Ichor And Steel

by AlrightLuckins

After his selfless sacrifice, Ethan Winters wakes following fifteen years of slumber to discover Mother Miranda had a fail-safe; she didn't die and nor did the other lords. Unable to return to the "old world", Ethan becomes confined to the lords' doings as a runner and eventual apprentice upon the reveal of his mutation. This attracts the attention of Karl Heisenberg who takes a pa

PROLOGUE

I felt nothing but a sting; a wound widening and the dark infection creep inside. The black rivers twisted around my insides as they followed the trail up my spine, chest, and neck. I was held, like a lover holds their other, and the thick fingers of grim clutched my chin. When I couldn't see, I simply felt as though I ceased life itself—but did I stop life, or did it stop me? Was death finally here, to wipe my tears and tell me what lay after the light was better?

Cold. Freezing. I think I was in a black ocean, swirling with the current. I was not a being but a thin force, a soul! If I craned my neck, I think I saw Rose and Chris, his final stand against the mould and a cry of realisation. What he swore and wept; I would never hear. All that mattered was I floated here, in oblivion, and the grief I ached with before had left.

Goodbye Rose, goodbye the bright snow-scape of land I befell on. Alas, this peace quickly dissolves because next I know I wake in solitary, a space so confined and tight it might just be my own body where I return. And through the crystal of my hazy eyes, I see him, perched and waiting. To feast? To scare? To kill? Maybe it is to love. I wish to thaw and thank him, this hulk of shadow with a little light, awaiting my next breath.

Who is he, this guard? Why he is here is unbeknown but a slight whisper in my mind tells me he felt sad. He didn't want me to be alone because the clock that ticked ticked for very long…

Chapter One; His Lord's Snare

Where the fuck am I?

Again, in this place—this shitty, wretched snow-scape of hell!

He woke and then he was running, leading a hotfooted chase against the pursuers. You know, the usual misfits. Ethan Winters understood them; he unfortunately felt all too familiar with them. The vivid tones and accents etched themselves in the tunnels of his ears and their strong bodies scarred the surface of his eyes. The Lady's scent stained his nose and the Lord's grasp on his arm left red hot finger dents in his flesh.

That was so long ago…but how long?

Ethan's mind had dissolved and felt like liquid, sloshing inside his skull. It made him spin and crash into dead-ends, collapse fences and their small splinters impaled his skin. It was as though his body was waking but from a night's rough sleep, his limbs still slowly uncurling and bones cracking uncomfortably. His jaw felt too tight to unhinge and yawn but somehow, screams were allowed out. Ethan wailed and flailed, seemingly heading a pointless attempt of escape.

Remember, you killed them once, you can do it again! Rememberyoukilledthemonceyoucandoitagain!

"I can do it again," he breathed, hands gripping his knees. In the light of dusk, his frosty breath performed wispy dances. "Icandoit. Icandoit."

An intrusive agony dug between his ribs and prod at his heart, and a skittling tremble ran his thighs and knees, quivering in the cold and aftermath of his wakening. Spasms pulsed at his temples, Ethan fighting through the barriers of grogginess to just grasp a weak understanding of how he came to be here.

Daughter…daughter, your daughter…dead? Man, umbrella, daughterdaughter not here—

He forgot about the hunters stepping on his heels, startled when the fence he slumped against erupted and a thick coat barrelled along the ground. Ethan gasped, quick on his feet and vaulted into a hut, long abandoned with scattered plates and strong mists of dusts. He inhaled the dense cloud and gagged, spluttering, and waving his arms. His hand found a sill and the other a table, hauling himself up.

Think, Ethan. Think. How did you get here?

"I woke up," he wheezed, hitting his chest, and kicking open a backdoor. He escaped through an alley, hearing whoever was close shout. "I woke up. FUCK, is that all?!"

The connections linking, desperately gripping on to sanity snapped and tears sprung free. Like snowflakes grazing his cheeks, the tears fell slowly and touched him coldly. The clustering of the village residentials got tighter and smaller, shoulders to the walls, chest dragging through the smaller crevices. Snagged and snatched, grabbed and hooked, things from the ground came and rose with gargles and shrieks. Ethan's jacket became a hazard and he almost wriggled it free, revealing a small pistol in his holster, pressed hard against his hip. He drew it when his body yanked towards the ground with a thump!

"Got you!" they cawed with arrogance and delight.

Face down with a mouthful of dirt, Ethan heard their smirk, sharp at the corners with a slight bearing of canine teeth. In their lustrous tone, like the texture of velvet and sand—impossibly so—they declared Ethan's fate. Ethan screamed against the ground, his hot breath flushing up into his eyes and the ice stinging all the smaller scratches on his face. Fear propelled him, without failure, into a wild pinwheel away from the crashing of a hammer; he could hear the weight and bone crushing damage he would have sustained had he been unmoving for a second longer.

Curiosity made Ethan turn, pivoting and glimpsing the glint of flare in the man's eye, as his hair fell and hammer came down again and he swung with the immense strength carried in the muscle of his arms, clothed in material that ruffled and snapped with each movement. Ethan gasped and his legs bent, halving his height before the hammer nicked the tip of his red nose.

"Stay still!" The man cried. Ethan remembered the keepsake he'd dredged from Karl Heisenberg's dispersed corpse and, several moments ago, this had strengthened Ethan's composure. Yet presently, he witnessed all that manifested anger well to the surface of Heisenberg's skin, tinting it scarlet. A scarlet wraith, the hysterical type.

"I'd rather not," Ethan hissed, careening right and firing three bullets into the head of a lycan. "I'd never stand still for you enough to strike me—"

Heisenberg grunted, wielding the hammer above his head, pulverizing acres of land beneath his boots. Ethan was shaken, losing his grip, and wrenched from his footing by wire. Snared—shit. It cut into his ankle, little slithers of blood hitting Ethan's chin whilst the blood inside him rushed from his heart and gathered in his head. The grey lycans were walking on the sky and Heisenberg strutted, pacing with a broad chest and angled chin, teeth glimmering like fresh snow. Ethan realised how wrong what he saw was; everything was upside down. Anything below his waist became weightless, his feet paling and cold in their shoes, and shirt slipping up his chest.

"I never expected you to stand still for me, Ethan Winters," Heisenberg laughed, the lycans mimicked in their piercing cackles. "I simply make you."

The blonde winced, eyes shutting as Heisenberg's hand approached his face. The lightest touch, although leather, felt strange; he was a dead man, but breathing with a heart—

No, he held no heart within the cage of his chest.

"Now, shall I escort you with ease or might I bound you with metal again?" the man said as he lightly shoved Ethan, sending him gently spinning. "I am on specific orders not to impale you, that is with metal, so I suppose—"

"Please spare me the monologuing," Ethan whined, pulling himself slightly upright. "It's tiring enough running from you."

Heisenberg only ripped him down again, seizing his chin in his large grip and licking his lips. Head tilted, Heisenberg's discoloured stare trailed up and down Ethan, a light crinkle forming between his eyebrows that peered just above his glasses.

"Very well," he drawled.

He took a small knife-like object from seemingly thin air and slashed for Ethan's leg. Ethan cried out in protest, but it was only to cut him down, into the crook of Heisenberg's arm which wrapped around his waist before hauling him up on to his shoulder. The arrest rendered Ethan's thrashing pointless, although he bucked and buckled, slammed, and kicked. The lycans circled Heisenberg, their backs hunched and smile split ear-to-ear in a greedful demeanour. Ethan was carried above them all, like a trophy. What the fuck had he gotten himself into?

Chapter Two; Her Lady's Judgement

Ethan could smell fish but only saw her. A faint silver light defined her perched upon a wooden throne, complexion aglow and lips poised with a snarl. Within the castle walls, light did not peer and only flickered from the fireplace and candles, their flames licking and snapping near curtains. Her three daughters gazed, the yellow in their eyes enhanced by the fire, waiting and watching, hoping for something to catch alight and amuse their violent-hungry minds.

"A decade and—oh, how long, Heisenberg?" the lady herself questioned, curling her grip around the orbed-arm of her seat.

Ethan peeled his bloodied face from the floor—concrete, tile, he couldn't tell but it was icy and hard—and sucked in a heavy breath, the strain of a boot digging into his spine. This weight on his back exalted. Leather fingers clinched his hair, ripping his upper body from the ground and reeled into Heisenberg's chest.

"Heisenberg," Dimitrescu firmed, a gripe in her voice. Heisenberg glanced and moved his face away from Ethan's. "I wish you would take your glasses off when speaking to me."

Ethan grinned, "she has a point—ACK!"

Heisenberg dropped Ethan and nudged him with his heel, harshly. Bela giggled whilst her two sisters smiled, Daniela asking her mother for a chance to join in.

"No, darling. Uncle Heisenberg is being disrespectful." Dimitrescu unfolded, her body extending, reaching a frightening yet seemingly beautiful height. It was charming, in the way a man without such motherly influence would be swayed by; Ethan was struck by this allurement, his pupils dilating at her…posture.

Yes, just her posture.

She stooped to his eye-level, a regarding glint within in her stare, and cooed to him, "crystalised for fifteen years, poor boy. You have missed…quite a lot."

Ethan frowned and grunted, moving himself into an upright position. Without the weight of Heisenberg attempting to break his spine, he was free to gaze to the four lords; it felt just like yesterday they were crowded around him, Lycans hounding and hollering in the rafters and the stench of death embedded within his hands…that village girl. A disgraced remorse twinged in his chest, tightening the tendons and muscles caged around his heart and his organs wheezed in their suddenly claustrophobic body.

"I killed you…" Ethan quavered, getting to his feet. The smell of fish strengthened, and he flinched away from Moreau's extended arm. "I killed you all—"

"Then why can I touch you?" Moreau bubbled with a throaty caw. "Look, see?"

"Get your hands off me!" Ethan shrieked, tripping over his own feet into the nine hands of the sisters. They tussled at his shirt as Dimitrescu raised her voice to calm the chaos. Her slender fingers grappled but he threw himself away, smacking into the chest of Heisenberg. His nose was filled with the odour of metal, a sweet oil, and smoothed wood—a carver's perfume. The chattering puppet burst up between them, clicking her jaws and laughing.

Heisenberg grabbed its head and discarded the puppet into the robed arms of Donna, petting Angie and unwrinkling her dress. Beyond the faint mesh of her veil, Ethan glimpsed her puckering mutation whilst her one good eye sneered at him.

"May our family meetings just be fluid, for once?" The lady groaned, overwhelmed by Heisenberg's roar at Moreau and Angie but his seething ceased, abruptly. His head turned, hair brushing the top of Ethan's head who he unconsciously held against him.

"We aren't a family, Alcina," he affirmed, a low rumble wavering in his chest and against Ethan's back.

"You dare not speak like that!" Dimitrescu yelled. Ethan became pressed between them, their rivalry thick and a hot flush came across his face as he fought the urge to laugh; her height surpassed over Heisenberg's.

"Separate, children," the woman with only a golden glint marking her presence spoke. Mother Miranda, her wounded figure remaining hidden and her only words obeyed instantly although, and noted by Ethan, Heisenberg tensed, but conformed. The siblings put distance between each other, leaving Ethan stark and in the middle of the court, the eye-line of Mother Miranda spearing through his chest.

"Do you remember who you are?" she interrogated, chin tilted, and eyelids slanted.

"Ethan-Ethan Wuh-Winters," the human uttered, blinking rapidly whilst the four lords who sat beneath Miranda's shadow excitedly became an audience. "You pulled…you pulled my heart out."

"Why, yes. I did. Does your chest ache?" she lowered her head, light dawning on her face. Ethan swayed his head in an ambiguous motion. "You might not. You won't remember details from the old world—"

"Old world?"

"Please do not interrupt me," she bit, a threatening gesture awaiting to be unleashed on him. He ducked his head. "But yes, your old world. Life before your second death, you can't return and, as unfortunate as it is to inform the murderer who slaughtered your dear family, you are no longer an entire mortal, Ethan Winters."

The sisters even ceased their giggles, eyeing their new half-brother; Dimitrescu's expression wrinkled, breaking the illusion of her porcelain skin; Heisenberg gripped the brim of his hat, chewing on a pic; and Moreau gurgled. Donna remained unmoving.

"That is who you are," Mother Miranda confirmed. She watched Ethan, waiting for him to cry and flail, I'm not one of you! I never will be! But he was still. She took the opening of quiet and said, "alas, you still wounded our plans; I will be appointing you a runner. Only those who can handle the weight of their actions will ever be subjected to apprentice status."

