Down.
The flying box jostled. Not just once, no. That would have been too bloody convenient. It wobbled and it rattled, a hollow sound of the frame around her getting itself shook up hard, and Sadja was all manners of not okay with it.
They'd die. Right here. Right now. Goodbye cruel world, I wasn't convinced you were worth it anyway.
Her fingers curled into the folds on her trousers. Her throat clicked. Then the fat bellied, flying beastie sort of tilted forward, even if the metal by her feet looked perfectly straight. And perfectly thin, she figured. Too thin, and she wondered if it'd peel off. Tumble away into the clouds, and leave her with a good long look at the sky, and then a great deal of falling.
Lots and lots and lots of falling. Ending in a SPLAT of a fledgling Keeper meeting the stubborn ground.
She drew in a sharp breath. Tucked her chin against her chest, and stared past her knees. Rattle—rattle—rattle the thing kept going, until her stomach got yanked down hard, followed soon after by a hard smack of the flying beastie hitting the ground.
It stuttered and it creaked, and it wobbled something fierce, but it didn't come apart at the seams or go up in flames.
Good.
"You look a bit pale."
Sadja looked up. Across of her, dressed in heavy greens and grey, a man smiled at her. Marco was his name. Marco Rose, and he was the genuine sort. A fan, he'd said when she'd met him first. Of her and her photography skills, and that had tickled her. This though, this flying today? That didn't tickle her at all. Not in any way she'd have liked.
"This wasn't fun," she admitted, and his smile grew a little wider.
"Used to riding coach?"
She blinked, thought of horses pulling said coach, and figured that wasn't what he meant. Her eyes cut left, to Redfield looking her way. Help, she asked with a flick of her brows into the general direction of up, and the Furnace gave the faintest of nods.
"Mh… coach. That's what I usually ride. Coach. Much more— comfortable?"
Redfield's lips twitched. Good girl, they said. A quiet sort of approval that looked out of place on him. Timid. Tindy. Dwarfed by the hard edges on his face, and lost in the weight of his gear.
Much like Marco (and everyone else), he'd dressed himself ready for war. It wasn't the same set he'd sported back in Edonia, since that had come with padding to get him through the cold. This one was altogether different. Lighter. A vest of sorts sat draped over his torso, and below it he wore a tightly fitting piece in dark greens reaching halfway down his arms. When he'd put the thing on the first time, Sadja had thought it looked a bit like he'd grown scales. Very fine scales made of Elaya knew what, and Sadja had gone and poked at it, frowning. It felt smooth. A little slick. And then he'd slapped her hand away because she'd started tugging on it.
The vest looked heavy in comparison. Sturdier too, and it came lined with pouches.
They'd stuffed her into gear too, though hers was a little different. A simple, but thick cotton shirt in black, trousers that weighed heavy hanging from a thick belt clamped around her midriff, and a vest of her own.
Sadja hated that vest. It stuck to her. Crowded her. Much like the belt keeping her tied to the beastie's arched wall behind her, and she went and tugged at that. Were they about done yet? Was it time to go? Time to do something else than sit? She wished she could slip from the seat, and slip from the vest too, give her lungs some room to move.
Ack..
Sadja fidgeted. Gave the barr on her neck a lift, tried to let some air in, and missed her jeans and t-shirt. Horribly so.
A little later, the airplane quieted. It rolled on smoothly, and Sadja shifted on the hard seat she'd had to keep her ass planted on for entirely too long. Her legs felt heavy. Her feet cold. The air smelled funny, though at least it had stopped being so damn thin and stale, and had almost gotten a bit of spice to it again.
But none of that changed how very little she'd enjoyed this particular trip across the skies, no matter how much she'd liked the last few. This one hadn't been fun.
She threw a miserably look at Redfield, who'd turned the other way and started talking into his ear-mouth thing. Microphone. That's what this was called. A microphone, and he was acknowledging something or the other, and next to him, Nivans gave a few curt nods.
After that, things moved a little fast.
She didn't need the barr off and her gates open to see how the five men who'd boarded the airplane with Redfield and her grew restless. Or how the Furnace himself did anything but. Where they began tugging on their harnesses, and their boots started shuffling, he remained… very him.
Silent, stone faced. Focused. More so than ever, she thought, as if nothing mattered but him and his grim purpose.
