A Touch of Red
By evolution-500
Genres: Horror/Friendship/Romance
Feedback: Always welcome
WARNING: This story contains violence, course language, mature themes and disturbing imagery. Reader discretion is advised.
Disclaimer: KILLER INSTINCT is a property belonging to Rare and Microsoft while RESIDENT EVIL is a property belonging to Capcom. I do not own any of these characters.
Chapter Eight: First Blood
The alarm clock broke the din of silence, stirring Claire awake. Rubbing her eyes, the girl looked at the clock, then jumped up from her bed.
"Oh shit!"
Once she finished having her breakfast, she showered, brushed her hair and teeth, then threw on her apparel. Giving one look at herself in the mirror, Claire moved into various poses, studying herself carefully to make sure there weren't any noticeable holes or stains.
Satisfied, she gave a nod of approval to her reflection.
Perfect.
"You got this, girl," she said to her reflection. Looking over to the clock, Claire eyes bulged in alarm as she saw the time. "Oh crap!"
Grabbing her keys, boots, and map, she hurried out the door. As she stumbled down the stairs, Claire drew down the black fingerless gloves over her trembling fingers.
As she stumbled down the stairs, Claire hurried past the desk toward the front entrance.
"Uh, Ms. Redfield!" Rogers' voice called from the front desk, causing the girl to halt abruptly. "You forgot to sign out."
Claire smacked her forehead. Of course she had.
Spinning around on one foot, she quickly backtracked, grumbling to herself as she took the pen from the attendant's hand and jotted down her signature and time.
"I take it you're not a morning person," Rogers commented lightly.
"Afraid not," Claire replied as she massaged her inner eyes.
"Do you know who's fighting first?"
"I think it's me."
"Oh! Well, in that case, you better get moving, Ms. Redfield," Rogers smiled. "I hope it goes well for you. It's nice having you around."
Claire smiled back. "Aw, thank you."
"Just merely saying the truth." He shrugged as he took the pen from her. "Take care, and good luck!"
Claire's smile grew as she headed for the door. "Thanks!"
Claire's palms felt sweaty as she glanced around worriedly. "God, where the hell am I?"
Taking out the map, she squinted at the various labels, trying to figure out where she's at. Frowning, she placed it away and continued her search, moving past the various buildings, going through alleys. The air was still yet the noises of birds, with the sound of machinery whirring in the background, filled the space. After wandering aimlessly for fifteen minutes, Claire suddenly found herself in front of the sealed-off mansion, the caution tape fluttering in the wind like peeled off skin. Turning away, Claire paused momentarily, then gave it a curious look at the grey building. It must have been beautiful at some point, but now it was a corpse of a building with exposed beams and missing shingles.
Shivering, Claire then noticed the statue nearby. Approaching it curiously, she took noted the details, studying it. A stone statue depicting a woman in Grecian robes, presumably Hestia, the Greek goddess of the hearth, home and family, at the base of it was a name. Kneeling down, Claire tilted her head at different angles, squinting as she tried making out the rusted writing.
"...'Spen'...'Spencer Mansion'..." she read softly.
"Hey you!" A filtered voice barked, causing her to look up to see an armed guard angrily approaching, his hands clenching on his rifle. "What are you doing here?"
As Claire opened her mouth to respond, a shrill scream echoed from within the building, causing the girl to jerk back in surprise.
"What was that?" she asked, her skin forming goosebumps.
The guard's features were unreadable beneath his helmet as he shook his head. "Never mind that. That's just equipment." Claire watched as the visor focused on her. "Who are you and what are you doing here?"
Claire raised up her hands in a placating gesture. "Whoa, easy! My name is Claire Redfield! I'm one of the fighters for the tournament?"
"Let me see some ID."
Reaching into her pocket, Claire took out her wallet and showed the guard her driver's license. She watched and waited as the guard studied it, then raised up a gauntleted arm, pressing a button as a holographic image of her appeared out of thin air. A minute later, he looked back to face her.
"What are you doing here?"
Claire tucked a bang behind her ear. "I'm lost," she admitted. "I'm trying to find the arena, but I have nowhere to go."
He pointed down the opposite direction from the mansion.
She blinked, then blushed. "Oh. Um...sorry."
Even with that helmet on, Claire could tell the guy was rolling his eyes at her as he turned away.
Turning around, Claire proceeded to move away from the mansion, then stopped as a guttural shriek sounded out again, this time accompanied by a metallic rattling, like...dragging...chains.
Looking over her shoulder, she stared back at the building, listening and watching intently, rooted to the spot as the guard anxiously approached the building, holding his rifle nervously as he quietly spoke into the headset of his helmet, his words indiscernible.
'Equipment,' she tried mentally telling herself.
That was what the guard said, right?
And yet...she felt unconvinced.
Once again, Thunder's words whispered and repeated conspiratorially to her.
A wrongness.
Leave while you still have time.
Run.
A wrongness.
Claire swallowed back the bile forming at the back of her throat as that sound replayed in her mind.
That didn't sound like any machine or piece of equipment that she ever heard. To Claire, it almost sounded like a woman screaming, like a...vengeful ghost.
Startled by the thought, Claire gave a perplexed look.
A ghost?
Scoffing, Claire let out a slight, amused laugh, shaking her head dismissively.
God, she really should cut down on watching the KI program. She was letting her imagination run wild. Looking back to the building one last time, Claire turned away and proceeded forward. Time to get a move on.