Bickerings broke out amongst the heads of the four lords and Ethan fell into an invisible presence. Fingers pointed, and hands gestured over his head. They only wished to kill him; have their tortuous amusement. But Mother Miranda was stern on her demand and asserted her dominance with a shriek which was answered by abrupt tameness.

"Take him, under your arms or not; but remember our purpose," she said, head lowering. Ethan's back erected and his lips failed to uttered words as his body broke out in trembles.

And his eventual cry, "what purpose?!" was met without answer.

Chapter Three; This place feels like the snow

A sombre room, deprived of light with curtains too heavy with dust and age to move. The weathered bedframe groaned with the gentlest lean. Carpet damp, moisture seeping out beneath each step of Ethan's feet. He speculated who belonged to these lonely quarters, the chambers weeping and whining against the wind's beating to the frail walls outside. This half of the Dimitrescu residence was feebler, decrepit decay and slender walls. The infirmness allowed the cold to seep through, flutterings of snow sitting on Ethan's chest as he lay, too afraid to be beneath the quilt and melt into the pillows.

An empty warmth yearned to be filled on his chest. He shed his jacket and swathed a spare pillow, pulling it tight against him. He could only smell himself, but that was enough to ground Ethan within this reality of becoming their servants…their runner. What his duties would entail were never communicated to him as Miranda made her children disperse. Heisenberg and Moreau took out to the cold whilst her lady remained, seething mutterings, head bowed, and nose pinched. She allowed those wretched girls to quarrel around him and pinch his arms and face. Down a corridor, flight of stairs, up another and lost in another maze of halls, they detained him where he lay presently.

Ethan Winters was forever their prisoner—however long this eternal fungus root breathed and inflated the Lords' lungs, he was but a flesh and bone punching bag. The formidable torture that would eventually lay harm's hands upon his body. It was inevitable, an inescapable fate readily befalling him tomorrow.

CrEaK!

Or maybe now.

Ethan's spine defensively erected, the hairs of arms and neck bristling like a cat's. A trembling candlelight quivered through the door's crack but something small and sharp passed through. Its scamper clattered along the floor. He breathed harshly, glancing between the shimmering light and the wild doll leaping to the foot of his bed. Angie.

"You little bastard," Ethan rasped, his lip hitching in a snarl-like fashion.

Angie placed her chin on her folded hands and swung her legs. "You're a little bitch, Ethan!"

Ethan smashed the doll with a pillow, Angie yacking beneath the smothering wraith. He reminisced not-so-fondly of her mockery and bothersome piping voice.

"I am so sorry, Ethan!" a kinder, smoother voice exclaimed. The puppet master intervened but Ethan slapped her arms away.

"No, I'm doing us both a favour!" he hissed.

"Ethan, please!" Donna pleaded, although she restrained from further interference. Her reliance on politeness brushed off on Ethan and he settled leaning back on his knees. He heaved as Donna collected Angie, who crept into her chest.

"Don't you control that thing?" he accused, eyes narrowing cruelly.

Donna swept her hand, removing her veil; each movement was delicate. Skin like a doll's porcelain but the mutation where she cracked. However, she appeared not ugly but vengeful. "I chose whether my control is needed—"

"Clearly it is," he snapped, fearing no power from this lord. Ethan knew it wasn't because she was the easiest kill…it was more so her kindness, which he knew from his field wasn't welcome as a strength.

She was stupefied from his tone and, despite their being something more to speak, she departed. Ethan wanted to ask her to stay, not leave him alone in this dark corner of Dimitrescu's dwelling. Yet he remained quiet and went to figure out a lock on the door. Frustratingly, there was none but he remained by the door, intrigued by whispers further down the hall.

"I wished to only see if he were alright, but he snapped at me, Kar." Donna, with the additional rasping from Angie.

"What did I ask of you?" A male's voice. "Don't talk to him, damnit."

"Kar," Donna spoke, her tone the voice of reason.

"Go to bed, Donna. He hurt us; he destroyed decades of hard work—"

"But you don't believe that, right?" she asked. Ethan imagined her tender touch, a reassuring tap of her hand on the man's. There was a quiet confession of the lie and then the silence in the wake of footsteps. Ethan was alone.

Chapter Four; First Day Screw Up

"One, two…three!"

Ethan shrieked awake, the mattress—blessed comfort—fell away from his body, replaced by the renewing feel of snow in his mouth and down his thin shirt. An ache panged in his lower-back, twisting its way up to his neck which struck a jutting rock. On his back, in the snow, he must've fell from his window; or thrown. Likely the latter.

He grunted, sitting with hands between his knees, holding his temples that pounded with the echoing of their cackles.

"Mother sent a message, Ethan!" Bela cawed, clutching the windowsill of his bedroom. He'd coped a great fall but there seemed to be no injury, oddly.

"She wants you to do some feeding," Cassandra said, seemingly bored by her sibling's nonsense, head on the windowsill and arm listlessly hanging out. "Nothing exciting."

"Nothing that can really kill him, so stop wasting your breath, Bela!" Daniela clipped her with a backhand, Bela sulking away from the window.

Ethan stumbled to his feet and called back, "Who am I feeding?"

"That disgusting, gilled whiner has your food…" Daniela wiped her hair from her face, tucking it beneath the robe's hood. "It's all we eat and now all those hairy-men eat."

"Hairy men?" Ethan frowned, dusting snow from his forearms.

She waved a dismissive hand. "Lycans, Heisenberg's bitches. Just go to the reservoir and figure it out—"

"Fine, but…uh…can I have my jacket please?" he asked, gingerly, scratching the back of his head. Cassandra performed a running throw, the rustle of his thick jacket slapping his face. He'd found this one in a closet, unsure where his last one went.

"Hungry, hungry Ethan! Don't let them get rowdy!" they cackled in a sickening choir tone.

"No thanks to you, the Lycans have no more…or not much, flesh to graze on," Moreau explained in his bumbling, deep inflection. "We had to herd them into a pit—"

"Oh, brilliant," Ethan scoffed.

"—they were feasting on our meat and those sisters…" he chuckled, "they get annoying."

"Well, they have each other to eat," he jested. Moreau, however, gave him a fearful glance.

Ethan continued hauling the cart of whiting and salmon, which were rotting fast under the sun. Flies glued to the hairs on his arm, jacket long discarded and tied around his waist, but he was growing indecisive; the European cold still bit at his skin and prickled it with goosebumps. He grunted, reeling the cart up a final stretch of slope with little knowing of where this pit of hairy men was—Moreau led the way but only quietly so.

"Shit!" Ethan cussed as the front wheel crunched over his toe. The fish-freak found amusement in his sufferings and laughed until struck down by the blonde. "Are you going to help or not, gill-fuck?!"

Moreau's plump lips puckered in a sob and Ethan rolled his eyes, continuing to haul the cart down the rickety road and to the thin bridge. It was easy to cross and, although he wasn't sure on the directions, Ethan came to where he was supposed to complete his chore, the almost rebuilt factory of that metal aberration.

"Fuck me," Ethan murmured. The wet, slick feet of Moreau pattered up behind him and his wheezing breath signified he had made a fearful dash across the bridge. "How about you take—"

"Up here!" the man called, face emerging from an opaque cloud of smoke. He appeared unbothered by the stench of raw nicotine, huffed from a fat cigar. Blatant eyes which caught the glint of silver sun, tightened into disappointment, eyebrows creased together. "Oh, it's you."

"Yeah, it's me." Ethan pulled the cart in front of him, purposefully allowing some fish to slop on to the ground. "I'm here to feed your fucking dogs, courtesy of the Lady."

Heisenberg spat a wad at his feet and scratched at his beard. "Super-sized bitch…" he muttered, seemingly miserable with the runner coming to him; surely there were other more important chores that needed tending to. He ground something beneath his boot, bickering to himself and the scrap pile at his feet, and rubbed his barrelled chest. He was in a white singlet, tinged grey and dipping low enough for a forest of chest hair to peer, and his arms were greased, emphasising muscles.

"I'm not pleased to be here either, but just tell me where the dogs—"

"They're not dogs—"

"Don't care. Where are they?"

The metal wielder flicked his head, his hat, and glasses unmoving but his poorly done-up hair swishing. He seethed, "where you last blew them up."

Moreau watched Ethan's jaw wiggle and lock, fingers curling up. He tore himself away from the impending argument, and pinched Moreau's arm. Barely five paces towards the pit, Heisenberg's sharp voice hit their ears with a cunning insult as bitter as the breeze.

"Hey, fish-face, you better watch out; heard they like salmon now!" Moreau's shoulders shivered and Ethan, as much as he attempted to resist, sniggered, quickly vanishing into a scowl when Heisenberg turned his quips to him, "Winters, you might be lucky enough unless you're brave and don't shit yourself."

"Asshole," the blonde grumbled, bowing his head. Moreau seemed stiff until they reached the pit, where, yet again, he refused to help Ethan. He stared into the gaped mouth of the hole, where its teeth, the Lycans, quivered excitedly.

"Why are they in the pit?" Ethan called out over their snarls, resorting to tipping the cartful of fish in; he didn't care if it was fair game or not.

"How would I know? Nobody tells me much," the fish complained, slumping down. He swung his thin legs into the mouth, wistfully watching the Lycans' hungry scramble. "Mother tells more to metal-bitch than to me."

Ethan dusted off his hands, smearing fish guts down his shirt, and joined Moreau, laughing. "Metal-bitch, I like that. Although, he doesn't strike me as much of someone's bitch."

Moreau nodded with a small shrug. "It's as if I am more of a failure."

Ethan frowned, at himself and Moreau; why did he feel anything towards this river rat? Let alone remorse. It had been a day and he wanted to kick himself for feeling sympathy to something…somethings…that tried to kill him and…and…who else? Moreau would know but Ethan hesitated to ask…a little too long.

His fish-faced friend was grappled at by the sudden onslaught of Lycans. They leapt away from the hole and, instead of fear, Ethan felt a challenge. He shared this devilish expression to Moreau who cowered.

"Just a jump, that's all. You only have to do it once!" Ethan explained, psyching up the sad lump of slimy gills. "Those castle dwelling bastards would never do this!"

"You think?" Moreau gave him a hopeful look. Ethan nodded, grinning, and slapped his back.

Moreau took a run-up, launching off his hinds as though about to dive. He propelled himself in a high arch, holding his footing on a painful but successful landing. Wildly excited, he began flailing his arms at Ethan, his gratefulness fading into mockery whilst Ethan calculated his approach. He attempted the same, becoming airborne but his angle was too small, losing momentum a metre from the other ledge.

"Shit!" he cried, chin clipping the ledge.

The impact pierced his tongue with teeth, and he went back-first. His lungs compressed upon landing, inflating too quickly and a throat-full of air choked him. Ethan sat up, feeling the hot blood river over his parted lips, sucking in the air shoved out of him by the jolt. Crimson droplets from his nose puddled on the ground, sizzling into the soil. The Lycan's nostrils flared. Ethan's instincts kicked in hard, his hands scrambling for a sharp object: rock, stick, scrap metal?

"Damnit!" Ethan yelled, tilting his head up to Moreau.

That fish-fuck had disappeared, leaving the blonde shrieking for help and thrashing. He gripped at the imminently collapsing walls, clawing, and feeling the awful sensation of dirt clumping up beneath his nails. A hairy talon swung and would've impaired Ethan had it latched into his spine, but the hilt of a weapon flicked it away. Calloused hands groped for closure, manhandling the soon-to-be Lycan victim. It was a rough escape and Ethan didn't surface unscathed, smarting with small wounds. His eardrums were soon burst by Heisenberg's scolding, Moreau quivering behind his wide figure.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" Heisenberg stamped the ground, kicking the final Lycan down into the pit. He whirled to Ethan, left on his elbows, and slowly managing to his knees. He examined a series of scratches, a red graze dragged from forearm to wrist, and gave Heisenberg wide eyes. The man heaved and licked his lips, beckoning for his hat which Moreau gingerly gave.

"You got an answer—"

"We were having fun, right Moreau?" Ethan turned. The fish blinked and glanced at his flippered feet. He looked to Heisenberg nervously, who stood so close and tall. He bent and thumbed away Lycan saliva from Ethan's face, the blonde twitching under the slight touch. Heisenberg's large hand curled around Ethan's shoulder and hauled him up, shoving him ahead.

"We'll get you back to the castle in case you decide to play chicken more," he said with a smirk. Ethan bit down on his lip and folded his arms. He pondered whether he should say thank you or not.

Chapter Five; Thanatophobia

A blue day felt so starkly contrasting amidst the stones, jutting, and pushing each other to reach the sun, to be seen by loved ones. Rosemary Winters almost felt upset that her father's, and mother's were kept on a private hill, in which Chris Redfield had invested for. Ah, Redfield, he was teetering too close—Rosemary had heard from others. She was to be surrounded, kept under a strict eye but they granted her somewhat privacy within the graveyard.