A red light flashed into green, and overhead a bright glare joined the soft glow that had been with them since they'd boarded.
Redfield unlatched his harness. Got to his feet. "Disembark," he told his men, and click-click-click they went as their own ties snapped open.
Sadja followed, though she did so with a care not to get into anyone's way. They gathered weapons, which had been secured at the front of the beastie, had them handed out by Nivans with a narrow scowl on his brow. When it was her turn, the scowl faltered. Fell flat on its face. He hesitated. Glanced up and around her, probably looking for Redfield and a hint of I changed my mind, let's leave her here, but when he didn't get that, he handed her a sidearm.
Very reluctantly, and she had to give it a pull before he let go.
And because Sadja had been bored for all too long, she let her tongue go off without explicit permission: "Thank you, Neevanz."
He gritted his teeth.
They didn't head down a rickety set of stairs, or go through a tube, like she'd done before when Redfield had taken her home to his Americas. No, this beastie just shat them right out, opened a hatch at the back, and they thumped down it until their boots hit asphalt.
Dusk greeted them. Or what was left of it, at any rate. The the skies were a shade too dark for day, but still a little short of night. No stars. No moon. Dark clouds rolled by quickly, carried by a hard wind that tasted of earthy spice competing with the stench of processed oils and smoke.
A look around showed her mountains not too far off: tall, blocky shadows raking at the heavens. The city around them looked tiny and flat in comparison. Shy in their presence. But it tried, and as she turned on the spot and looked on across the twinkles of light lining the ground, she saw how it had grown towers and wide roofs, and thought it might all look quite pretty up close.
"Where are we, Redfield?"
"Where we going, Redfield?"
That hadn't been what she'd asked, but what he'd heard at first. Like a ghost of too many (too little) roadside breakfasts and a coffee stained map.
Chris packed the memory away, and looked at Alpha team's brand spanking new adviser. Who, even now that her feet were back on the ground, looked pretty damn twitchy. Her fingers danced over her gear. Pinched here. Pulled there. Dove into pockets, and then came back out to wander up to her neck and gave that a scratch.
He swallowed. She looked— what? Interesting? Peculiar? Absolutely thrown off balance, with everything on a little wrong, and quite possibly unhappy. The combat vest, for one, was stiff and unwieldy on her. Heavy. It shrunk her in front of him, made her look even smaller than without, as if that bit of bulk was about to eat her up and leave him with nothing but empty gear.
His heart rapped hard against his ribcage, and Chris placed himself in front of her. When Sadja tilted her head up at him, he reached for the barr around her neck, and busied himself with adjusting it.
Carefully, because he'd found out she didn't like it when anyone but her untied it. Had found out the hard way.
"Florence," he clarified, and moved on to the radio tucked inside a chest pouch on her vest. He pulled it free, unravelled the wire attached to it, the earpiece on one end. She watched him, her honey coloured eyes tracking his fingers.
"We'll get ground transport out of the city—" his arm came up, indicated the sharp line of mountains against the darkening skies—" head out for another two hours."
"And then we'll get right to work? Knock on the front door, that sort of thing?" She tilted her head, gave him room to attach the earpiece, and he was careful with that too. He hooked it around the lobe of her ear, settled it firmly in place. Her eyes fluttered shut. Her lips twitched. A smile. Come and gone within two careful beats of his heart.
"Then," he added "we find out if what we have on the compound is any good. And no, I don't think we'll be knocking."
"Vil Marrk would think that horribly rude." Sadja's eyes opened, met his, and he shrugged.
On the way back to the radio, his gloved knuckles caught on the warm skin of her cheek, rode the line of her chin. A passing touch, careless and yet anything but, and Chris wanted to say You could stay here.
But he'd tried that already. Hinted that she should stick with their handler, who'd be feeding them intel once they reached their destination. She could have watched them from there. Advised if— "Bloody hell, Redfield," the memory of her voice cut in. "You know that ain't about to happen."
Yeah.
Besides— his hand dropped away, found the radio to dial it to the right frequency —he liked having her close by.
It grounded him.
She grounded him. Tethered him to a measure of peace, and reminded him of something. Of what, he had no idea. But it was important, and it came with a distant, stubborn itch at his insides.
Chris tucked the radio back into its pouch, secured it with a firm push, and felt her lean into the pressure.