Claire let out a frustrated growl as she looked wildly around, refraining from tearing her hair out in exasperation.
Was she secretly jinxed or something?
How was it possible for her to get lost again?!
If Chris were here, he'd be laughing his ass off about now.
Claire continued forward, rounding a corner to the left before bumping into T.J.
"Whoa, hey!" T.J. greeted.
"T.J.!" Claire smiled in surprise. "God, I'm sorry!"
"Hey, don't worry about it!" He winked. "What are you doing?"
Claire's frown returned, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Oh, you know, just trying to find the arena."
"Got lost, huh?"
She nodded. "Yep," she answered, ending with a pop of her lips. "Just my luck." The girl looked at him expectantly. "You don't happen to know where-"
T.J. shook his head regretfully. "Sorry. I'm about as lost as you are."
Her frown deepened. "Oh. Well, that makes two of us. This keeps getting better and better."
He placed an assuring hand on her shoulder. "Relax, we'll make it." T.J. glanced around, then paused as a pair of guards approached. "Hey! Yo!" The guards turned to face them. "Can you guys help us out? We're trying to find the-"
"We've been sent to retrieve you," one of the guards interrupted. "The Baron is waiting for you along with the others. Come on."
Claire quietly followed the guards alongside T.J., moving past the strange mix of medieval and industrial buildings as she fidgeted nervously. With each step taken, Claire felt her heartbeat hammer into her eardrums, her breathing short and shaky, drawing a concerned look from the boxer.
"You okay, kid?" T.J. inquired.
Looking to her left, Claire anxiously smiled.
"Not really," she replied. "According to the schedule I think I'm the first one up. I shouldn't have eaten that bagel for breakfast."
"Ahh," T.J. nodded knowingly, "so yer feeling jittery now, right?"
She nodded weakly.
"First fight is always the hardest. You'll be fine." T.J. nodded back as he patted the back of her shoulder.
She gave a small smile. "Thank you." As she turned away and looked ahead, Claire's eyes suddenly widened. "Oh wow!"
"What?"
She pointed to the building they were heading toward, drawing the boxer's attention forward as he gave a low whistle.
"Goddamn!" T.J. commented lightly.
The building was a large four or five story grey church done in the Gothic style, with a large rose window that stared outward like a giant multicolored cyclopean eye. Seated outside of the entrance with his bodyguard Dieter was the Baron himself, his dark, enigmatically cloaked form almost complimenting the church's structure.
The two of them seemed to be in heated discussion about something, neither of them seeming to notice until finally Sabrewulf turned his concealed head to face the fighters as they drew closer.
"Ahh, welcome!" The Baron greeted affably. "Everything alright?"
Claire blushed. "I'm so sorry for being late, Baron!" she apologized, her heartrate rising, her face flushed red in embarrassment. "We were just kind of lost-"
"Nein, nein, it's alright! You're fine!" Sabrewulf soothingly assured.
She rubbed the back of her head in embarrassment. "I'm really sorry about that, Baron. It won't ever happen again."
Giving an acknowledging grunt, the Baron nodded, then turned to face the others, "Thank you all for coming, ladies and gentlemen. I hope everyone is well and ready! Let's head-"
Sabrewulf was cut off as a door opened. A guard stepped outside and approached, leaning forward to whisper into his ear.
"What's that?" Claire heard the Baron utterly quietly. "It's- but..." He then elicited a slightly annoyed growl before looking back to the expectant fighters while the guard stepped back inside. "It would seem that there has been a slight delay due to some faulty hardware that should require a few minutes of fixing. We'll just have to wait out here until the workers have finished up inside." Claire heard the fighters let out a collective groan. "My apologies, everyone, but it can't be helped. The film crew will be ready in a few moments."
He paused at the sight of Claire's raised hand. "Ja?"
"Um, sorry, Baron, but...is this," Claire gestured to the church, "the arena?"
Sabrewulf nodded. "Indeed it is. It was originally a church that had been built decades ago, but it had long been abandoned. So, I had it converted."
Claire watched as T.J. glanced uncomfortably at the church, the boxer shifting anxiously.
"Is something wrong, Mr. Garret?" The Baron asked.
T.J. frowned. "Uh, isn't it kind of...blasphemous?" he asked as he nervously stared up at the building, drawing perplexed looks from everyone, including Claire herself.
Sabrewulf made a gasp of mock surprise. "Why, Mr. Garret!" He exclaimed. "Is that religious indignation I hear?"
"Well, uh...kinda, I guess." The boxer shrugged. He shifted beneath the looks of the other fighters. "What? I went to church every Sunday as a kid back in Texas - so sue me!" He paused, then muttered under his breath, "...Actually don't."
The Baron shrugged. "Fair enough. I...suppose it is a normal reaction to have. If I had remained a Catholic myself, I probably would have felt as mortified as you."
Claire looked at him interestedly. "You were a Catholic, Baron?"
"Ja," Sabrewulf nodded. "I was a choir boy."
Dieter scoffed while Claire's jaw dropped, the latter gaping at him incredulously. "No!"
"It's true," the Baron nodded. "For a time anyway."
"What happened?" Claire suddenly looked up with a start. "Oh! Was that when you-"
The hooded head nodded slowly, confirming her unfinished question.
"Oh Baron, I'm sorry."