Deep in the patch of flowers she sown for at least a decade now without her mother's assistance, she hummed the muffled tunes in her ears. Rhythmically, she tapped a pen against Village of Shadows, which had become riddled with highlight, sticky-notes and pen marks scratched within the sacred pages. Somewhere, hidden in a fine print between lines or a shadow of the pictures, Rosemary believed wildly her father had left a clue. Because no child felt at ease knowing their parents' death remain unconfirmed—she'd seen the files, passed behind backs for her by a nice man surnamed Kennedy.

Chris arrived beneath the shade of lazily postured trees, seeking out the youngest Winters. He saw the black-cap and snuck unregistered in her peripherals, encroaching slow-footed. Her reflexes faulted when he shut off her music, the phone resting unbalanced on Mia Winters' gravestone.

"You're dead, Rose," he said, blankly. Rose pursed her lips and glanced, hair icy like her father's spilling over her shoulder and delicate skin wrinkled like her mother's.

"Nice to see you too. Can't I catch a break?" she flicked her eyebrows, gathering her things on to Mia's stone. Chris had noted she'd done this before, never laying anything but herself against Ethan's. "I was studying."

"For school or leisure?" Chris tilted his head, smirking.

"Maybe both. I don't know, don't really want to think about that shithole," Rose complained, perching on her father's gravestone. Chris nodded, expressing he could relate and lit up a cigarette, shaking the pack at Rose. Her face became round with a cheeky smile, slipping out a thin rollup and lighting it masterfully.

"Mia would have my throat!" Chris laughed, the girl moving her head in agreeance. "Don't you go catching a habit."

"Too late," she joked, side-eyeing.

They smothered their lungs with smoke in silence, enjoying the peace away from mournful guests but within eyeline was a funeral, with black veils and knee-length skirts and trousers. Seemed like a big family, a lot of grievance passing around. Rose was eternally grateful she didn't endure that; Mia had a living wake, forever the woman who couldn't bare the mere thought of missing out on all the good things to have been said about her. Rose wondered if Ethan would've been like that but bit her tongue around Chris, knowing well his sadness had yet to lift. Sometimes Rose thought it was guilt, a helpless guilt.

"Why don't you want to think about school?" Chris asked, more so muttering behind his tabaco.

Rose shrugged, twiddling with the drawstrings of a coat once laid over her infant body. Chris remembered feeling Ethan's final touch, pressing his hand against his chest before the detonation of mold. He wanted to think Ethan was already cold, that his hands were pale, and the blood had stopped circling his heart. But he saw that man's chest rise and fall; breath visible in the air; and eyes flutter one last time at Rose. It was gutting—there was so much more I could've done.

"It's stressful; everyone either wants to be a doctor or a lawyer," Rose explained, pressing her tongue to her cheek. She tapped the cigarette, dots of ash flittering to the soil.

"Well, what do you want to be? You don't have to be that—"

"I want to join the police academy," she said quickly, as if to justify her certainty. She was smart enough to predict Chris would be resentful towards this choice, and he expressed it with a throaty cough.

"That's a dark path to take, Rosemary," he seethed, stamping out his light. Rose frowned and held the arms of her father's coat, pinching at the sleeves.

"That is just as bad as calling me Eveline." Rose's laughter conveyed her ire, throwing her head back and hanging it there, blowing smoke to the sky. "Don't call me that, Chris."

Chris grinned and wondered over, discarding Rose's ignorance towards the police academy subject; clearly, it could be discussed later. "Your father called you that. I don't think Mia ever took liking to it…both are pretty names."

"I'm flattered," Rose smirked and looked at her shoes, "I wish you'd stop protecting me."

"I am not having this conversation right now, Rose—"

"Just…do you ever think?" She looked to him and closed the distance, speaking softly, "Mother Miranda sounded smart…I doubt she wouldn't have a failsafe—"

"—it's best not to speculate—"

"Maybe I'm not speculating! Maybe it's something I feel…that I still feel that dad, Ethan…" her shoulders rose, tensed, and a tremble passed through her body. Chris's hand lifted to comfort, but he dared not touch her, eying the snipers and other guards who had a clear shot; so cruel, she was just a kid. "I don't think he can die twice—"

"—and not live thrice, I know Rose," Chris completed the rhythm. Mia came up with it, sometimes she muttered beneath her breath whilst staring off, absent and glazed eyes. She did it more towards her death. "How about I take you home?"

She looked to him beneath the brim of her cap and Chris pursed his lips. "Just us?"

"You know I can't do that…" he tilted his head side-to-side. "But…I might if we stop at that joint near Filly's?"

Rose lightened slightly and nodded, the man returning the gesture and swishing in his coat, hands in his pockets. He gestured to a far-off watcher, communicating she was fine.

Chapter Six; Her Kindness

Nightly, the puppet-master visited. She bought neat squares of folded clothes, cotton shirts and singlets, socks, underwear, and jackets. Ethan worried for a while they looked too similar to village-wear but grew to be thankful, especially when she found shoes. Donna seemed delighted by Ethan's politeness, and filled his drawers with belongings of strangers' which would grow to be his own.

A week became a month and time passed, Ethan's arms toning and strengthening with each chore and his appetite finally returned, much to Donna's happiness…although it seemed second-hand; as if she was pleased someone else was relieved he was eating again.

On an evening which felt colder than the rest, Donna came with pumpkin soup, Angie scurrying behind with a plate of crispy bread. He eagerly ate whilst Donna watched, content and cross-legged on his bed, after Angie had left—maybe she had finally learnt from many scuffles with Ethan it was best to not jaw off or to just get lost.

"Do you eat, Donna?" he asked with a mouthful of bread, gesturing with his bent spoon.

"Lords rarely feast, especially of late with food so scarce…however, the sisters enjoy small bites from their corpse-cupboard," she explained, nonchalantly.

Ethan sniggered, soup gargling in his throat. "That sounds rotten."

Donna tilted her head, amused but unable to fully register the joke. To avoid another awkward explanation of his dad-jokes—although she did like that phrase—he thanked her for yet again bringing a meal. She swayed, her version of a shrug, and smiled softly. Ethan, despite being fed, always felt starved, or at least enough to enjoy stringy meat and stale bread.

"Where did that little runt of yours go?" Ethan inquired to fill the silence Donna seemed to feel a little too comfortable in.

She fiddled with the hem of her veil, laid relaxed over her shoulders. "Angie doesn't like being around me when I'm not well."

"Not well?"

She shook her head, abruptly standing and making a retreat towards the door. "I shouldn't busy your mind before you sleep—"

"No, no." Ethan paused, hesitating. She tried to kill you! He clumsily put his bowl down, getting up and coming to her. "You can burden me."

"Oh, it's really nothing…just something got Baby whilst it was down in the tunnels."

"Baby?" the blonde frowned gently, his temples straining as he just couldn't remember. "Have I met them?"

She nodded without a real answer behind the gesture and quickly made way for the corridor. Ethan asked her to wait and explain but she wanted to leave, anxiously glancing down the hall at some invisible but approaching force. Wait, footsteps.

"What's going on Donna? Why can't you stay—"

"Can't you read a room…a face…a tone of voice, Ethan?" her voice was a mere whisper, leaning close to Ethan's face. "He doesn't want me to see you…"

"Who? Heisenberg or Moreau?"

"Heisenberg. Moreau couldn't tell himself what to do."

"Harsh."

"But true, but Heisenberg despises you…You did blow up his little abode after all."

Ethan's face went a tinge pink, the thought hurting as he had been working around the half-repaired factory of late. He toiled in a field nearby, with weakly growing wheat and other seeds, and had seen Heisenberg distantly glare, arms folded. His shoulders broadened under the thick weight of his coat, ends billowing in the breeze and his grey hair like a cloud around his head.

"I'd like to think we're even," Ethan jested shyly. He cleared his throat and gently nudged the door. "I agree…I mean…I wouldn't want to anger him."

Beneath the thin fabric of her veil, clenched between her delicate fingers, candlelight from the hall outlined her smiling features. "Goodnight, Ethan. Try and get some rest for I heard the sisters require you tomorrow."

Ethan scoffed, stifling a pained laugh and watched her leave, her kindness leaving a warm imprint on his heart he imagined he had not felt for a very long time. Shame it was not long lasting; he wished to find something…someone…to make that feeling last longer since it felt nice.

Chapter Seven; Was it you, metal-man?

Was it you, Heisenberg? In my dream?

Upon sleep, Ethan descended into a night-terror where he was in a tunic and vest, leading a brittle chase. His pursuers were mostly unknown, faces clothed with shadows but bare chested and skin thick with fur. But there were also others, though they seemed dense and staggered from the grounds, bursting through snow. Ethan found a carriage—the Duke!

Who was the Duke?

He threw himself at the rickety box, yelling and howling until torn away, flung through fire and on to the ground. The hammer wielder raised his weapon and slammed the ground, the impact making Ethan's brain rack inside his skull. A grin, glittering white teeth and the silver of a stud straight through his tongue.

Heisenberg?

The merciless kill was cut short, Ethan coming to on the cold ground. But the cool of the evening could not affect him for his insides burnt and crippled up; the memory stung like a bee and rung in his ears like metal pans.

"What the fuck was that?" Ethan whispered to himself, reeling himself to his feet.

He glared at the twisted sheets and, although the temptation was strong, willed himself away from the bed-quarters. Ethan pulled on new clothes, feeling their dusty insides where the fleece had come loose. He'd lost all sense of time, but the dimness of candles suggested it was near dawn and it seemed better to not be woken by being…well…thrown out a window; his back still ached.

Coming down the stairwell where the walls touched his shoulders and left grazes where his sleeves were rolled up, felt like falling into his dream. Nightmare. What a corrupted visage of insomnia. Ethan had witnessed no such thing in sleep for a while—he doubted he ever did—and it was not only physical hurt but also something inside…like his heart. A distant sense of betrayal as though he trusted Heisenberg.

Pft, imagine.

Eventually, the slim halls sprawled into a grand entrance, branching off into a library, that wretched court which stunk, and winds trapped howled behind the large brass door, and the kitchens. Ethan slipped guardedly into the warm light, glancing for the source of giggling; it was the sisters, but their presence seemed invisible. He reached the archway before the kitchen and eyed a cauldron of something sweet smelling, but his attentions were demanded by the crackle of a page.

"Winters?" Lady Dimitrescu called in a rather onerous tone.

Ethan swallowed thickly and peered into the library, finding the Lady sprawled on a longue, a journal in her lap; her dress had a relaxed neckline, making Ethan raise his chin to follow her cleavage, whilst the skirt splayed like a quilt. She had no hat, hair loose. Ethan wondered if she too had just woken.

"Nothing yet on your agenda, manthing?" She inquired, lowering spectacles so opaque and thin he had missed them entirely at first. She leant forth, exposing more of her chest, and tilted her head.

Ethan licked his lips and his jaw set firmly. "Not—uh—not yet. Donna told me your daughters might need me?"

Dimitrescu flicked her eyebrows and straightened her posture. "I doubt they will. Can't you hear them? My daughters appear to be in the walls!" He found a slight humour to her and allowed himself to like it. "And with this being the case, you might as well run an errand for me, will you not?"

She stood, her height unfolding, and Ethan bared his teeth, taking a slight step back; he was already self-conscious of his tallness or lack thereof. However, this striking physical trait added to her beauty, which was why Ethan, entranced, accepted her chore for him; find something she lost when he killed her last.

It was only once out in the cold did his sulking begin; his head was burning, straining to remember where he had once slaughtered that dragon. High, cold, wind…that was everywhere! Giggling plagued the air, followed by the impending punishment he would surely endure for no real reason—maybe that was the catalyst to the sisters' amusement! How could Dimitrescu, their mother, not be in on their mischievous doings? He turned his tearful face from the castle and held himself, biting on his knuckle in fear of return.

Last time wasn't fun. He didn't even want to think about it, but it happened between metal-bitch being mad for some unspecified reason and leaving a window open whilst cleaning.

He shuddered and wiped at his eyes, listening to the howl of wind, leaves and chills carried within its grasp. And then the obscured whine of a struggle. Ethan frowned in the direction, drawn to an old gate which dipped into a courtyard. In the clutches of the limestone, marble, and metal and beneath the withering trees stood a doorway; he knew, he felt this place was very unfamiliar and untouched by his shoes.

The tip of a flame's tongue licked at the edges of the alcove, inky black and wavering like magic. He approached, a terrible curiosity guiding him like a hand on the back of his neck. Closer, closer, closer, the scuffling loudened and eventually there was a pig-like whine…no, a baby's!

