Hi guys, here we are again. Chap 25, LOL. This one is another POV, you have to read and find out. We're already situated in 2006 and 2008 events of RE 5. This one may be a little short, but is a piece of what's coming next. Hope you like it and I want thank Stardust and Trendkitty for their reveal and loyalty after all this time following and reading this fic. Guys you Rock! Thank you so much! But no more talk and I hope you like it!
Her face is unperturbed just like glass, reflecting the outside but never the inside.
Mother's voice echoes and reverberates up to the surface of her expression…except she controls it and pushes it back down to the void inside of herself.
Swaying from wall to wall, a nightmare coexists side-by-side with a dream. Reality parallels that of something unreal and stuck in the middle, the Woman in Red holds onto the nearest wall with both of her hands for a sense of solace in purgatory. This small action is something that proves she survives…somewhere…but, at this moment, certainly not in her own world.
With her right hand, she smears the blood on one wall of the beige cement wall connecting to the mansion she's just exited from. It is similar to the half moon mark over the threshold of the Jews in the Bible when the Angel of Death passed through. Only in this case, the dripping mark, hardening slowly with the gentle autumn breeze, is a warning of the End approaching faster.
Things have to happen in set chronological order and even a brief delay brings upon a mini chaos.
She turns away from the smear and faces the faint lamppost's light that reaches her hands through the corner of the alleyway. Taking out a towel the size of a slightly damp handkerchief from her left pocket with the tips of her fingers, she wipes her hands away like a lady after a meal: Lightly. Skillfully. Thoroughly.
For a second, she stares at the towel, light blue with a checkered pattern of white and dark blue stripes. Spots of dark, dark red disturb the tender design, a reflection of the heart of its giver. Immediately, within the span of a split-second, her face hardens and becomes serene again.
Streets away, she hears a low siren. It is the sound of the police cars speeding their way over. She only smirks - Meticulously late as always.
After all, everything is just for appearance's sake. They all play for the same team in this game. Her smirk fades away into thin lips once more.
Reaching down to the dusty ground, she opened up her opens it to insert the towel and bring out her slightly chaffing leather gloves. After putting them on, she clicks the suitcase close. With a tap noise of her leather shoes on the pavement, the woman puts her right hand into her pocket and holds her briefcase with her left one.
She wonders why only at the time of the kill makes her feel her heartbeat rise just a little. But why with everything in the span of each boring day, could her thick blood never be excited out of its dull state? Everyone here is headed in the same predictable path: Finish school, get married, have children, work hard in one company, and retire.
There are no dreams created when everything is so tightly structured and it is so "safe" that only few can talk about anything besides magazines self-help fashion and technological gadgets or the biased news and programs put on television. Who wants to talk about books or about "life" or contributions to people other than themselves?
Certainly, not one who lives within all these rules. And the people outside of it are deemed "strange", but aren't they the ones who can feel passion for something or someone?
They must be the only ones who can "feel real" here in this world.
Still, his body feels the impact of using all his power and instead of heading straight back to his office by running from the rooftop of one building to another like any other salaryman, he goes into the sea of black, gray, and navy blue business suits at the late rush hour around 11pm from the meeting with the smugglers. He takes a jeep.
Each time he gets onto the jeep and stands there like a twisted stone statue, forced into an indescribable mold by the mix of other residents of Africa and foreigners, he looks out the window and watches the darkness whir by. It is a time that brings him out of "specialness". This is what he terms to himself as "normalcy".
He is disappointed that he could never reflect the solid, fluffy snow heart of his mother. Somehow, no matter how much he tried, he could not ever be totally immune… that boy was blocking his way to becoming the perfect human: Able to fulfill any obligation, a resource to his society as a thoughtfully quiet servant of his government, and the ability to be strong and unemotional. In other words, he believed that no matter what he had to do, he couldn't be hurt by it. He could only get stronger.
The once called STARS were the obstacle that he could not strategize through. Chris Redfield and Jill Valentine weren't a task waiting to be done. They weren't a thing easily bought or automatically rewarded after much hard work.
The boy had to be earned through a currency he himself understood, but didn't know how to use: To Give or To Take.
Just because you knew something didn't mean experience made it easier or didn't blind you to what you already knew. It led to two distinct choices: It could set you free or it could trap you. He still hasn't consciously chosen which one it is. He knows the "right" answer. And knows the answer that he wants to really hold onto until the day he dies, if he dies. From far away, there is a weak vibration from the emblem of the curse of the STARS bouncing off his body.
- The next stop is Kijuju. The exit will be on the left hand side.
Stepping off onto the platform and out the gate, he passes the row of underground stores in the building. Walking up the stairs, he finally gets to his office. When he gets to the front door, the phone is ringing. He gives a mock sigh and goes in through the back. Closing off the darkest room with his hands behind him, he locks it along with all the things daylight isn't allowed to touch. With his black blouse unbuttoned and untucked and still wearing the pants of his suit, he heads over to the phone. He crosses his desk and out to the front where the shades are drawn. And the phone, ten minutes later, is still ringing.
"Like a postcard from someone on a day you need it though you may not understand why, why does she always know when to call?"
Picking up his glasses from the countertop next to the coffee maker, he walks over to the phone. Holding out the receiver towards the door and away from him (learning from past experience that it should not ever, EVER, be close to his ear when it's been ringing for that long).
Never one to make a simple entrance, Ada couldn't ever do anything without attracting attention. Even the phone couldn't contain just her voice. It had to reflect everything. And she didn't do it intentionally. It was just a part of her charm.
Wesker imagines her waving into the phone as if they can see each other. Maybe she can. Quickly returning the phone to his ear, he smiles a greeting back.
- Shouldn't you be sleeping?
- No. she retorts playfully.
- Are you watching Rebecca videos again?
- I was suddenly inspired to make an outfit when I was listening to anything in particular. She says
- What are you making this time?
There is a big laugh on the other end of the phone and an energetic answer.
- I'm making something for you!
Without a doubt, Ada's eyes are sparkling from inspiration and fire.
"Where does she get that? To do something with everything of herself, never tiring of it no matter how many times she's mastered the previous techniques and accomplished many of her ideas into reality?"
Well guys, that's it for now. Hope you enjoyed it and feel free to review and give any suggestion or ask anything. If there's something you didn't get, just let me know! See ya next time. Kennedy Out! =]