He shrugged. "Why? You didn't cause my ailment." The Baron raised his head, looking over his shoulder toward the church. "When I found out, I spent every waking moment praying. I prayed. I volunteered. I attended mass. Read my sermons. Got baptized. I donated to charity. Used the confessional..." He trailed off momentarily, looking as if he were caught up with a particular memory. As he did so, he slumped slightly, his tone listless, "...I was...so devout in my practice, so dedicated. I thought...I thought that if I were a good Catholic, then..."
He faltered, then suddenly averted his concealed eyes, as if embarrassed for making this admission. He sat motionless in his seat, the pregnant pause growing. Minutes counted by, and not once did he stir.
'...Had he fallen asleep?' she wondered.
Claire glanced around at the other fighters and personnel as they murmured amongst themselves.
"Baron?" she said hesitantly.
Sabrewulf remained in his wheelchair, his cloaked form unmoving.
Was he...dead?
Stepping forward, the girl moved worriedly toward Sabrewulf, reaching out with her outstretched hand when he let out an audible sigh, his cloaked shoulders sagging, seemingly not noticing her approach, nor when she quietly backed up a few steps.
"Forgive me, I was just...reminiscing about the way things used to be," he explained.
Claire nodded in understanding while T.J. remained quiet.
Minutes passed as the group silently waited.
T.J. clicked his tongue out of boredom, then looked over at Sabrewulf. "So, Baron... you were a fighter yourself?"
Sabrewulf nodded. "I was."
"That right? Huh. What styles?"
"I'm a black belt in karate, but I also have dabbled in boxing and capoeira."
"Nice." The boxer said, impressed.
"I've seen your all of your fights on YouTube," Claire smiled. "You were amazing, Baron."
The hooded head nodded at her. "Oh danke."
"Do you still have the trophies?" she asked interestedly.
"Indeed I do, though they're all just collecting dust in my attic," he replied, causing her smile to widen.
"Awesome!"
He regarded her thoughtfully, his features concealed beneath the hood, scarf and thick glasses. "You're just a glowing, hyperactive ball of enthusiastic energy, aren't you?"
"Yep!" She chirped, grinning happily.
Sabrewulf shook his head with a scoff. "The naivety of youth. Incredible." He sighed. "I wish I had your level of energy, young lady."
"Oh stop."
"I'm serious! With it I probably would have powered through ten other tournaments had I been your age!"
T.J. raised a brow. "Ten? That's it?" he huffed with mock indignation. "Shit, I thought with the amount of piss and vinegar this one has that she'd power through a hundred."
Claire let out a light, playful laugh along with some of the other fighters. Turning her head back to the Baron, Claire's smile and laughter faded as she watched Sabrewulf sitting still, looking somehow small in his wheelchair. Alone.
"...Is something wrong, Baron?" She asked, the laughter dying down little by little.
The girl watched as his wide shoulders sagged, his tone sad as he spoke. "...Forgive me, but...it has been ages since I heard laughter around here. Pure, good-humored, light laughter. It makes me think back to my youth.. and...well..."
Claire smiled sadly back, then gave a sympathetic, understanding nod.
Everyone remained quiet upon hearing that, their forms still as they absorbed the exchange.
Tapping his index finger against the armrests, Sabrewulf looked around uncomfortably, then inhaled sharply through his cloaked nose, steaming up the sunglasses that he wore as he adjusted his cloak and scarf.
"When I learned of my condition," he continued, "...I was forced to go on a string of diets and exercise regimens. None of my prayers were being answered, and because of that, I had to dedicate myself to martial arts to help me cope." Tilting his head in the direction of the church, Sabrewulf looked aside in contemplation. "I suppose you could say that I exchanged one form of spirituality for another."
Claire reared her head back, her brows furrowing in confusion at the unusual remark. "How do you mean?"
"Well," Sabrewulf began, if not a little defensively, "martial arts and religion are both disciplines that are ultimately about control. Control of the mind. Control of the body. Two disciplines requiring sweat and dedication from all of their practitioners."
"And blood."
Hearing Thunder's rough voice, Claire turned to the left, spotting the tall Native American as he stormily stared in the Baron's direction from amongst the crowd of fighters. The Baron hesitated underneath the man's stare, then looked uncomfortably away, clearing his throat.
"Well quite. Indeed. Blood."
Jago clenched his prayer beads, "You make martial arts sound debased, Baron. It isn't about drawing blood."
"In a manner of speaking it does," the Baron interjected. "Religion and conflict have a long correlated history with one another. Even Buddhism had faced its share of violence."
Claire saw Jago glare in disapproval, his brow creasing.
"Buddhism has never caused acts of violence," he said in a patient, though slightly stern and apprehensive voice.
The sunglasses turned in the monk's direction. "I never said it had." Looking away, Sabrewulf's gloved fingers tapped the handles of his chair. "Still, I'm not wrong. Both disciplines require us to establish boundaries and reach new horizons for the inner self. Isn't that the goal of martial arts and religion, after all? To push one's self to their utmost limits, trying to attain the unattainable, to find and assert some measure of assurance and control over an entropy-filled existence?" Sabrewulf looked down at his gloved hands, studying them. Forming them into fists, he continued, "What fighter upon winning doesn't feel blessed, as if they were favored by some higher power?"
"You sound as if you're advocating for violence, Baron." Jago noted with a hint of worry and concern.