"Hello?" Ethan shouted, clutching the doorframe, and leaning down a blind fall of steps. "Is everything alright?"

"EthanEthanEthanEthan!" a shrilling voice echoed, approaching with rapid pattering. A small weight crashed into his leg and something wooden clambered up his body, wrapping arms that pinched his neck in a strangle-like hold. However, for once, this wasn't intentional of Angie.

"You little shit—get off!" Ethan cried, attempting to grapple for the puppet.

"Baby is being attacked by a Lycan!" Angie whined, clutching at his face as Ethan ripped her away, holding her at arm's length.

"Baby—?"

Oh. Oh, God no.

His chest tightened, loosening only slightly when there was Donna's shout.

Fuck no. Don't you fucking dare, Ethan.

"Ah!" Ethan groaned, shoving Angie down and jostling down the steps at an uneven pace; he was reluctant. Greatly reluctant to save a fleshy, pink, foetus-looking beast. "Donna, I can't see you but just move!"

There was a feminine grunt, a flicker of her glimpsed by the hanging lanterns, and the feral jaws of the attacker, body wrapped around and mouth sucking at Baby's skin—

Vile, looking thing.

Ethan sucked in psyched-breath and launched again; this time compelled by a deep-rooted violence. A thick, shrieking cough shredded up his throat and spluttered wads of bile into the flailing, unhinged mouth of the Lycan, teeth bloodied by Baby's wounds. Ethan's eyes blurred and he made out the gentle creep of mold encasing the Lycan's inner mouth, spreading across their outer skin. The blonde yelped with surprise, intending to simply strangle the Lycan but his wrangling was controlled by another instinct, an unbroken sensation.

Shsmack!

It was moist and bloody. For a brief instant, Ethan feared he'd been struck in his moment of shock induced paralysis. On his knees in the dusty tunnels, he glanced up, seeing a more muscular figure between him and Baby and the Lycan, who now had a hammer wedged in its skull.

Metal man?

Chapter Eight; Yes, you fool!

"Have you got some sort of attraction to the Lycans?" Karl Heisenberg roared, teeth posed in a fierce grin of either amusement or frustration. Ethan gasped softly, Heisenberg stepping over him and, by the scruff of his shirt, dragged him along the thin dust ground. He raised his arms, shielding his eyes from sudden overcast skylight and laid beneath the tall man's shadow that felt oddly warming—was this comfort?

"I am so sorry! I could've endangered you!" Donna frantically cried, her veil lost in the brawl and hair roughed, gentler strains loose.

Heisenberg lightly touched her arm. "I can assure you there is no need to worry, buttercup—"

"I was talking about Ethan, Karl!" she lightly snapped, brushing him off and quickly crouching. Ethan dazedly narrowed his eyes, grimacing at his raw-feeling chest. "You should have seen him! He threw himself at the Lycan!"

"I think I need some water," he said roughly, an uncomfortable waver passing through him. Heisenberg's eyebrows were arched, lips slightly parted; did Ethan seem like a pathetic hero to him? He grunted and scratched his nose, which twitched in the cold.

"And how did you go about weaking the Lycan, huh Ethan Winters?" Heisenberg asked, hauling the blonde up with a firm grip on his wrist. It was the kindest of his gestures…so far.

"You know, just Ethan is fine," Ethan wheezed, massaging his chest. His cunning smile twitched at the corners, a slight pain still twanging somewhere in his body. "I really don't know, otherwise…I just needed to cough, it was strange."

His eyes dropped to Angie circling him like a low flying vulture before ultimately deciding to pet Baby, who lay idly in the doorway, secreting mystery fluids. Donna appeared like a cat-lady, but she owned this…thing. It was disgustingly adorable. Seemingly unamused with Ethan's answer, Heisenberg departed with another grunt, heaving his hammer over his shoulder and weaving out of the courtyard. It was only then did Donna approach to resume their seemingly paused friendship.

"Whatever you did, Ethan," she begun, glancing back at Angie and Baby with a sickly sweet blush to her face, "was very helpful. Thank you."

He offered a smile and bumped her side. "It's fine. I hope I didn't kill that thing before…sorry if I did—"

"Oh, no, no! Not at all!" She lightened up. "In fact, you barely laid a finger on Baby! You simply made the right decision and ran away."

Ethan seemed content with his past decision. Saved him likely triple the trauma. He nodded, suddenly a little shy, and reminded himself aloud he had a punishment to endure which Donna seemed concerned about, again not really grasping the joke.

Shielded by low walls and the privacy of vines, the courtyard did not allow much snow to seep in and the transition to the open void of the residence grounds felt brisk.

Ethan dabbed at his forehead for any wound he might've sustained, noticing a pulsing headache beginning to form. It was worsened by his sudden fall, tripped by an outstretched leg. Flipped from stomach to back, Ethan was exposed to Heisenberg's face, beaming with intrigue and a genuine seeming smile as he crouched atop of Ethan.

There was a witty joke on his tongue, something along the lines of how the sisters were about to tussle him and Uncle Heisenberg could join but it got caught in Ethan's teeth. Apprehensive of Heisenberg's interrogative stare, Ethan pressed himself further into the snowy ground, prickles of ice lodged into his spine.

"From the minute I approached you, I noticed you were different," Heisenberg gibed, mouth ajar slightly—Ethan saw the pearl, the piercing roll along his lower teeth. "Not quite all alive, are you Ethan?"

He reached to touch Ethan's face but must've raised too quickly for he put out a defensive hand. Heisenberg composed himself, recognising a boundary had been erected between them and he only had himself to blame…or Mother Miranda.

"Wuh-was it necessary to put me on the gr-ground?" Ethan managed, stuttering from the cold…definitely. He forced a smirk. "You could've asked to get close."

Heisenberg pulled a face, argent hair trickling off his shoulders from where it should've remained tucked behind his ears and he wiped his chin, his scratchy beard white with flecks of snow. He sighed and pushed up, standing over him. "I didn't want to get close. I just wanted to understand…do you know what you are—"

"No, no I don't," Ethan firmed, scrambling up the wall behind, leaning against as Heisenberg, forever seeming curious, leant in again. "I-I swear."

The silver man's eyelids fluttered, eyes flicking up and down the blonde, searching for a hint of a lie. "I don't doubt you."

He stepped forward again, and Ethan opened his lips to speak before Lady Dimitrescu's booming tone cut between them. Heisenberg did a small, startled jump, and reached for the hilt of his hammer. He gripped it and immediately relaxed as though attempting to play off being caught red-handed. His cool lean conveyed a rudeness that Ethan could accept.

"Hello sister," Heisenberg said, a laugh edging his tone. Those words bought delight to Ethan; the family drama was comedy from an outsider view. "How may I assist the Lady of this wonderful land—"

"Ethan Winters!" She cawed, stopping a few feet away.

"Yes?" Ethan whispered, sneering.

"Well? Have you found what I asked you to search for? I am growing impatient," she tutted.

Ethan blinked. His first reaction was not to respond but stiffly turn to Heisenberg who, behind his angled glasses, was already looking at him. Ethan opened his mouth to speak but Heisenberg's leather hand tapped his jaw, signifying for him to shut it and keep it shut.

"He was with me. I stole him away for a while, so sorry. What was it you were looking for?"

Lady Dimitrescu eyed her non-blood brother with a curled lip. "A jewel I believe was not regenerated upon Mother Miranda's saving."

"Well!" Heisenberg proclaimed. "Then have him bring your favourtie metal or whatever shiny delight your eye gets caught on and I'll make you something new. Would you like that?"

There was contemplation before her response, a long-drawn thinking but a greed-full sparkle pulled at the corners of her lips. "I'll take that. Just know you have displeased your nieces, Heisenberg."

Heisenberg shrugged, saying, "they can have their little boytoy later, my dear. How about I have him for a while?"

Ethan refrained from pulling his wide-eyes and clenched his teeth.

"Very well. You go disappear to wherever you sulk to." She angled herself at the smaller man, suddenly noting their height difference and was tempted greatly in rethink her manthing nickname. However, the pet-name stuck when she beckoned for Ethan, "come then, manthing. You look grotty and could use some cleaning before you leave."

He cleared his throat and agreed, moving away from Heisenberg but felt his touch linger for an odd moment longer.

Chapter Nine; Birthday surprise!

"I hope this was important," Rose whispered from behind her straw. She glanced around, banally, before spooning the glob of ice-cream from the crook bottom of her glass.

Chris gave her an eyeroll and flicked his eyebrows, forking at the dirty-fries plate before him. "Don't act like you don't want to be here," he told her, plucking a napkin from the metal dispensary. "I thought you liked this place—"

"No, no…I do!" she exclaimed, abruptly flustered.

Rose scratched at the red leather booth seats and pursed her lips, looking around at the brick diner; sleek bar-top bench, vibrant and glowing game machines, and women in peach dresses with cream aprons. It was everything she'd ever wanted in America, just to feel like she was in some ravaging 50s novel…but there were no people, only those in suits and glasses and maybe some asshole perched outside with a gun.

"Then why the rush?" Chris asked, frowning. He folded his hands, gloved black like the rest of him, and his tactical gear rustled beneath his coat. Rose pulled into herself, thumbing her father's jacket splayed across her lap. "You shouldn't need to study on your birthday, Rose."

"I don't want to, but it—but it just helps not to think about aging." She sighed, her spoon clattering against the long, purple glass and shoulders slumped, defeated she had to confess—yet again—to Chris why her birthdays felt…sullen. For her fourteenth, the first after Mia Winters' living wake, she remembered being in a room with a few friends who were allowed to visit her in protection; she'd never felt so excluded.

Rose's lips uttered but pinned shut, cheeks inflated and pushing out a long breath. Chris chewed the inside of his mouth and leaned across the table, ears perking at the sound of a suit moving.

"Rose."

"Chris." She grinned, feeling good news coming up.

"I have some bad news I didn't wish to give you on your birthday." His eyes flicked in the direction of their guests, and he pointed subtly to his sleeve. She peered but could see nothing up there. Still, she took his hand. "I unfortunately am not yet at the status to permit a group set foot in that village…we're not even sure if it's still there…"

"What's your point—"

"That I can't get us there anytime soon to find out. That's for a scientist to know only and I'm strictly a man of military," he explained but with a thrust and jostle of his arm. A paper shook free, and Rose crinkled it into her palm, withdrawing her hand quickly and snaking it under her. "I'm sorry, Rose."

"Is that why you bought me here?" she asked softly, putting a certain crinkle in her voice so the pigeon-eyed bastards went unsuspecting. "To let me down softly?"

Chris nodded slowly; fists folded in front of his beard. "Yes, unfortunately. And now…" He raised an eyebrow at a clock behind an agent who gestured with their head. "I must leave."

The man gathered himself fast, and Rose stood up twice as quick, grabbing him into a tight hug. Chris's arms flew up in self-defence but relaxed, flapping his hands at the raised guns drawn protectively. She muttered into his chest some gratitude before letting him go. In the backseat of a cold car, she gently unravelled the plane ticket, New Orleans – Romania.

Everything Chris had told her…it was a lie. A team was there, scouring, and she soon would be too!

You sly bitch.

Chapter Ten; His Lord's Boundary

There was little to none other sensation than scalding water. Upon naked skin, it developed the touch of a teasing hand, gentle knuckles rubbing dents and fingers tickling the tricky patches. At first exposure, it encases your body, burningly unwelcoming but if you gave it just a moment, the heat would sink into and embrace you.

Ethan Winters hadn't felt hot water for weeks; he'd only bathed in a Luke-warm stew with a thin icy layer atop. It felt comforting, and the unfortunate demands of Lady Dimitrescu pulled him from the sauna, and he slithered into cool feeling clothes. Unless heated, everything was cold. As he fixed the sleeves, struggling to keep them from sagging over his hands, noticed the sting of a shallow bite mark. He scratched at the scab and let it be.

With a basket, the courtesy of an extra coat, and sounding like a jingle-bell, Ethan journeyed to the perimeter of the village in search of the trail to Heisenberg's factory. To keep his mind off the wuthering heights of the bridge, he peered beneath the green cloth to examine what metals or jewels Dimitrescu had picked. There were spheres of amethyst, inkling shards of jade, jostling chains and a bar of steel which almost broke through the weaved basket's bottom.

Trudging up the slope, his feet struggled to retain a grip in the snow and, with perseverance, came a tumble and he ended up in a mattered bush, pinwheeling like a tortoise on its shell. How did he ever manage before; so clumsy and misguided.

