Her . Whoever the fuck she was, she was trouble, and the next time he saw her, Piers vowed, he'd be taking her down. One way or the other. Because maybe, just maybe, he'd stop running then, and they could sort this out. Get the man some help. Fit him back where he belonged.
"Dammit Captain, where are you?"
He said the words aloud, just as the passenger door opened and his eyes flicked to the side, regarding the tired features of Emma climbing in after him. Despite himself, Piers found himself smiling, the curl of his lips breaking the strained frowned he'd worn through his call with HQ. A comforting warmth seized his chest, reminded him that no, he wasn't doing this alone, even if it sometimes felt like it. He had her. Had her tirelessly following him, putting up with his bullshit day in and day out. He just hoped he'd not lose her somewhere down the line, because at this point he didn't know if he could do this without her.
"Where we going, Redfield?"
Chris heard the question. It pecked at the anger, picking away at the rage that had him hold onto the steering wheel with a white knuckled grip. Half an hour on the road, and the rage boiled on. He couldn't place it, couldn't quantify where it had come from. Or so he wanted to tell himself. A lie, he knew. Except knowing the truth didn't help either. That woman, that stranger on the grainy old TV screen above the café counter. Her pretty face had come with a noose, and that noose had, without a word of warning, wound itself tight around his neck.
"I'm hoping there's a beach there," she said. Her voice tugged at the noose. His burden was a persistent one, he had to admit.
Chris glanced up at the rearview mirror. The pair of honey coloured eyes peered back at him. Then his seat gave a jolt and she pulled herself forward. He caught a whiff of hotel soap as she leaned between the seats and reached for the radio. Today she'd decided to wear a too wide, blue shirt that looped low around her neck and gave him a good look at the markings dipping away from her nape. He snapped his eyes back to the road.
Wild chatter rambled from the radio, all Italian, all entirely useless, and she kept flipping through the stations in her search for whatever floated her boat today. Rock again, he figured. Like any other day. Or hour. Though as long as she didn't start singing, he'd be fine with whatever she picked.
He looked down, at the curious burden in her quest for rock. She muttered illegible things under her breath and ignored him as he finally managed to tear a hand away from the wheel, and gingerly lifted the neckline of her shirt. Irritated red skin lined the knots of his stitches. Though aside of that, the wound looked almost closed. Like he'd taken the needle there a week ago, not last night.
Sadja clicked her tongue.
"Eyes, Redfield," she chided him when he found himself tracking her markings, following the bolts as they dove out of sight. "Shouldn't you be looking at the road?"
"I am," he lied.
"You're not," she challenged with a light-hearted growl. It swiped the noose right off his neck. Chris frowned, turned his eyes up front, and moved his hand back to the steering wheel.
A moment later she finally landed what she'd wanted. Sweet Child of Mine cried from the speakers, and with a twist of her back this way and that, the curious burden drummed her way into the back again.
Chris sighed, lowered the volume, and earned himself a violently shaking seat.
"When will you start being fun?" She accused. He heard her shuffle around in the back and risked a glance through the rearview mirror. A mess of papers were scattered over the leather, and she snatched one of them up. Once again his seat bucked and she dragged herself forward to rest one hand on his left shoulder. Again, Chris frowned. Then she stuck her head out next to him and rested her chin on his right shoulder. Another nose full of hotel soap shoved the remnants of his anger aside. Or maybe it was the strange scent of the curious burden. He frowned. Yeah. She even smelled out of place. Smelled of things that didn't belong . Things dangerous, barefoot and carefree.
Her right arm looped around him. A sheet of paper came with it, and Chris let her dangle it in front of him while he sorted stray thoughts of lovely backs and strange scents tickling at his nose around in his head. They were better than the anger. No less distracting, but better.
"What is it?" He eventually asked, grabbed it, and folded it out on the steering wheel.
"This is a Reaper," she educated him.
What?
He squinted at the pencil drawing. It was impressive, especially considering she'd only been working on it for twenty minutes. And it was just as otherworldly as the things she filled the air with, and every single word she'd said last night. Rushed lines, blurred and smudged in places, but all with skillful purpose, depicted a bridge. That bridge, wide at the end where it connected with the rocky edge of a cliff, and narrowing as it led across whatever gulch it covered, served as the perch for a winged beast. A dragon, of all things. Plucked right from fantastic tales and movies, with wings spread to its side as it crouched, ready to leap. The body lacked detail, having only been graced with hasty shading and a few hints at feathers lining gnarly bone or muscle pushing against skin, but its thick neck with the scaled head had received more attention. Its neck was coiled. Feathers, ruffled, he figured by how she'd made them stick out, lined it in a thick layer. The imposing head on the thing was all scales, feathers and a line of sharp teeth bared faintly as it seemed to grin cheekily at him from the paper. Cheeky grin or not, Chris thought it looked threatening enough. Especially with the large claws digging into the edge of the bridge. She'd even added a few bits of rock tumbling off into the depths.
A dragon. Chris blinked.
"Want more?" she squeezed herself back into his skull, her voice suddenly quite clear and all too close right by his ear.
He turned to look at her, caught the tail end of another quick smile, and a challenging twinkle in those damned eyes. Then he glanced at the rearview mirror to watch the road fall away behind them. Way back there, somewhere, stood the amusement park. Way back there, somewhere, were all the motels and hotels and the dumps they'd left behind since they'd left Edonia.
Way back there were things he didn't want anywhere near him. Things he didn't want to think about, know about. Things that wrapped a noose around his neck and clouded his mind with unpleasantries so thick they suffocated him. And whenever he thought he found a way through….
"Yeah," Chris told her, tore his eyes from the mirror and back onto the road ahead, and stopped picking at the roiling fog in his mind. "Sure."
Taffer Notes: Here we are. End of Part 3. Editing the last chapter for this section reminded me how much I'm still in love with it. I never want it to end :D