Claire watched as Sabrewulf let out a darkly amused grunt. "Ha. Not at all. That said, however, conflict has been around since time immemorial, for far longer than any scroll, scripture or psalm penned by ink, an integral part of existence, if not humanity. Without it, we wouldn't have climbed down from the trees. We wouldn't have innovated or expanded our knowledge."
He hesitated, then raised his eyes slowly to the sky as the pregnant pause grew. An air of melancholy seemed to fall over the Baron as he wordlessly stared up at the clouds, at the sun.
As he stared up at the sky, Claire couldn't help but wonder what he was thinking in that moment. Finally, he heaved out a heavy, tired sigh, looking very worn.
"Of course... the devil always has a way of finding his way into the details somehow." He muttered bitterly. "Sometimes I wonder whether or not one would be better off not knowing the ugly truth..."
Claire tilted her head curiously.
"What truth are you talking about, Baron?" she asked, wondering where this was going.
He exhaled wearily.
"Sacrifice, Ms. Redfield," he answered in a tired voice. "Martial arts, like religion and life itself, often requires hard work, dedication, sweat, blood...and sacrifice."
The word brought an uncomfortable silence among everyone, the word drawing odd looks from everyone, including Claire herself.
"With that in mind," Sabrewulf said thoughtfully, "...is it any wonder I selected a church as a battleground? For centuries the church has been the arena for the soul, where men and women gathered, reflected, and sought some measure of solace during their most vulnerable...trying to exorcise themselves of their demons..." He then glanced over his shoulder, regarding the church for a moment, giving a slow, thoughtful nod. "What better place is there for an arena than that?"
Claire looked at the church herself and pondered quietly while others glanced around at each other, some of them looking not quite sure what to make of the Baron's points.
Turning back to the Baron, she then watched as Sabrewulf coughed embarrassedly into his gloved fist. "My apologies for my rambling. I...tend to...lose myself sometimes."
"Hey, it's no problem at all, Baron!" Claire smiled, raising her hands up in assurance. "I find it interesting."
Jago nodded his head in agreement.
"There is truth in your words, Baron. Some of it, anyway." The monk then gestured to the church. "With that said, however... this place hasn't been constructed for the purposes of enlightenment, nor is it used in honor of the spiritual, let alone the Holy. The only one being honored is yourself."
She watched as the Baron whipped around to look over in his direction. Even Claire herself was surprised by the accusation.
"Excuse me?"
Jago calmly regarded Sabrewulf, the golden teeth decorations of his headband and light blue veil framing his eyes as he meaningfully glanced around, gesturing to their surroundings. "Everywhere I look, Baron, I see your mark. Everything around here is a testament to your sense of industry. To your prestige. To your wealth. Your arena is a church dedicated to currency, a monument dedicated to both yourself and to your business." Turning around to face him, the monk nodded respectfully. "There are many wondrous things you have in this place, Baron. Many fine, and no doubt expensive, things. And yet...I sense no joy here. Nor happiness."
Claire blinked in surprise, taken aback by his remarks. Even Sabrewulf himself seemed startled, looking uncomfortable.
Jago stared at the wheelchair-bound figure, his gaze unwavering.
"You are correct that there is a link between martial arts and spirituality," the former nodded, "but there is one element that you failed to account for. Something that you seem to lack."
The Baron tilted his head the side, intrigued. "And what might that be?"
"Faith." Jago answered simply.
Sabrewulf made no response at first. He didn't even react at all, the cloak, sunglasses and scarf making it completely impossible to tell.
Claire looked at the two masked men as they both stared at one another. Neither of them seemed to be angry - they were quietly watching the other, both of them seeming to be in contemplation, but...she couldn't be sure. For a moment, Claire felt tempted to approach the two of them and snatch away their masks, if only so that she could get a better read of the situation, if not see their expressions, their faces.
For five minutes, the two men were still.
Before anyone could respond, the church door opened, revealing a shadowy figure.
"Everything is set," a voice answered flatly.
"Oh, uh, thank you." Looking to Jago, Sabrewulf then nodded stiffly. "We'll discuss this later after the program."
Jago nodded in acceptance.
Turning to the others, the Baron nervously glanced back to the door in an apprehensive, distrustful manner that caught Claire off-guard. Turning back to face them, he continued, "Before we go inside, I must warn you all about...interacting with the film crew. You may be put off by their demeanor, but...rest assured...they are all professionals. That said, however...it would be preferable if you didn't bother them. Do not talk to them, do not distract them, just leave them alone and let them do their jobs. Understood?"
Claire scrunched up her brows, puzzled by the Baron's attitude as murmurs rose from the other fighters around her. From the way he was acting, one would think that she were being led into a lion's den or something.
As Sabrewulf relaxed in his wheelchair, he exhaled softly, his demeanor changing into something lighter.
"Good. Now, follow me inside, everyone! On with the show!"
Claire exchanged looks with T.J., then looked straight ahead, following everyone into the building.
Stepping through a grey ogee-styled arch, Claire gave small gasp at the exquisite surroundings. The arena was made up of muted colors, brown being the primary one used, but it was massive, with huge gothic arches that reached so high up in the air that they almost seemed to extend indefinitely to the black, shadowy ceiling. Nearby, eye-like rose windows with stained glass shined crystalline colors, painting the floors with hues of red, pink green and black in places.