Patting the dustier flecks of snow from his blonde hair and scraping it from his eyes, he entered the wired perimeters. Somehow, like the previous times he'd been sent for chores here, it was as if crossing a boundary into an uncharted territory but with an unshakable, uncanny sense of familiarity. Ethan was only bought to from a hot grip around his arm and he alarmedly yanked up his sleeve, almost spilling the contents of the basket. There wasn't a being around who had snuck up and grabbed him; it was that bite, festering and blistering under the cloth of his sleeve. Again, he discarded it, sure he would be able to urge Donna to grab him something when she delivered dinner later.

In the clasp of Heisenberg's metal world, a rattling anthem of scorned rock thundered in muffled vibrations in the walls and floors. Ethan moved carefully, teetering around projects strewn but not ignored and found the eventual clearing in the forest of copper and bronze. An ashen perfume stained the air and he watched one thick finger extend and tap the cigar clear of loose black, flittering onto a plate. The finger wistfully swirled into the air, spinning, and tapping nothing to a beat thumping from a vinyl player, the record worn with white welts. Heisenberg gently hummed, a few "dum-dum-tat-tats" in the mix and lacked some clothing over his broad…hulking…back…scarred chest…tightly brawn from laborious hours. Ethan gazed, mulling over the discoloured flaws on a seamless plain of honeyed skin—yet they weren't flaws, only marks of a potent past. I want to trace my finger along them.

However, in this state—without the shirt which Ethan, uncomfortably so, felt he didn't mind—Heisenberg was head in the clouds oblivious to his presence. Had he forgotten? Ethan plotted on softly depositing the basket on a bench which wasn't crowded with crumpled, aged paper with etchings of Einsteinen devices or trinkets. However, one unthought of step collapsed all ideas and Heisenberg swung around on his stool, propping himself against his workbench. He flashed a smirk before leaning between his wide-poised legs.

"Ethan Winters," he slurred the name, physically rolling it over his tongue and his piercing grazed his bottom lip. Yet, the ambiguity of his tone made Ethan conflicted; he either didn't care about his presence or didn't want him there. And even then, there was a hint of pleasurable surprise.

"Ethan, metal man. Ethan is just fine," he scowled, attempting a straight stance.

Heisenberg tipped his head, his grin enhanced with a hint more of snarling teeth and hair loosely fluttered over his face. Ethan had seldom seen the man without his hat; stiff brimmed cowboy wannabe, let alone without the covering of his glasses. Those eyes seemed bare, starkly naked without the opaque mask of glass. A trenchant gaze of contradictory sage and moss, austere silver surrounding the irises, and the reveal of this detail took Ethan back to the chair over the hole; those eyes held a particular demand to them.

"You're no fun," Heisenberg jibed, and Ethan's feet did a strange backpedal, stuttering on the spot. He felt so off in the man's space—Heisenberg was welcoming but cold about it. He outstretched his large hand, roughed, and burnt from his confinement to his factory yet cleanly without a speck of dirt. "May I have the basket, or do you have an attachment to that too?"

Ethan released his firm grip, not realising how close he clutched it to his chest and gingerly passed to Heisenberg. He handed it over a ghost-wall—something that wasn't there but its frigidness made its presence aware. Heisenberg carefully fished through the jewels and scoffed at the steel bar, wondering aloud why the Lady would assume he was running short.

"Maybe it's her favourtie?" Ethan suggested, still a meter apart, hands folded behind his back and stretched up on his toes. The silver man only sneered again, and the blonde moved away freely. Heisenberg didn't appear very talkative, grumbling lowly beneath the beat of music and sorting the shards into piles. Ethan found interest in the lazily curtained "hate wall" and hesitantly, his fingers spread across the weathered surface of the photos.

They looked so young, so normal.

A hot feeling spurred in his chest for Ethan had not seen normality, unless it was a mirror; even then, there was an incorrectness to his face. Lady Dimitrescu was fair skinned and had always held a bountiful body; her daughters poised unhappily in Georgian wear; and Donna…her mutation had mostly left her untouched. His fingers grazed the edge of a dagger, speared through Angie's paper face—

"Ugly-ass psycho doll!"

Ethan gasped, withdrawing his pricked finger, and sucked on it. The dull thud of the sharp tip impaling the wall thumped through his head and, yet again, he remembered sitting over that hole. Eyes struck wildly dilated, Ethan pivoted, and loose debris scratched under his foot. Heisenberg sat calmly, contently picking through the metal and arranging a jewelled piece, so contrastingly desolate from back then.

"Blondie," he boomed, hand folding in a beckon. His gesture was ambiguous, and Ethan stared dumbfounded until Heisenberg retracted from his looking glass. "Wouldn't take you as an apprentice, you're hopeless! I'm pointing at that thing!"

"What thing?!" Ethan started, hurriedly fumbling around. He reached and grabbed the dubious object, a shaver, and held it up with a proud smile; the expression squished his eyes and dented his cheeks with sweet dimples. Heisenberg glanced away quickly and motioned again.

"That'll do, yes."

Ethan once again passed it over the invisible barrier when he tumbled through it, the man's grip too tight and fierce. Heisenberg's finger had thumbed over a weird, fleshy wound and he pushed up Ethan's sleeve and scrutinized it. Delay; an unwillingness? Hesitancy dwelled on his expression and Ethan's legs trembled as this sudden physicality was the first for a while and the grip was like a dead-man's; steel and flesh, fingers pressing into his veins.

"Come here," he finally said, removing himself from the stool and guiding Ethan onto it. He moved quickly and expertly around the messy floor, navigating with the glide of his hand along dusty cabinets and left trails on their glass fronts. "You know—and I'm not the slightest sure—but you could be immortal; regenerate quickly but you can still get infections."

He returned with a bottle as brown as whiskey and a dabbing cloth. Positioned in a crouch before Ethan, Heisenberg laid out his hand to hold his arm again and Ethan raised an eyebrow.

"I've lost this a hand a little too many times—"

"Just trust me, alright?" He took the arm, dosing the wound with a drench cloth of alcohol. "Might sting."

"You're reminding me a time you told me sit," Ethan laughed softly, inspiring a slight smile on Heisenberg. "You very…what's the word…intent on getting me to listen. And I thought you hated me."

The man shrugged, pausing to pull back his hair without success and was quick to give in. "Hate is a strong word. Who told you that?"

"Donna, but, if not hate, then how would you put it?" he coaxed. Heisenberg dressed the wound with a bandage, applying with a careful pace, and his expression became severe, hands unconsciously wrapping around Ethan's knees, and he raised himself, face lingering a little too close.

"I'm not sure yet," he remarked darkly, eyes slithering up and down and, whatever he saw inspired a grin. "You might be able to change my mind."

Ethan slunk into his body, hands inching to nudge Heisenberg's off his legs—the intimate touch was so foreign yet made all the more better with the image of a bare chest—but they removed, and he peeled away, touching Ethan's head with a ruffle of his hair. His lips twitched and he turned, gripping his clothed wound. A question surfaced to the tip of his tongue, "Does it feel weird to still be alive?"

Heisenberg closed the cabinet, tightening the latch, and shrugged.

"But still treated like I was?"

The man turned swiftly, a deep grove dug between his eyebrows and his eyes wrinkled at those words.

Ethan continued, "I understand I killed them, but Mother Miranda mentioned apprentice status—"

"It means they'll eventually get bored," Heisenberg muttered, leaning relaxedly against the other bench, his body broadening. His hair fell over his eyes when his head bowed, in a listless sway as he spoke, "like they did to me."

Ethan saw the odd tension relieve from Heisenberg's shoulders, as though he were afraid Ethan was gesturing to another topic, one for a time when they were closer…in whichever sense that was.

"Now, Winters," he said suddenly, pushing away and dusting off his hands. "If you feel no nausea or too heavy on your feet, I think you can take your leave before dark."

Ethan pulled a face and touched the strewn jewels on the bench. "But the necklace—"

"Donna was correct; you really can't read a face or a room, can you, Ethan?" Heisenberg held his eyebrows high. "I wouldn't make that supersized bitch a new jewel even if my mortal soul depended on it. From our short time together, I have realised you are opposed to pain and thought it would be best for you to avoid an infection, at least."

The blonde wiggled his jaw, a spiralling warmth in his chest that spread to his face, arms, and legs; it felt weak but nice. His mouth opened, attempts of an utterance of thanks spilling out but was overwhelmed by a distant caw; Mother Miranda's shriek of attendance. Heisenberg sprung and shoved open his door, peering out and withdrawing back in.

"Shirt," he demanded, and Ethan threw it to him. "It appears we are being summoned. We better go. Come quick, blondie."

Chapter Eleven; Rise of his Fifth Lord

A trio of lords had gathered in impatient waiting. Among their heads, thoughts brewed, and mutterings were whispered between Lady Dimitrescu and Mother Miranda, although the latter seemed well informed enough of any details her Lady had to offer. Angie whined irritably, complaining of the metal-man's slowness and Donna quietly asked her Mother, "What is it we are gathered here for?"

"I will wait for Heisenberg and his little chore-boy, I think I see them approach—"

"You see not for we were always present!" Heisenberg jested, his hulking coat peeking up over the mound of snow they now stood completed on. Ethan smiled at him but hid it behind a hand. "Now, why the call?"

"If you allowed Mother to speak, she might be able to explain," Dimitrescu seethed, hand curling around her corseted waist; its shape pinched with a century of tightness. Heisenberg grinned at her, knowing well her agitation derived from not being the first to know, as usual. The Lady bent to her Mother's height and her tone settled into something calmer, asking but with a plead in her tone, "Since we are all here—which I see as a preposterous reason to wait to tell me—, would you tell us what brings us out in the cold? I just know my daughters are too eager to stay locked up in the castle."

"Yes, yes. Those reckless nieces of mine," Heisenberg jawed, and then from over his glasses he still chose to wear in the dark, "be careful, big woman, they might just get too excited."

Donna's shoulders wiggled beneath her cloak of black, stifling a giggle to not encourage Heisenberg. Ethan felt a little tense beneath Dimitrescu's stare, even if it was aimed at the burly man before him. Mother Miranda patted the air with a delicate motion, bidding her children to calm down and the lords obeyed, jaws tight and tongues bit between teeth.

"I sense something is nearby…someone," the leader explained in a hushed tone, glancing into the black valleys where the moonlight didn't touch the snow. Ethan peered into the dark dips, squinting and wondering what she sensed—or more so feared, as her voice suggested—that lurked. It couldn't be a monster…it had to be humans. In their state of regeneration, even if a supposed fifteen years had really passed, Ethan recalled Dimitrescu once complaining how drained and faint she was, how listless her mind drifted. His fair eyebrows crinkled together in a furrowed realisation; the lords, the ladies, they weren't yet strong enough to face humans!

Ethan, had he of come to this epiphany three weeks ago, would've leaped and clapped his feet together and shoved pointing fingers into their faces, jabbing and crying, "we win, you psycho-fucks!". Yet it was quick to dawn upon him he too was a lord, or at least their runner; their Lycan…Oh God! Their bitch!

"However!" Mother Miranda chirped, pulling her body away from the ledge and her figure disappeared behind a withered tree which the vicious winter had eaten away at, and re-entered their presence as a hag. "I wouldn't put it past us to handle this, we just can't use ourselves."

"Then who do we use, Mother?" Moreau questioned in a guttural, clumsy voice. His words were followed by hesitancy, a flurry of anxiety running behind his eyes as he asked himself, should I have questioned Mother? His behaviour went unamused, but he got an answer.

Raising her large hat, Lady Dimitrescu fixed a bewildered gaze; Heisenberg chewed his lip behind his beard and perched his glasses in the low-riding crook of his shirt; Donna tilted her chin; and Moreau smiled, spoiling Mother Miranda's surprise. Their reactions differed with a range of emotion, but they all had one thing in common, looking to Ethan Winters.

"No," was his obvious first response. "No. Fuck that." Came second and third was a hand raised at Heisenberg who took a step too close.

"Oh, manthing, don't be so humbled," Dimitrescu laughed, rubbing her nails together. "We're merely using you as bait—"

"Now, see—" Ethan shook his pointer finger "—that's the wrong word, bait!"

"Agreed, Alcina," the silver man spoke gravely, and for a dull, desperate glimpse of hope, Ethan assumed this man who had tricked him into coming to his factory only just to smother him with alcohol and bandages was on his side; it made sense! He'd broken the barrier, the boundary and finally, he had a friend more powerful than Donna. Alas, Heisenberg had not yet finished his sentence, and the poor blonde jumped too soon. "Blondie isn't bait. We shall use him as a ploy, a distraction, a pawn."