"If all goes well, this'll be over in a few hours. Just stick close—"
Her hands wrapped around his wrist. Pushed it down and away from her.
"—do as you say, and try not to get shot. I've got this, Redfield, stop worrying. This isn't my first… uh…" Her brow quirked.
"Rodeo," he finished for her.
"Mh. That. Rodeo."
He stepped away after a passing nod, and when his eyes cut back to the rest of his team, they looked away. All except Piers, who stood by the driver's door of their borrowed vehicle, a rifle securely held against his chest, and a deep seated frown on him.
Five weeks.
Sadja had been with them for five weeks. So what if the first eighteen days of that had been a little— complicated? Full of alien chatter, threats delivered to the B.S.A.A techs with blunt knifes and bared teeth— and pillows thrown across the room. Or at him. Repeatedly. Aside of that she'd been relatively behaved. Relatively. And after that, she'd been a picture of compliance.
Most of the time.
Piers still didn't trust her, and with his ATLs obvious mistrust came a ripple of the same through the rest of his men. Except for Rose. Rose had taken to her the moment he'd heard she'd be part of the team, and gleefully retold an incident involving Piers, an abused locker, and the picture she'd snapped atop the ferris wheel.
That had helped. A little, and Chris hoped the curious glances their way earlier had been just that. Curious.
He approached them, felt her following close by, and gave Piers an encouraging nod.
"Let's move out."
They drove mostly in silence, listening to the muted chatter through the radio outlining the last hour's satellite observations of the target area, along with reports of recent movements to and from it. He reviewed data of heat maps (equally useless as anything before), and felt a pinch of irritation at how dead the place made itself look.
This'll be worth it, he told himself. Repeatedly.
"Report once you reach the ace of spades," HQ eventually concluded.
"Roger that, Alpha Leader out—" And he clicked the radio off. "ETA, Piers?"
FWUMP The vehicle bounced as it swung right, broke off from the paved mountain road winding its way upwards, and followed a narrow, barely cleared dirt path instead. Their headlights tracked along deep furrows of tractor tracks, and a thick forest leaning in close.
"Ten, Captain."
"Alright. Gear check everyone."
The rattle of the vehicle bumping its way further uphill was joined by the rustle of cloth, the sharp CLACK of weapons being submitted to a last minute inspection, and a whole lot of pre-engagement hush.
Even Sadja sat in silence. She'd taken to staring out the window, her shoulders pulled up tight, and Chris thought he knew damn well what she was thinking.
What if this goes wrong.
What if there isn't anything there?
What if Ada Wong isn't there, or you won't find anything leading to her?
His hand tightened around the barrel of his rifle, and with the strained grip came a familiar noose that settled below his chin. Hot and cold and he was so fucking done with it. It pulled, and he wished he tear it off. Rip it to shreds. Not sit here and wait for it to pass, because it always passed. Sometimes it just took a little while longer. And sometimes it needed a little help.
His fingers twitched. His throat felt parched. And his heart squeezed.
Three little vices to help him breathe. Smoke. Drink. His eyes cut up to the dark pane of glass of the windshield to find the third.
What he found first were the vague reflections of six men involved in their preparations.
Piers. Focused on the road. Looking ready for anything.
Marco Rose, fiddling with his radio. Theo Reid, resetting a magazine. Jeff Carver, looking a lot younger than he was with his helmet strapped to his head. Keaton Wash, a man Chris hadn't ever met before, but who'd looked downright ecstatic when he'd been asked to join today's task force.
Sadja. Looking right back at him.
The noose shook free. Not all the way. But just enough.
Nine minutes later, the vehicle rolled to a stop, and with a soft clap against the dash, Chris had them pile into the night. They followed his quiet instructions, spread out in a loose formation, and held their positions while Piers got their bearings.
Thirty seconds after their boots had hit damp, leafy ground, they began their trek through a night so still, Chris wished for anything but the hollow thump of soil under their feet and the rustle of vegetation parting around them. Even the wind had died down.
They reached the compound five minutes after they'd left the vehicle, and fanned out in front of a tall, meshed fence that kept the compound ringed in.
Inconvenient. But doable.
Chris indicated the fence, then jabbed a finger at Reid, who returned a muffled "Yessir."
And while Reid worked on getting them through, and the rest of his men kept an eye out with their rifles pointed out into the night, Chris surveyed the structure.