Greeting the fighters was an enormous black metallic cage in the center, with various cameramen and technicians working away off to the sides as they rigged and tested equipment and lighting. Overhead, a pair of large, arm-like cranes with mounted cameras that hung from the ceiling were being tested, swiveling around, rising and lowering, the crane's movement's corresponding with the movements made with the remote controls in the technicians' hands.
"Look at this place!" Claire gasped.
"No kidding!" T.J. nodded, his eyes brows arched in surprise and admiration. "Shit, this is an arena?!"
"Indeed it is," Sabrewulf nodded as he was wheeled forward by Dieter. "We were considering making this open to the public, but due to a combination of time, money and...certain other factors, it was decided for the sake of practicality to just use this area for filming rather than have any live audiences present."
Claire glanced at him in surprise. "You're not going to make this open to the public?"
"For the time being, although it's possible that we might at some point in the future. No promises, though."
"Ah. Well, I hope you open it up someday - this place is awesome!"
Sabrewulf gave an amused grunt, then looked away.
Claire stared up at the arches, following them all the way up the black, shadowy ceiling. As she admired the art and architecture, it was then that Claire suddenly became aware of a strange, disconcerting sensation, as if she were being watched. Lowering her eyes back down to the ground floor, she suddenly paused.
"T.J." she said in a low voice, elbowing him.
"What?"
Claire tilted her head in the direction ahead of them, drawing the boxer's attention.
The arena was dark and quiet, the silence made especially discomforting by the eerily silent and deathly stiff forms of the film crew as they remained where they stood, all of them staring directly at the incoming fighters with flat empty uniformity, their features hidden in shadow.
Claire suddenly felt a chill come over her, the girl unnerved by the stillness of everything. Even though the majority of their faces were covered by black shadows, she could feel their eyes on her.
"What is up with them?" she said softly.
T.J. shrugged. "Dunno. Drugs maybe?" He suggested quietly, his voice barely raised above a whisper.
The Baron was quiet as he lead the way, ignoring the stares from the film crew as he and the fighters moved forward. As she stepped deeper into the church-turned-arena, Claire could feel their eyes locked onto her, the girl stiffening apprehensively. She tried to ignore them, but...she just couldn't! There was something in their eyes and demeanor that really, really bothered her, and yet...she had no idea why. All that Claire knew was that there was something...off...about them. Claire didn't know what it was, but the more she looked at the crew, the more she had the vague sense as if they were...she didn't even know the proper words to describe it.
One man close by, a mousy fellow in a dress shirt and black pants that stood over to the right with a camera, was staring directly at her, and for reasons unfathomable to her, Claire felt...unclean. He didn't look particularly handsome, nor was he particularly ugly, just average at best.
As she came closer, Claire suddenly did a double-take; his eyes had a strange, glassy, almost artificial quality like black marble.
Claire's eyes widened.
'That's what's bothering me!' Claire mentally gasped in realization - the crew didn't look real!
Well, they did, but by the same token, though, they looked...so...weird!
For a moment, Claire suddenly found herself thinking back to when she was ten years old, when her parents took her and Chris to the local Halloween supply and costume store. She vividly recalled how she used to wander the various aisles and observed the various rubbery masks for various characters, be it man, woman, or beast. Seeing the crew's features, Claire found herself thinking back to those Halloween masks.
The film crew weren't overtly abnormal by any means... but there was undoubtedly a suggestive, almost false quality about them all. Like as if she were looking at statues.
Claire's brow furrowed.
Could the film crew be some new experimental line of automatons made by Ultratech?
Claire squinted her eyes, then tilted her head at different angles.
'No,' part of her said with certainty.
While it may at first glance seemed to be the case, the film crew were definitely not robotic. In fact, that particular word couldn't even begin to describe what she was looking at, let alone capture the intense, almost indefinably...alien and frightening quality about them all.
She knew that there was nothing wrong with the film crew physically...but there was definitely something, and Claire could practically feel it on a deep, primal level. She felt absolutely repulsed by their presence, though she hardly knew why. Even more, there were times where Claire could have sworn that the film crew were sensing - and taking personal delight - in her disgust, in her fear...even if they didn't seem to visibly show any indications of such.
Part of Claire wanted to dismiss it all as being her overactive imagination, that she was acting irrationally and having an extreme reaction as a result of stage fright - after all, today was going to be her first fight.
But...she couldn't.
Her instincts were warning her that she needed to avoid contact with the film crew at all costs. Claire didn't know why she felt the way she had, nor did she wonder what would happen if she made contact with one of the workers, but deep in her gut, she intuitively knew that it would be a horrible idea to be alone with this lot for any amount of time.
The air felt very thick and oppressive as the shadowy figures watched them draw closer toward the arena, like wolves watching a fresh flock of sheep being led to a pen.
Claire felt very alert and conscious of her surroundings, of the film crews' proximity in relation to hers, her eyes shifting about like a nervous deer amid a pack of dangerous wild animals in the middle of a blackness-filled forest. The other fighters also seemed to be picking up on the strange atmosphere and behavior, some of them huddling closer together, while some of the guys like T.J. - people that tried maintaining cool, strong fronts - were on edge and guarded. Some of them were looking ready to throw out the first punch should the occasion call for it.
Scanning slowly along from left to right, Claire suddenly noticed that not all of the film crew were acting in this strange manner - a couple technicians were minding their own business and doing work.
Some of them were trying their damnedest to ignore what was going on and continue on with what they were doing while others were quickly and nervously looking over their shoulders at their coworkers, including a man in a blue baseball cap that Claire assumed to be the director.