"I like that," the haggled form of Mother Miranda spluttered, a flaky throat scratching up her speech. "We can place him on the road, where Dimitrescu saw the big lights. They'll stop for this small man, but not for you—nor you, my dear." She petted Dimitrescu's arm, and the woman indulged in the touch. "This could possibly be your chance to promote your status; I understand you were recently punished, Ethan Winters."

Ethan felt steam well up in his head, burning his ears a scarlet red. He clenched his fists and wanted to scream no! and stamp his feet like a child's fit of rage but those tantrumous ways were abolished with the thought of respect. His status as a runner might become more wholly appreciated and with that core of admirability—

"Well, seeing a nine-foot busty vampire or a hammer slinging manic couldn't flag down a car—" he folded his arms and straightened out himself, Heisenberg regarding him from beneath his glasses "—I suppose I could manage a sort of distressed victim act."

Mother Miranda spat a chortle, wads of hag snot gathering up in her throat; this form wasn't entirely elegant. "Your bravery, as always Ethan Winters, is commendable but utterly foolish. Do you understand what you are capable of?"

Ethan's face wrinkled up and he shrunk into himself, giving Donna a side-eye but she was looking at Heisenberg.

"However, does not mean I will not send you. You are, and unfortunate for you, the most normal appearing man, despite your smallness." She smiled, tapping her twisted stick, and gestured grandly to the road, the mist and night's dark seeming to part at her tender command. "Go now. It is better for your sensitive soul not to hear what I might instruct these four to do."

He stuttered, blinking away a glare and slowly peeled away, further prompted by a slap to the backside; he thought it was Heisenberg.

"Your bravery is foolish, meh meh meh," Ethan muttered, postured like a greasy teenager; hands shoved deep in pockets and slouched, maybe in defeat. "I should've fucking joined that metal asshole; I wouldn't be here…"

He paused and did two things. First, he peeked through the crown shyness of trees hunched over the road and asked the night quietly where he would be. And then, he touched the bandages as way of apology to Heisenberg. He wished he could rack his brain for answers—why would Heisenberg take down something as powerful as Mother Miranda, who had a failsafe to protect them?—but with each layer he dug, the closer he came to a horrible fire with flames licking at his temples and heart. It's best not to do that now. Not when Ethan was trying to fathom why he felt no guilt for luring harmless humans—

—invaders

—on their land. Here they come.

One big, black truck, its sides cased in hard plastic and metals. Ethan sucked in a deep breath and barrelled into their white headlights, his skin and the snow glowing a similar colour. He found his frightened voice and used it to shriek, "stop! Stop, please!"

They did. Two fatigue wearing figures, the only two in the vehicle, descended out. Heads bald, beards thick, severe looks on their faces. Ethan took a few steps back, wildly taking in a normal face and the touch of their leather griped hands. Long thin silver guns clapped at their legs, barely holding on in a holster.

"What are you doing out here?" one asked in a musty tone.

"I—I—" Ethan glanced to the hillside. Where were they? He hadn't thought of an entirely convoluted lie.

"This is special property, kid," an older, taller one said. He had been weathered with experience. "You from the village?"

"Yes!" Ethan cried, pleased to have a reason. Wait—Oh you idiot!

Their guns raised almost immediately, loaded, and ready to fire. An extermination crew, squadrons sent through to wipe out masses of lingering infection. These guys meant business to the extreme and Ethan suddenly had no way of conjuring enough evidence to prove his humanity before they riddled the surrounding area with bullets. He eluded a mere escape, bunting his body at a hill, scouring, and gripping for leverage up like the time he was flung into the Lycan den. Suddenly, an unheralded thought, Ethan craved the ripping grab of Heisenberg's leather hand; just this once, he needed him. Wanted him.

He skittered down the other side of the bluff and tumbled into a snowball. His limbs unravelled on a large lake of ice. The men hounded after him, turning this into more of a sport; Ethan was no stranger to their protocols, if they were who he thought they were. An unforeseen weapon was drawn, Ethan swore he hadn't seen a small knife sheathe on their pants, but it cut right down through his hand.

"Again?" he screeched, familiar with the feeling. But the blood that poured was thin white liquid and then black clots. The men shrieked at the sight, proclaiming Monster! Monster! Ethan was taken aback, startled by such a nickname.

The ice beneath their feet shuddered, a ripple passing up from their toes to shoulders. The blonde threw himself down, weary of Moreau's mutated form crashing up and erratically flopping in the sky. His weight of slimy gills and muscle pounded down on the younger, rounder man. The fatigues vanished into the jaws of the ice and, with the disappearance of the large fish, the sole survivor faced-off with the mutated-looking human they'd hunted. Ethan Winters had turned, no longer wincing at the sting of being one-hand-short nor the bullet taken to the shoulder. The moldy growth across his skin compelled him, pouncing onto the fatigue-wearer.

Vision murky; hands hot and nails stinging with blood and flesh; the heavy liquid weight of vomit on his shirt; the burning of dissolving flesh under his hands. Cries, screams, a ravaging sensation under his eyelids. Ethan arched his back and collapsed onto the ice, hysterical convulsions keening down his spine.

Is the man dead?

"It burns! AhA, it burns!"

Manthing, is he dead? Did you kill—

Get off, Alcina! Ethan?

"It burns!"

Hearing, voice, but no sight. His skin was alight, scalding and blistering.

"Help!" he echoed into the rising dawn.

Chapter Twelve; You're the vinegar on my skin

A long, large inhale of chalky air and particles of dust gathered in the base of Ethan's throat until a clog-like sensation was formed.

Choke—Gasp.

Vision endowed Ethan again, his eyes grazing his familiar chambers now a little more colourful thanks to an orange, outside light. Carefully, he wriggled his arms from under stiff sheets but lacked balance on his right side, collapsing on his elbow. He grunted through frustrated bared teeth until pale, clammy hands yanked at his loose sleeves—this shirt wasn't his own and, when he pressed the neckline to his nose, smelt the drenching perfume of must and boiled copper. Donna hauled him upright, stroking his forehead and gently spoke to someone near the door; "his fever has vanished!"

"My fever?" Ethan whined unintentionally, massaging his head with his palm. "Mm—how am I here?"

"See, too many questions and not a single thank you," Heisenberg's gravelly voice muttered, his broadness entering the room, twiddling a stray piece of metal in thin air. It clattered in his hand where he clutched a small toolbox. The big, hatted woman was shortly behind, the three heads of her daughters peering daringly across the doorframe.

"Oh, fantastic," the blonde moaned. "Everyone is here."

"Good morning to you too, manthing," Lady Dimitrescu blew off. Her bright red lips curled into a smirk, and she stood against a dresser whilst the metal man sat comfortably on the edge of Ethan's bed, moving his feet for him. Ethan quickly sat up, the scene alarmedly registering in his head.

"Ethan, please try not sit up too fast!" Donna fretted, reaching over him for his left hand where she placed a cup in. He stuttered out a thanks and, seeing she had his full attentions, Dimitrescu began her monologuing.

"You did a brave thing, Ethan Winters," she commended. "Mother was extremely proud; dare I say it prideful over your kill—"

Water dribbled down his chin and Heisenberg cackled. "Kill?"

"Yes. Kill." Dimitrescu glanced at her two other lords and then to her giggling daughters. "Where does the manthing's shock come from?"

"I don't think he likes to kill," the doll-maker quietly said, combing fingers through her loose hair Ethan seldom saw flittering freely around her shoulders. "Mother told us this in the briefing."

"Yes. Yes, but aren't you proud?"

"Should I be?" Ethan nearly shouted, his water spilling in his lap. He threw back the blanket and went to stand, to physically remove himself from the situation. He breathed heavily, a flustered pink creeping up his neck and searing across his face.

"How ungrateful!" Dimitrescu raised her voice and self, taking one stride too close to Ethan. "Mother was happy for you and all you did was what a child here does!"

Heisenberg was up immediately, hands out. "Alcina, back down woman. You're overwhelming the poor kid."

"Holy shit, I'm not a kid!" Ethan snapped, flicking his hands. The two lords faced him, feeling both betrayed. "Just someone please…please explain what happened to me…"

"Ethan?" Donna stood from her place beside the bed. The Dimitrescu daughters fled the scene, their laughter too loud and intrusive. "Ethan? Are you alright?"

The gripping emotion of torrid vile scorching his throat bought him to his knees, collapsing onto his side and writhing. Lady Dimitrescu's prior violence simmered into a simper and, following an off-hand comment of Ethan's pathetic ruse, she departed, and the door hinges whinged against the force of her hand. Blush tainted Ethan's face as he emerged from a puddle of spew, dry heaving and back bristled like a cat hacking up a hairball. Heisenberg, a little slenderer without the hulk of his coat, laid one large hand on his back and stroked. The corners of Ethan's eyes twitched at the foreign touch, and he put a hand out to signal a need for distance, which was obeyed instantly.

"Donna, get me a bucket and a cloth," he asked of his sisterly friend. She left, cinching her billowing skirts up and her puppet remained but only with a silent presence. "Alright, blondie, come here."

"No!" Ethan hiccupped. "I can balance myself."

However, Heisenberg's hands were already bearing him against his chest, laying him with a gentleness Ethan thought the silver man was uncapable of. Their friend returned, heaving a metal pail, and placed it on her stool and sat Ethan forward. Heisenberg glanced to her, and she flicked her head.

"I can take off my own—"

"Oh, if you insist," Heisenberg jested, taking the shirt from him and Ethan turned his head with a darker blush. The broad man sighed, discarded the clothing at his feet. "I did like that shirt."

Ethan frowned; chin gripped in Heisenberg's fingers, which he roughly dabbed at with the wet rag. "Why do I have your shirt?"

"That is a question for Donna, blondie," he murmured with a hint of spite to his tone. Donna laughed gently before standing and straightening her robes, holding Angie like a child in her chest.

"I'm sorry, Kar, but I might have to take my leave," she explained and rubbed her eyes. "We haven't really slept the last few nights."

"That's fine, Donna. You rest," Heisenberg said with a particular smile; pointy at the corners and bringing a certain tint to his face, a gesture specific to her only. She left them alone, shutting the door and taking all the candlelight with her. "Charming, is she not?"

"Kar," Ethan chuckled.

"Mhm?" Heisenberg raised his eyebrows…as though Ethan had said his name. The mockery backfired and Ethan decided best to remain quiet; he secretly assumed he had suddenly gained rite of passage. A long moment stretched between them, pattering of droplets wrenched from the rag into the bucket and then the scratchy motion of it against Ethan's chest. An affinity was embedded within Heisenberg's movements, a caring notion and soft humming behind his lips as though he did not enjoy the silence.

"I hate to sound like a broken record," Heisenberg begun, wringing out the final wash. He stretched his shoulders, sitting back with hands on the bed and chest broad, neckline dipping to where his necklaces sat. "Alcina and Mother did have some kind things to say about you. It was your first time exposed to a weakness—"

"Weakness?"

"Vinegar. Mold, I believe, is fought with it. But I believe in what the Lady said."

"Oh, not you too," Ethan laughed, his chest wavering. He leant forward with a pointed finger, "I am not like you, Heisenberg, I don't enjoy killing."

The man reeled back, a severe shadow falling over his face as the sun moved behind clouds. "Neither do I," he grumbled from the back of his throat. He flashed a vicious grimace and shoved Ethan into the mattress before standing to light a new candle. "If you don't recall the old world, Ethan, I am not on that woman's side, nor her large Lady—"

"Then why back their compliments?" Ethan inquired, a light confusion edging his tone. Heisenberg returned to sit, but this time on Ethan's handless side, and laid his hand on Ethan's chest, seeming to time his heartbeat with a weathered wristwatch. Ethan sunk beneath the hand, unsure why he felt a stimulated sense, his blood surfacing to his skin.

"Because, for once, I choose to believe them," he said, thumbing an odd scar that dragged in a deep groove from Ethan's left collarbone to his hipbone; the movement appeared lost but the touchee's body reflexed with a jerk and soft, "Kar."

Heisenberg's shoulders pinched, flinching away. "I'm sorry—"

"No—um," Ethan cleared his throat, "just, your hand is cold and—um—my hand—"

"Yeah, sorry."

"—my hand just…or not my hand because it isn't there," he chuckled. They settled into quiet, and Heisenberg held out his hand, asking wordlessly to see the wrist-stump that was once Ethan's good writing hand. Ethan lamented, "it took years to learn how to do cursive with that hand…all for it to be cut off. I mean, it isn't the first time."

Heisenberg's eyebrows perked as he blindly reached for his small wooden box. "Really? Tell me, blondie, how did you manage that."

