A/N: I have neglected this site for quite some time. As well as posting numerous stories to be left unfinished. This will be different. Much different. Both in writing, as I've improved from other sites. As well as this story being seen to its end.
*Jake*
Shores of once blue seas, now crimson. Bodies staggering, giving their last drive forward, hitting the sand. On all fours he squirms pretending to be one with the dead. Combustions leave trails, blood leaves stains, and wars leave scars.
Those were his early days. His debut in some self-righteous war. The rest was history dictated by the winners to his loss. Mercenary work leaves a doubtful impression to your employers if desertion is on the table. He was a talentless rookie, someone who abandoned his post.
"You're never going to get mercenary work. I have knowledge, and you have potential." His mentor once said.
Feeling the weight of the gun in his hand he reminds himself now isn't an appropriate time to live in remembrance. This woman is going to be the dissolution of him and his true purpose. A purpose he hammered into his inner core. Besides, she was only keen on making sure his heart beat was steady for his antibodies. A man sought after for his undisputed talent and attributes. This was the same ball park.
Again those were earlier times. He fits himself gently into his coat. He rolls into the crowd. His garden is barren, and there are trees that he co-founded. Jake had recently come upon the perilous idea that he was in short a turnover in mercenary work. Infatuated by his own reflection no more.
An assembly by Sherry Birkin? Nah-uh, he couldn't permit her to see himself in this disparaging form. Begging for a job was surely out of the question. But a rent payment missing will hold out, along with pride. He'd probably wouldn't seem fit to impose his resume on those people, nor spend time sifting through classified information to find it's true placement. Screw it, he's doing it his way.
He partakes in a risky venture to some mobsters. Killing them. Or so he'd see as plausible. Instead he took out a loan. Jake only inhabits areas that are either surrounded by the most stereotypical of monsters.
Monsters weren't something that hid under your bed. Monsters were men who appeared human, but in their chemistry they function as an apathetic and heartless individual.
He goes to "Sormelli's Boxing Club" betting all of the money on himself for the first few rounds, until the very last. Showing great promise, and having a plus one arrange the gambling. Next would preferably be a shooting competition.
*Sherry*
Sherry's in dire need of a financial make over. It was evident she'd be shattered day in and day out. Opting for a minimum wage job, preferably less hours than this maddening farce of a charity organization.
Of course her boss had to hand pick her for this. Setting the tables, as if she was a militia of janitors instead of war saviors. Not to mention being overtaxed with supplying the clients with immaterial trivia on the company's programs instead of dealings. Her break was a minute and she could already feel herself vulnerable to a premature nap.
Leon and Claire were supposed to have an admission to this concourse of a building. Unfortunately, they had to save the world for another round. 'Sherry our surprise is going to have to wait. How is it taking this long? I have no idea how you two… Just know we moved you here for a reason.' Leon snorting as Claire glared at him for almost letting it slip. She wished she could rewind, and demand Leon quit his laborious procrastination for giving explanations to half the things he said.
Clocking out she takes a cab home.
"Lot of people are talking about that new virus in Germany." The man speaking with intent to free them of a nauseating silence. A silence that rode all 3 miles with them.
"Sorry, I don't feel like entertaining that topic at the moment." Sherry resting her fist on the side of her face.
"Sheesh." The man said under his breath. "There's a lot of hell going on for us taxi guys. Less breaks, no over time, not even a Christmas bonus." The driver staring into the rear view mirror.
Sherry felt something rain over her in dolefulness. Here she was whining in her inter monologues about making six figures, and right before her was a man living at people's beck and calls.
"I hear that Germany's quarantining the whole country. Rumors that some are fleeing the land." Sherry bringing back the prior topic to cheer the man up.
There were rows of cars lined up symmetrically everywhere. The darkness ahead covered in red and blue. Ambulances, and Police sirens in pandemonium. The taxi driver made a right.
"Sorry gonna take a detour, may take longer. And yes, if one of those fleeing men carry the virus it will be another Raccoon city." The driver said.
Sherry bit her tongue at the words. She sighed, coaching herself to continue with this.
"I work with a virology team that handles stuff like that. If the virus spreads, we rebuild, decontaminate, and work on cures." Sherry's eyes darting back to the ambulances.
"Cures take time though. As well as finding people with antibodies to develop it." The taxi driver flooring the car down an empty street.
"You'd be surprised." Sherry giggled.
*Jake*
That's the third time his opponent through a wild haymaker while faking a left. It was time to get surgical in his technical planning. Jake sits in his isolated corner, while giving the stare down of a lifetime to his opponent surrounded by his supposed boxing family. Jake sits tasting the blood in his mouth, his ribs aching foreshadowing an early collapse in the next few matches. Enervation would not make Jake concede to quitting.
DING!
The enemy comes at Jake the fake jab was thrown, and Jake shields his left. His knuckles explode into the enemy's jaw. There could be an infinite amount of things his enemy is seeing as he stumbles back. Black, black and white stars, the disorienting flashes of cameras, the look of victory on Jake's face. But Jake knows what he sees. More money in his bank as the man's head hits the floor of the ring.
The next few matches are like card games, getting surgical and saving his aces for later. His body begs him to ease into a hospital bed. But he keeps going.
The final match. It is here.
*Sherry*
"Thanks so much. I hope your family in Germany is ok!" Sherry waving her hand as the taxi car shoots smoke into the distance.
Sherry sees her apartment building, she slouches. Another night of on the bed, contemplating if she should simply call her boss and give him the finger. Motivating herself to think wishfully she enters a deli. Getting a scratch off in her hands she hands it to the deli worker. Paying for it she of course has ill luck as always.
Naively thinking the next one will be worth anything, she pays for it and begins scribbling at it with a quarter.
"Huh?" Sherry utters.
"Problem?" The deli owner crossing his arms.
"You can't be serious here. These are the same numbers as the last one." Sherry putting her face into a muddle.
"Must be a glitch in the system. Not my fault. You wanna gamble for real go to Sormelli's Boxing Club. Get up on outta here, I'm closing." The owner doubting she'd put up a lawsuit over a 100 dollar maximum scratch off. Surely not after him snatching it away right after. "I'll keep this to report it to the manufacturer." The owner pointing at the door soon after.
Sherry's mind is blank. Maybe Smorelli's would offer more luck, but then again con artists do divide the take over mutual scams. She sees the place across the street. For a second her mind is blank for real this time. Then she feels something tingle in her stomach, and a sensation like hair standing up but in her heart.
"Jake Muller V.S Taryn Mills Final Match Book Tickets Now"
"Leon I'm going to put you in a cast." Sherry's grin following her to the entrance.
*Jake*
Slap Slap Slap
EEESH EEESH PHEW
Jake fumbles to the right, his guard dropping. He moves back retreating. Then CRACK he hits the ground. A small price to pay for earning a world in grandeur. A fee he took lightly. Until his head thudded onto the ring's floor. His eyes squeeze tight, blood seeping onto the floor through his busted lip. A gargle is heard only by him, and he spits more additional blood. His eyes open and that's when he sees a blond woman.
Wait, no. No, this was a temporary illusion induced by subsequent blows to the cranium. He sees her place a hand on her chest as if she saw the end of days. Her mouth dropping, and he could almost hear her gasp in his head. A dread like none other washes over him, a despondent mood of letting her witness him in this despicable state. His eyes like a blind man's go numb.
DING DING DING!