Two announcers were talking to each other in hushed voices as they sat outside the arena, casting anxious glances at one or two of said-weird workers every so often. In a couple instances, Claire could swear that she caught a flicker of fear etched onto some of their faces, but it was so quick and fleeting that she was left wondering if she had even seen anything at all.
'What is this feeling?' she wondered.
Claire was not a superstitious person by any stretch of the imagination, nor was she a wuss by any means. Granted, there may be the odd instance where a spider would come along and freak her out, thereby forcing her to use her brother Chris as both designated spider killer and meat shield, but for the majority of the time, hardly anything scared her.
And yet...there lingered at the back of her mind, something uncanny. For the first time in her life, she actually did feel afraid, even if she didn't understand why.
Claire stared down the aisles at the nervous crew and the equally off-putting and freakish personnel that stared back, trying to make sense of everything.
Why were these people be afraid?
What was wrong with these people? With this place?
She tried pinpointing the fault in the crews' features, in their movements, but no matter what, she was unable to determine anything. She knew, though, that there was something off. Something VERY off.
'A wrongness...' Thunder's words hauntingly echoed from the back of Claire's mind.
The girl shivered, then averted her eyes, willing herself onward as she tried to ignore the flat, staring eyes that watched her every move.
'Like a bunch of vultures waiting for fresh carrion.' Came the morbid thought.
Wincing at the image, Claire shook it off and looked ahead as Sabrewulf was stopped by a blank-eyed man in a one-piece bodysuit.
"Our work is complete, Baron," the man said in a flat voice.
"Uh, thank you, Miles," Sabrewulf nodded as he anxiously shifted. "You may leave."
Claire watched as "Miles" twisted around and parted, the Baron untensing as he did so. Turning his wheelchair around to face them, Sabrewulf then nodded to them all.
"Alright, everyone," he began, "we will begin filming shortly. There is absolutely nothing to worry about."
"Places, everyone!" One of the film crew said through a megaphone. "And in five...four...three...two...one. Cue music."
The lights dimmed, the colors fading, everything blending into darkness. As she heard the distinctive and iconic theme song for KI play out over the speakers, the synthesized beginning echoing through the church, Claire felt chills running through her body when it suddenly hit her. After years of watching, years of yearning and dreaming of this exact moment, it was finally happening! Claire was going to participate and star on her favorite television program!
As the realization dawned on her, Claire felt her legs wobble and tremble beneath her in excitement as the guitar rumbled and mixed with the heavy anvil clanging in the background, her heart hammering to its beat.
'I'm actually doing this,' she mentally told herself as she heard the riff, tears forming in the corner of her eyes in a mixture of elation and happiness. 'I'm actually doing this!'
Her fingers fidgeted nervously, the palms of her hands feeling damp beneath her fingerless gloves. Sweeping a hand through her hair, Claire checked herself nervously, glancing down at her person to make sure there were no food stains and that her fly wasn't open.
Satisfied, she looked back up and tucked a tendril of hair behind one ear, gulping back saliva as she stared up at the holographic jumbotron over the arena, watching as the shining metallic logo hovered over her in the air.
"KILLER INSTINCT."
As Chris Sutherland's voice rumbled and echoed throughout the church, the sound and music so loud that Claire could practically feel it vibrating through her small form, she heard T.J. utter something beside her as he too stared up at the logo.
"Looks like we're seeing the face of God."
Startled by the remark, Claire turned to face him, the boxer's features hard to read. She wasn't sure certain if he had meant it sarcastically, or if he was being sincere. Turning back to the logo and the light show, Claire couldn't help musing on the thought.
Regardless of the intention, it wasn't hard to figure out why T.J. would say such a thing, even as blasphemous as it sounded. Taking everything in at once - the pitch-black ecclesiastical surroundings, the hovering and glowing metallic logo, the multitude of cameras that watched and stared from a multitude of angles, the freakish film crew - together with the Baron's reflections... in a weirdly warped kind of way, there seemed to be a kernel of truth to it. It all felt...
Claire frowned. She didn't even know to describe it.
As she watched the show, standing in that arena amidst all the various fighters, with all of her senses being assaulted at once, Claire suddenly felt an anxious sensation in the pit of her stomach.
For a brief moment, the girl was given the vague sense that what she was watching wasn't the start of a television program, but rather...something else. Like as if she were watching some sort of ritual, or like she was gazing upon some long-lost, multi-eyed amorphous monster from antediluvian times stirring awake, hungry for fresh souls to swallow. Claire shivered as she unpleasantly recalled Sabrewulf's words along with Thunder's warnings, the two blending seamlessly together, with phrases punctuating and repeating in hushed, ghostly whispers that echoed in her mind, the words suggestively alluding and hinting to something diabolical.
Run. Run. Run.
A wrongness.
Blood.
Run. Run. Run.
Leave while you still have time.
Run. Run. Run.
Sacrifice.
Run. Run. Run.
A wrongness.
Blood...and sacrifice.
Run. Run.
A wrongness.
Run.
Looking over her shoulder at the others, then at the aisle, the girl was about to take a tentative step back to the entrance, if not make a mad dash out from the building when she suddenly caught herself. Blinking for several moments, Claire closed her eyes and looked down with a slight smile, gently shaking her head incredulously with a slight snort of amusement at her foolish behavior.