"I—uh—thought you knew," Ethan said. "I remember you mentioning America—"

"Yeah, but that's what some foreign magic whispered to us; not the full story." He sensed the blonde's hesitance. "Go on, I'm interested to hear, please."

Seeing his point, Ethan delved into the Louisiana ordeal, eventually trailing into a listless silence and expressed his realisation; a few moments ago, he would never have really remembered that. He suspected it was something to do with the old-world merging with…here.

"Crotch nest?" Heisenberg shuddered. "How…foul."

Ethan's face almost broke in half with his smile, widening with a wonderful laughter and small, round tears sprung in his eyes. "Foul? Says you, Mutt man."

They briefly tussled, Heisenberg bickering, "I'm not that bad. Besides, don't irk the man who has you a new hand."

He revealed something he'd been tinkering with, keeping his hands preoccupied whilst Ethan chittered about the swamp terrors to save a woman he questioned his courtship with. It was a hand, a smoothed wooden palm and finer lines to illustrate the wrinkles fortune tellers claimed to read. Ethan remained speechless, questioning the mechanisms on how it worked.

"When I invent things, blondie, I tend not to ask for its success," Heisenberg drawled, the tip of his tongue sticking out on an angle as he focussed.

"Well, OK. If it works—"

"It will."

"Ok. I owe you," Ethan smiled. Heisenberg glanced up from beneath his loose hair, a glitter in his eye.

"I'm sure I can think of something but, look," he said, unravelling the bandages. It was a strange sight, this wound, for it did not appear just a stump but a stump with nerves and axons still intact, red, and white tendons twisted like the trunk of an elm tree. "These thin guys can still bend and flex, you just need skin to give them a little more grip."

Heisenberg enjoyed Ethan's expression, lips parted, and eyes dilated. He sheathed the roots and remnants of Ethan's good hand and adjusted the strap, underestimating the width of his wrist; he could hold them both within one of his hands.

Get that thought out of your head, Heisenberg.

He leant the palm of Ethan's new hand against his, fingers between wooden ones, and instructed, "squeeze. Tight as you can."

Ethan strained momentarily before relief swept his expression, clutching Heisenberg's hand which he shook excitedly. Heisenberg calmed him, hearing the squeaking of a loose screw, but still held it as his fingers did the slightest wiggles and the metal popped and bent to his will.

"You know, Ethan, there is one thing I'd like as payment," he said, brewing on something. Ethan awaited without gesture although he felt a tinge of nervousness. "After witnessing you a few evenings ago, I'd like to get my hands on you before anyone else does."

"Uhh—" His panicked blush was a little more prominent than his frown.

"Research, I mean." Heisenberg grinned, setting down Ethan's hand. "You wouldn't be my little experiment as much as I'd like to play around with what you possess—"

"Phrasing, Kar," Ethan sniggered. There was a fruitiness to that man's tone, and his cheeky smirk proved he understood what he said; he intended on it. "Just, promise me something."

"Depends."

"I won't feel like shit if I help you."

Ethan buckled and hurled again, the joyfulness of the evening fading but Heisenberg still chortled. It was as he hung half off his bed, hair being held back by an almost friend, did Ethan piece something together in his mind; it might have only been less than two months since his wakening, but Ethan suddenly dreaded Heisenberg would be the vinegar on his skin if he weren't careful.

Chapter Thirteen; Raport

A sweet winter's breeze careening through suburbs landed its caress on Rosemary Winters' skin, holding her face the way once Mia held hers, be it a grazed knee or academic achievement. She awaited her friend, a blue hard-shell briefcase beneath her, its paint chipping off against the ground.

The paved neighbourhood swung up big hills and winded around corporate offices and smaller cafes. Just beyond a place called Ducks was a pond Rose fondly remembered being taken around by Mia and Chris when she was young. She swore however on the days Mia was a little lopsided in the head, another man accompanied their walks, tall and broad but not as wide as Chris…maybe not even as tall. It was hard to tell when she was just knee-high, distractedly squabbling about the geese and mussing up her face with mud. Apparently, this man eventually left, and Mia described to a five-year-old Rose—possibly her final few days before Mia began her descent into the ground—this man's leave felt as cold as Ethan's. Chris Redfield, the hunk of muscle, heavy black coats and the man who smoked like a pollution pipe was inconsolable.

Rose had come to him clutching lilies to her chest; they were meant for Mia but suddenly, he seemed in greater need. Nonetheless the stature of a man or woman, how sharp their face is cut or what stone they are carved from, whether you have borne witness to their most blood-thirsty or lustful moments, you will see their eventual crumble. It is then you may crumble them, smother them to nothing but ash. Chris did that, at the worst time. Rose was left in the protection of agents she barely knew, and when he did return…well, at least he seemed lighter.

Rose only remembered it then because she could see the pond and Chris stood there now, contemplating, and seeming to speak to the water, asking for advice.

In her carry-on satchel was a photo, like the professional sorts where the woman dressed entirely in white and the man wore blue jeans with a big cheesy grin; that man was Ethan Winters, face stained with a particular black spot. She took it over to Chris, leaving her luggage unattended—which he had asked her not to do—and crouched beside him.

"I thought I told you—"

"Dad was here once," Rose told him, ignoring his fierceness, and crumpling up the picture in his hand. She then glanced across the pond, geese searing through the surface as still as the dead bodies buried around it. "I feel like people need to tell you you're not alone, old man."

He became a little ruffled by her comment, teetering too close to comfort and before salty tears broke through the façade of distain, he straightened his morals and stood, projecting his higher power. Rose would usually shut up at this gesture and she did, unaware the tinge of guilt twanging in his chest. He nudged her with the toe of his boot and took off across the road; in his black coat, he was like a crow silhouetted by the encroaching grey skies.

"We might hit a storm on our way out tonight," Chris grumbled like a rumble of thunder.

"That's comforting," Rose scoffed, twirling her suitcase before sitting on it and the plastic lurched beneath her weight. "Are we flying commoners?"

He grinned a little. "Whatever keeps us off their radar, I suppose…." He frowned and the girl felt impending bad news. "Apparently, from an insider I've got around there, some fatigue wearing maniacs recently went missing—swallowed up by the lake."

Rose raised her chin. "Swallowed? Did they fall in?"

Chris wanted to laugh at her obliviousness; he remembered vaguely intervening with that fish and Ethan. That flopping mongrel, seizing on the planks and crushing bones. He withheld such a reaction in the light that it wasn't appropriate. "I think it was something else…just don't get your hopes up too much, Rose."

She shrugged, her father's coat seeming tighter around her shoulders with each day. Rose than glanced to her little blue house, a fly-screen flat she'd resided in for as long as her hazy memory allowed and yet, there was something missing; she sensed the empty cavern in her suitcase. Oh, her cap! She bit her lip and slipped off her baggage, handing Chris the satchel.

"Rose?"

"I forgot something—"

"Is it buyable?"

She deadpanned him. "No, Chris. It's my cap."

He let her sprint off, mainly because his breast-pocket began vibrating, the coat's lining writhing from the sensation. He plucked out his phone and, in a hollow grunt, "Redfield. I hope you make this quick."

"I will. I just wanted to ensure she didn't know much…or anything, for her sakes," the voice spoke; it had an ageless tone. A particular chime the caller had when they were a fresh face at the academy.

"She doesn't. Glad someone cares."

"I can never tell if you're being sarcastic or not," they said, and Chris could see their smile; feel it.

"I wasn't." He saw Rose's figure dash around, just faintly through the black screens. "It's good we get to work again—"

"And just working together it will remain. Have a nice flight, Chris."

Rose barrelled out, joyfully exclaiming she found her hat and took her bag eagerly. Chris touched her head and in the soft dim of a fading afternoon, rounded a white cab. Rose was under the impression this cab was secretly called through one of Chris's burner-phones; Chris new the caller from a few moments ago had sent it, with the extra gift of a flower for him.

Damnit, Kennedy.

Chapter Fourteen; Tea at sister's

The first demonstration proceeded disastrously.

Ethan earnt a mouthful of sawdust, rubble ripping up his chin and debris stuffing into the small hinges of his new hand. The Lycan was a little too rough for his liking and he could feel the heat radiating off Heisenberg; regret, disappointment and a hint of impatience.

They'd brawled in a pit within the underground belly of the factory, below the hanging army jostling and jerking with the belt's movement. He stood with a wide stance on a platform above, keeping his metal friends at eager bay, and with one thick hand would signal when the Lycan could strike again. Ethan had barely been out of bed for a day when the "research" begun.

"It's just a demonstration," Heisenberg said, "it'll be fun!"

"Kar, I don't like this," Ethan grunted, pushing himself up before his elbows slammed against the metal grates with a thud! His face contorted into a wince and blonde hair, which had grown a little longer than his usual cut, flapped in front of his face.

"Right." Heisenberg clumped downstairs, clapping his hands. "Heed, dog."

The Lycan yielded, submitting as its master wandered to its victim. With a delicate finger, Heisenberg flicked Ethan's hair away and hauled him up by the bare arm; Ethan was instructed to wear a singlet and now, as the tension dwindled, the cold slithered under his skin. However, a boiling frustration infected his face with a hot flush, and he pulled his head from Heisenberg's touch.

"I think I've had enough, Kar," Ethan hissed, snatching into himself. "It's not working."

Heisenberg stretched, his arms cracking, and yawned, "I didn't take you to be the one to quit so easily, Ethan."

The blonde shrugged, scratching the back of his head. "I'm full of surprises."

"And that, I'm sure you are, which is why we have to keep pursing—"

"No! I'm done, Heisenberg," he snapped, firming his stance. He didn't flinch when Heisenberg's eyes twitched at the corners. Ethan softened his mood and asked gently, "did you maybe ever consider that I didn't want to be "in touch" with this fungal shit?"

The man's beard wiggled with his jaw, setting tight in an attempt to not unhinge and bark about how Ethan agreed and did owe him thanks to that hand. He dragged himself to the steps again, a silence falling like a thick blanket over the lab, and gripped at the metal railing, his leather gloves rubbing together.

"Kar?"

"How about I take you back?" he semi-seethed, yet again fighting the urge…urges. "I know you may be considered a "lord", Ethan, but if you can't demonstrate some sort of control…restrain, even, they'll discard you again."

Ethan noted his tone was heavy with experience and divulged in the knowing of Heisenberg as a black sheep. Hopefully one day, under an influence of drink or lust, Heisenberg would tell Ethan and it would only be then that the blonde would understand torment; he'd get why Heisenberg fought now to push Ethan beyond his physical boundaries. Yet, that time had not come.

The walk stretched long and silent, something thinning between them. Today the snow was icier, making a scratchy noise under each step and roiling against the soles of their feet. Ethan held his hands under his armpits, clutching for warmth, nose and eyelids taking on a red tint, and hair feathered with the light snowfall. Heisenberg appeared not wavered by the weather, and whenever he brushed his apprentice, Ethan was briefly relieved with heat.

"Ee—ah," Ethan dithered, pausing his amble to sneeze. Heisenberg sighed and rounded back a few paces and laughed at the faint sound of chattering teeth. "Shu-shut up."

"I did offer you a coat," Heisenberg said with truth.

Ethan glared. "I thought you didn't like me wearing your clothes?!"

"Well, yes," he nodded, "not when you vomit on them."

The blonde rolled his eyes and bumped Heisenberg to get pass, reaching the end of their journey to the Dimitrescu residence, entering through a courtyard where the metal man stuttered, a hesitancy crossing his face and pulling his eyebrows together. Ethan stopped at the door, foot between wall and hinges, and flicked his head.

"Have you had enough of me?" he jested, awaiting a poorly phrased response. "Kar—"

"What a pleasure," Lady Dimitrescu cooed, her talon like fingers curling in splayed grasp on the doorframe and her hat bent and crinkled to get just her torso peeking out. One hand came down, around Ethan's chest in a backwards hug, and she craned her neck at him. "I see you've returned my manthing in one piece, Heisenberg."

Heisenberg thumbed the brim of his hat, flicking it up as quick as his chin. "You mean our manthing?"

"Don't attempt to amuse me with communistic ways," she said bluntly. "I know Ethan, darling, you are coming in, but are you? I'm sure you'll be able to please your nieces with some nonsense."

Ethan flashed a trembling smile to his friend and the man registered the gist.

"Well, I suppose it is the only time they are bearable," he ribbed, coming to the door, and placing himself between the two. Unknowingly, he held Ethan's new hand stiffly against his hip until the narrow halls sprawled into a generous living area with high swept windows. Faded paintings peeled in flakes and plaster from the ceiling and old books lined the walls, just surpassing Dimitrescu's height. A fire was going, and Ethan flocked to it, holding out his hands lazily covered in fingerless gloves, and dithered.