A three story villa. Three wings, according to schematics. Four outbuildings: a garage, storage, and a guesthouse. Long vacated, but not abandoned. According to records, it was home to a skeleton staff keeping the thing from falling apart. Housekeepers, gardeners, etc.. Civilians who might or might not have stayed for the night.
But nothing that would warrant the frequent traffic up the access road. Or the shit ton of power the thing pulled. By the end, it was the electricity syphoning that had convinced the B.S.A.A to take another look, a tell tale sign of There's something going on, that was too glaring to ignore.
Not like he could tell from here though. The villa looked about as dark as the forest surrounding it, save for a faint ring of light creeping around its front. Hollow, vacant windows sat in its facade. Pitch black. No movement. Nothing that'd indicate anyone was home.
The fence came apart and they moved on, crossed a stretch of neatly trimmed grass.
Still a lot of silence. A lot of nothing, but Chris needed to believe there'd be more. That there'd be something. That they weren't just about to break into what had once been a rich, civilian family's estate and come away from it empty handed.
They found the service door that would give them access into a glass roofed courtyard— at least if the blueprints were to be trusted. It was locked, but locks were meant to be undone, Sadja had once told him, and he let her undo this one.
Down on her haunches she went, and a set of proper picks went to work. Not the homemade pins, or the pocket knife she'd carried around on their trip through Europe. No— this one was B.S.A.A issued, and why that came with a shy suggestion of This is right, Chris didn't want to dwell on.
He sorted the emotion away, went back to focusing on the still air around them, and listened for the click of the lock giving way.
Sadja returned to his side once she'd gotten the door open. Vanished somewhere off by his right shoulder, diving out of sight, and almost out of mind. He knew she followed him through after Rose and Carver had secured the courtyard. That she hovered close by, a tangible shadow pressed against his side.
"We're going in, commencing radio silence," Piers murmured somewhere off to his left, and the reply came quick: "Affirmative Alpha. Good luck."
Below the domed glass roof, the air was thick. Stale. A little too much on the warm end. Hardly any of the residual light filtered through the dirt covering the dome. Lichen and moss crusted the outside of it, much as they did the inside, and it reeked.
Whatever gardener they'd put on retainer? He was fucking shit.
Once smooth rock by his feet had overgrown with grass. Shrubs had grown thick. Dead leaves crunched under his soles.
It smelled dead. Old.
Chris frowned. He didn't like things that smelled dead.
And he didn't like villas. Or chateaus. Or mansions. Any big fucking buildings with old walls and old everything , where luxury sat side by side with grim memories.
It was all too much like the good old times, like the Arklay mountains, or the Spencer estate. He exhaled, let his eyes cut between the three possible doors leading inside the building, and ran his thoughts right against the uncertainty of his first choice.
Shit.
Whatever door he picked, he'd send three men down the other one. And if there was something more here than a housekeeper with a fucking duster (because clearly there wasn't about to be a gardener), then those three men would walk into danger.
But they'd do so happily. Because that was what they did.
It wasn't like he could— "Redfield." Sadja's voice tickled at his ear, drew his eyes to her.
Piers hovered around her. Alternated between scanning the courtyard and flicking his gaze between them.
She'd pulled the barr off her neck at some point, had looped it together and tied it to her belt. Undone that lock too, it seemed, and she looked— concerned? Frightened? A little on edge, with her right hand balled into a fist and rotating on its wrist. Then she wiggled her fingers lose, and they pointed at a particular door. Subtly.
She nodded towards it, a faint and easily missed gesture. Meant for him.
There's something this way, all of that said.
The relief he felt came with a cold, heavy knot in his stomach. Anticipation. Dread. A faint echo of something distantly related to thrill .
His choice made, Chris turned to his team.
"Rose. Reid. Carver. Scope out the east wing. Maintain radio contact at all times and do not engage unless you have absolutely no choice. Move on west, and circle back the main building last. Piers, Wash, you're with me. We're starting on the basement."
The acknowledgements came quick, and the group split up, took position by their respective doors and readied themselves for a night spent hunting monsters.
Chris knew it was too much to hope that one monster would come with pale skin, jet-black hair, and a cold, red smile. But he'd hold his breath for a while anyway, just long enough for the door to come open, and Piers' flashlight to cut into the thick darkness greeting them.
And down they went.