'God, what's wrong with me? You really need to get out more, Claire,' she told herself.
Relaxing, Claire turned back to the show, then started enjoying the beat of the theme song's tune, bobbing her head and humming to herself.
Once the music finished, one of the crew, a man with a blue baseball cap that Claire assumed to be the director, spoke, "Alright, better get ready. Camera is on in five. Four. Three. Two. One. And...action!"
"WELCOME!"
A spotlight shone over two men sitting close to the arena behind a table.
"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen!" One of the announcers spoke into the microphone. "I'm Lawrence Cooper."
"And I'm Henry Hull," said the other.
"Welcome to Killer Instinct!" Both men announced at the same time. "Live from the Sabrewulf Estate in Raccoon City, Colorado, we have with us quite a lineup of new competitors, each of them itching to get their hands on the one million dollar prize money!"
"That's right, Henry," Lawrence nodded. "And now a word from Baron Von Sabrewulf."
Claire watched as the camera people turned our their lenses of over to the Baron as he faced the fighters, the spotlight striking his concealed form, much to his apparent annoyance.
Sabrewulf straightened himself up in his seat as the camera was positioned before him.
"Good morning, everyone," he greeted, clearing his throat. "I...am Baron Von Sabrewulf, and welcome...' He paused dramatically, "...to my home. You have all come a long way in order to get here. All of you are unique in terms of what you bring to KI, all of you with unique backgrounds. You should all feel honored for being selected to participate, just as I am seeing all these fresh faces."
The Baron scanned along the crowd of fighters, his concealed eyes meeting Claire's briefly before sweeping to the others. "Unfortunately, your stay here is only temporary. For the next few days, each and every one you will be in direct competition with one another. The fighters that end up winning will be able to proceed onto the next match and continue to live on these premises. Those of you that are either defeated or incapacitated will be forced to leave. If anyone wishes to forfeit, be it for personal reasons, medical or family emergencies, you may do so at any time. However, the moment you do...there will be no turning back. I'm afraid you won't be able to claim any of the prize money."
Claire unconsciously reached up and touched the necklace given to her by Chris, her fingers tracing along its metallic form as a murmur grew from the crowd.
"I'm sorry, everyone," Sabrewulf nodded, "but I'm afraid that's how things must be. I do not expect to see all of you at the finals. You are all familiar with the rules, so there is no need for me to go over them again."
The girl glanced over at T.J., her eyes meeting his as they exchanged anxious looks, although the latter was more reserved. Looking away, the boxer pushed up his sunglasses to the bridge of his nose and gave her an assured nod, then looked straight ahead to the speaker.
"But..." the Baron spoke slowly as he crossed his arms, "...there is...one...additional rule that I have been saving for this moment. One that I wish to make known. This particular rule is very simple..."
He leaned forward from his wheelchair. "Fight all the way to the end. The winning participant will have the privilege of not only winning a million dollars...but they will also be filmed for an exclusive scene in an upcoming movie featuring one of our monsters!"
Claire's eyes bulged as she along with everyone else whooped and cheered in excitement, the girl jumping up and down. "WHAT?! WHOO!"
"FUCK YEAH!" T.J. fist-pumped into the air.
"Ja, ja, very exciting," the Baron said dryly, "but remember - it is only the winner that gets to fight our creature, so you have a lot of work cut out for you."
Claire raised her hand.
"Yes, Ms. Redfield?"
"Which monster will we be fighting?" The girl asked smilingly. "Can you tell us what the movie is called?"
Sabrewulf's nodded. "It is a scene for an upcoming movie called 'Brute Force'. I cannot tell you plot details, but in the scene you will be shooting, you will be fighting and killing KI's mascot and reigning champion."
The girl felt her breath caught in her throat. "Mascot? Y-you mean..."
The hooded head nodded in confirmation. "Indeed. My...namesake." he replied with a hint of what sounded awfully like contempt. "Sabrewulf."
Claire blinked, perplexed by the unusual news as people murmured amongst each other, one or two of them awing in disappointment.
Sabrewulf sat there quietly, then lowered his sunglasses-covered eyes, shaking his head. "Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I know, I know, but I'm afraid the character is at a point where he needs to be retired." He lifted his concealed eyes back to them. "Now that you know what is at stake, let's make this tournament as exciting as possible!"
Everyone cheered loudly at the proclamation. As the noise died down, the Baron then adjusted his scarf and blanketed lap. "I'm afraid that I won't be around for the entirety of the tournament, unfortunately, but rest assured - I will be watching your progress with much interest. You all look very strong and very capable. I get the feeling this season will be very special, and I very much look forward to seeing the tournament's outcome and shaking the winner's hand as I present the million dollar award to them. Regardless of whoever wins or loses, I hope you all enjoy your time here. May the best fighter win. Farewell, and good luck to all of you."
Looking over to Dieter, Sabrewulf gave a quiet nod. The bodyguard nodded back, then proceeded to wheel him back to the entrance. Claire watched the duo as they disappeared all the way down the aisle.
"And now, ladies and gentlemen, let the tournament begin!" Hull said over the microphone.
"WE ARE CONTROLLING TRANSMISSION."
"READY!"
Hearing the loud iconic and ominous clanging thump of the select theme as it struck her eardrums, Claire looked back to the arena, letting out a shaky nervous breath, watching on the holographic jumbotron as it shined over the arena in flashing neon.
"ALICE ABERNATHY!"
Claire watched as the spotlight fell on a woman ten feet away from her as she strode to the arena cage. A woman of five-eight, her hair was a dark shade of brown with hints of blonde dye, short and done in a medium bob cut. Clad in a dark grey, full-bodied spandex suit with a tight, black bustier-cut leather vest with buckles at the front, the suit itself highlighted and accentuated her slim and fit body, her legs bedecked in black high boots with wedge heels. The woman was pretty, but she just seemed...bland. Like, no personality.
"Isn't that Paul's wife?" Claire heard a guard say to his friend nearby.
The other one shrugged. "I think so. I bet the guy's at this moment beating off to her along with his lasers."
Claire scrunched up her brows.
Lasers...?
Looking to T.J., she nudged him, indicating the older woman as she entered the arena, "So what do you think?"
T.J. looked over to where she pointed, then shrugged. "I'd bang her."
"Ew, no!" Claire said as she lightly smacked his bicep. "I mean do you think she's a good fighter?"
The boxer shrugged again. "Dunno. She's fit, but I have no idea. I wonder if she's a model or something. Or maybe a pornstar based on the S&M gear? Either way I'd still bang her."
Redfield rolled her eyes.
"CLAIRE REDFIELD."
As Chris Sutherland's voice echoed with its echoing metallic snarl, a spotlight illuminated directly over the girl like a blinding halo, forcing her to raise up her hand to block the light out from her eyes.
"FIGHT ON!"
"Well, looks like you're up, kid," T.J. nodded, patting her on the shoulder. "Good luck out there, Claire. Kick her ass."
Looking straight to the arena cage, Claire swallowed, then stepped forward, her heart ready to jump out of her.
I'm doing this! I'm actually doing this!
Climbing up a small set of steps, a guard nodded at her as he pulled the cage door open, allowing the girl through before sealing it shut behind her.
Once the cage closed, Chris Sutherland's voice rang, "READY!"
Opposite her, the woman, "Alice", was standing there akimbo style, looking at her from top to bottom disapprovingly, a smirk formed on one corner of her mouth.
"So, you're my opponent, huh?" The woman asked dismissively.
Claire shrugged. "Looks like it."
Her opponent stepped closer, stopping inches from Claire's face. "Give up - there's no way you can win this. I know more martial art styles than anyone here. I'm perfect."
Redfield stared hard at her, her eyes narrowed. "You're right," she nodded. "You are perfect."
As Alice gave a smug smile, Claire threw a haymaker, the blow catching her squarely in the face.
POW!
Claire heard an audible crack as her fist connected with the woman's face, the woman flying back to the floor unconscious.
"A perfect bitch!"
Outside the cage, she heard T.J. let out a loud raucous laugh as he clapped, whooping proudly. "WHOO! WAY TO GO, KID!"
Hearing the round of applause and the cheering, Claire raised her head and looked around.
Did that just happen?
She watched as footage was replayed on an overhead holographic jumbotron, the scene reverting to a shot of her shocked features as a crane-mounted camera zoomed in on her.
"SUPREME VICTORY!" Chris Sutherland's voice roared from the speaker, the words implanted on cold blue metallic text, accompanied by another set, "PERFECT!"
Beaming from ear to ear, Claire fist-pumped wildly. "WHOO!" She whooped, throwing both fists up into the air before doing a little moon walk, much to everyone's amusement.
In that moment, Claire felt as if she were on top of the world, and that nothing could stop her.
That feeling dissipated the moment she heard the cage open, causing her to turn to see medical personnel as they approached her knocked-out opponent. As her gaze fell on her, so did Claire's smile along with those feelings of elation and invincibility. Concern, worry and guilt started to form along with a sick feeling in her stomach.
That's a lot of blood...
Looking to her fist, Claire studied her hand, rubbing her sore knuckles, then looked back as medical personnel entered and checked up on Alice.
"Is...is she okay?" the girl asked nervously as she cautiously approached, massaging her sore knuckles.
One of the doctors nodded. "She's unconscious. From the looks of things, though, you broke her nose."
Wincing, Claire's eyes drooped, watching as the doctors placed the unconscious Alice on a stretcher.
"Okay, fellas, let's get her out of here."
As the woman was carried away, Claire guiltily watched on, then looked back to her gloved hand as she studied it carefully, stopping at the sight of the red stains that marked her knuckles.
For one moment, Claire Redfield felt like she was on top of the world.
Now all she wanted to do was cry.
Claire huddled on the floor of bath tub as she tirelessly scrubbed her hands clean, trembling furiously as she slathered every ounce of skin with soap. Even now, her hand still felt sore. She still felt unclean.
After the match was over, Claire had quickly left the arena and had vomited outside the building, her body a wobbling, jittering jumble of nerves. Billy and T.J. had both stopped by to check up on her, but she was insistent on being alone, too ashamed and embarrassed to see anyone.
Pulling her hand from the water, the girl glanced down at her sore knuckles, sniffling.
She had hurt someone.
She had hurt someone!
Not only did she hurt someone, but she also enjoyed it!
Granted, Alice was a piece of work, but still...the way it felt...she didn't know what to feel anymore.
Claire stared down into her reflection in the pool of water, then splashed at it with disgust.
Leaning forward, Claire tightly hugged her legs and rested her forehead on her knees as her body became wracked with quiet sobs and sniffles.
Author's note: Sorry for the long delay, guys! Hope you are all safe and healthy!