"Has this mutt fed you, Ethan?" Dimitrescu inquired, carefully watching Heisenberg pour tea. "Can you please just use your hands?"

"They're filthy, you don't know where they've been," he gibed back, sitting with one leg folded over the other and winked at the blonde. Ethan glanced, eyes keenly watching the floating teapot tilt with just the simplest of motions into six hovering teacups. He waved his hand, sending a delicate China glass fluttering into Ethan's outstretched grasp. Ethan found a piece of metal taped to the base and snickered.

"I'd rather not know," Dimitrescu said, reaching for her cup. At the sound of clattering cutleries and the gentle plops of sugar cubes, the three daughters—with clean faces, for once—squabbled down and greeted their uncle. In a teetering wake came Donna, watchful of Angie who rode Bela's shoulders. Heisenberg instantly sacrificed his tea and handed it to his friend, giving up his seat too. "You know, you might be a lord, Ethan, but it wouldn't be vinegar to your skin if you could just pour some tea."

Donna's lips parted, stopping from blowing on her tea. Heisenberg nudged her ankle and she seemingly obeyed, keeping her mouth pinned.

"Mm," Ethan hummed, contently sitting cross-legged although tense as he was surrounded by the sisters, Daniela taking particular interest in his carved hand. "If you knew what Heisenberg did this morning, I think I'd rather be a slave than an experiment."

The wit cut Heisenberg, smothering his smile into a frown and he rasped, "Ethan."

"And what did my brother inflict upon you?" Dimitrescu laughed, regally. Her perch conveyed a sense of intrigue as she leant forth, her daughters leaning outward to allow room for her face. "Well, we're waiting for your answer, Heisenberg."

Heisenberg quickly grew sullen, cringed up and licked his lips. Over the rounded tops of his glasses, he leered at Ethan, afflicting serious abhorrence, especially when he spoke, "none of your concern."

"Don't be daft," she goaded, reaching full height but Heisenberg refused to waver. "I suppose it would be something Mother would not approve—"

"Miranda has no right to trespass on what I'm doing," he snapped, Donna grabbing his wrist in way of warning. Ethan stood now, fearing he'd woken a deeply buried conflict.

Dimitrescu, within moments, evidently held a higher power when she degraded, "she thinks of a you a failure, Heisenberg. I would regret to tell her that you, a failure, were likely training a…" she trailed and lowered her gaze to their guest, "…meek man."

"Enough!" Heisenberg roared, Angie breaking out in a cackling fit. "Shut the fuck up—"

"Kar, stop," Donna hushed but he shrugged her away and quickly took a leave. Donna and Ethan looked to each other before she broke off, bundling her hair up and then her skirts, shouting, "Kar! Karl, wait!"

The space became a little emptier and Ethan, feeling the lightness in the room, backed up to the stairs that slithered to his lacklustre chambers. A dull ache pulsed in his stomach, and he clutched it, raising concern from Daniela. Dimitrescu assured her, however, Ethan just required some rest, articulating how Heisenberg's poor routine of training would be tiresome and came with him to his room, her daughters giggling in her shadow.

"He wasn't too bad," Ethan defended, dusting cobwebs from his dresser.

"Are you defying me?" she demanded, the cackling choir ceasing. Ethan found himself against a window, back to her and fiddling with a latch. It wasn't fair, what she said…Heisenberg was only trying to help…Ethan had just stood there and watched.

"I guess I am," he answered lowly.

Dimitrescu's face fell in disappointment, and she briefly turned. "Have fun, my daughters."

Ethan braced himself for the flies, well-aware of the impending nature and hatred of his response. He yanked the latch and the room breathed in the winter's air greedily, the swarm shrieking in high-pitched tones.

"Mother! Mother! Mother! He is playing unfair!" they screamed, weakly falling into solid forms.

Lady Dimitrescu whirled into the room and drew the windows shut, hitting Ethan down.

"Enough, manthing!" she bellowed, picking Ethan up from under his arms as he dazedly lolled his head around. "We can play that way!"

His body, like a child's doll, hit the wall.

Chapter Fifteen; What would you care?

"Is it guilt, or unfairness?" Salvatore Moreau challenged, his voice throaty and gurgling with laughter. He hiccupped, his blistered backside jiggling and thin legs quivering in reaction to whatever amusement he saw in Heisenberg's ramble.

"This is why you have no friends, fishy," the man sniffed, nose wrinkling in a twitch; it was colder by the reservoir. "I came to you and your stinking basin for…I'm not sure…comfort? And instead, you decide to joke about it?"

"Comfort?" he spat, throwing his head around and spluttering cackles. "That puny man is rubbing off on you—that's what Mother would say!

Heisenberg clipped his chin and stomped on his foot, yelling out in incoherent rage. Moreau hopped around, one-legged, cramping and squealing. The metal man flicked his hair and clutched his hat to his chest, stretching his neck to peer down onto the pier and, in a wind-filled occasion relished in what his annoying mother's boy of a brother jested; there was truth within Moreau's tone. Ethan had yet to make Heisenberg senseless and instead gifted him concern, pride, despair, and fervour…he gave me back a temper I hadn't realised I lost.

But Heisenberg refused to admit aloud that Moreau—that thing—was right. He'd only rightly confess to his unfairness, he had leverage over Ethan and had misplayed it.

From afar, they sighted the blonde, now with a cotton cap pulled over his eyebrows. It must've kept slipping, obscuring his vision since he pawed at it. His fingers jittered from the frigid mist the water breathed at him, and he trembly attempted at tying wire knots into a thin line. He then sneezed, violently, and shuddered. Cute—wait no. Heisenberg frowned and his head ducked backwards, as though a fly had buzzed under his nose. What the fuck was that thought about?

"Donna sent him; she said he was looking for you," Moreau told him. "I did try to tell him there wasn't anything to fix but he was set on busying himself."

The gangly blonde appeared very discontented, hauling himself up to an unsteady footing and swung around a thick metal bucket, flailing fishtails seizing and one escaping to Ethan's grievance. It took one misstep before Ethan was seemingly ensnared by the water, completely engulfed within half a second. He resurfaced, thrashing arms but his wails became suppressed as the tide opposed his struggles; it was although the water, glassy with ice atop, took a physical form to wrestle Ethan.

"Shit, blondie," Heisenberg gasped, staggering down the slope, and yanked at his coat and gloves. Moreau came in close tow but did not go beyond the water's edge in fear of wetting Heisenberg's coat.

He launched off haunches like a Lycan and vanished head-first through the visage the ice had curated. Heisenberg flicked his hair, drenched and beard sagging into a thin point, and he paddled to keep afloat, cawing out, "Ethan?"

Blubblurblub!

To his right, bubbles shimmied to the water's face, shimmering like an oil painting. Heisenberg's broad frame cut through, his damp shirt sinking into the brawn of his back and snow forming along his eyelashes. His foot crashed into Ethan's stomach and he reeled the blonde from the deep grasp of seaweed and moss. The rescuee choked up air and unconsciously grappled for Heisenberg's neck, swinging off it when they waded to shore. Ethan surprisingly collapsed, Heisenberg coming down with him in worry he'd swallowed a few lung-fulls but was gestured otherwise with a flailing hand.

"I'm fine," Ethan wheezed, opposing what he insisted. Remnants of the reservoir swished inside his stomach and seared the edges of any breath in his throat. He pounded his chest with a bruised and scratched-up fist and Heisenberg regarded it, suddenly noticing the bruising where his sleeves nor pants quite reached.

"What happened to you?" he asked, a smile conveying a joke but the underlying subtlety in tone seething to a vengeful plot.

Ethan rustled his wet hair, before shielding himself when Heisenberg shook dry. "God, you mutt, cut it out! And, heh, you should see the other guy."

"A lady, don't you mean?" Heisenberg cocked an eyebrow, taking his coat from a watchful Moreau. However, halfway up his arms he thought kinder and laid it over Ethan's shaking frame. "How did you manage a limp, huh?"

"Well it wasn't from you," he said reluctantly as every word hurt; his chest had suffered enough wood and tile whacking and now fraught with heaving pants.

"Ethan."

"I fucked up, alright?" he snapped, body doing a wild shudder.

No, I fucked up, Ethan.

"No thanks to you…that is," Ethan finished shyly, arms folding and his right shoulder seeming a little off kilt. "And don't fucking scold me for doing what I did because I know it was a shit—"

"He bit at our Lady," Moreau whispered, and Ethan shot him a narrowed look. "Mother won't be proud."

Heisenberg's response was a little delayed, mulling it over carefully until speaking, chewing on the inside of his mouth, "Couldn't give less of a shit what Miranda thinks. That was a stupid thing to do, blondie. You could've been hurt, badly, and—"

He must've reached out a bit too fast; Ethan's hands fended for his face, arms curling around himself and fingers quaking. A light fire festered on his cheeks, made prominent under the snow.

"Shit, Ethan. I'm not going to hurt you," Heisenberg promised quietly. Ethan didn't falter but did peek. He swallowed and glanced left and right, then at Moreau but spoke to Ethan, "if you really don't feel like heading back up yet, how about you come run a chore for me?"

"Maybe we should give him a break, Karl," Moreau murmured. "He is a lord, not our errand boy anymore.

"No, no." Ethan flapped his arms at them both, standing but instantly leaning against Heisenberg. His touch was so cold and shivery, so tormented and aching. "I'd like that—I mean, I'm fine with that, please."

As the evening's fingers spilled over the village with a whistling breeze in its wake, Heisenberg decided to pick up their pace and ferried Ethan over his shoulder until within the gated compound of his residence.

"Silence, huh? Not even a thank you?" Heisenberg complained to Ethan's glare.

"Why did you ask me here, Kar…I know it wasn't for a chore—" he smirked "—you're too soft to make another lord do anything dirty, especially me."

"Define dirty, Ethan Winters," he teased, stretching, and leaning against the wall Ethan held himself up against. He got no amusement so confessed, "well, see, it's too dark for you to head back all the long, treacherous—"

"Ah," Ethan groaned, slipping down the wall. Heisenberg perked, hands outstretched to aide but was brushed off. "No, please, continue your monologuing…sorry, just pain."

"Well, I do actually have a chore for you and don't give me those wide eyes. I can even carry you there," he seemed to plead. Ethan winced at the mere thought of more back-breaking labour, and wanted to spurn Heisenberg's demand but what Lady Dimitrescu had inflicted on him kept him legless.

"I really don't think I can do anything," he panted, briefly clutching his eyes shut and curbed a groan. "I'm sorry, Kar. Just please don't tell Dimitrescu."

Heisenberg regarded him fully, tongue flicking to the roof of his mouth, and he inhaled sharply. He crouched to be eye-level with his friend and shaved a light backhand along Ethan's jawline, tucking hair away from a face it once didn't hang over. A spot of flesh had been grated into brown and red lines just where Ethan had clipped his chin in a frivolous attempt of escaping punishment.

"We need to stop meeting like this," Ethan whispered to Heisenberg's face, so close and crinkled with concern, only smoothing out to laugh. "I'm sorry—"

"Ethan, don't apologise," Heisenberg said firmly, both thickly gloved hands gripping his jaw. "Because I should be the one saying sorry…" he teetered on a sincereness but reapproached with a joke, "since this is going to hurt!"

Arms around Ethan's waist, the blonde found himself hanging upside-down, hair dangling in his face as the dim and cold from outside faded into the orange, balmy atmosphere of the inside. Heisenberg ignored his protests, even when he trembled, and face grew a little damp with fearing tears.

"Ethan—"

"Just put me down, I don't think Dimitrescu would appreciate you having all the fun!" Ethan laughed, audacious and frenzied. "Remember—remember, you and I—"

"Ethan!" Heisenberg exclaimed, covering Ethan's head as to not bump into a doorframe. The unknown area had a calming temperature, like a winter's day but one you spent beneath the sun. the world briefly fell away from Ethan's sense of gravity, and he crumpled in a pile of cushions and sheets. Yet again, his forearms crossed, drawn up to shield from any impending strikes but there was only stillness and the quiet tinkering of porcelain.

"Do you feel like an idiot now?" Heisenberg raised an eyebrow, coating ditched on a hanger and a short towel draped over his shoulder; he somehow appeared cleaner, more put together. Ethan stuttered nonsense, quickly sitting up but the silver man swiftly lunged from the kitchenet to the sofa, cooing, "just rest, I'm not going to harm you."

"But—but the chore—"

"Think of it as a personal chore," he assured, placing a warm mug to Ethan's lips and tipped his head to ensure he swallowed. "I want you to rest—no, I'm demanding you to sleep, please."

Please, Ethan, I worry for you.

Ethan finally breathed, chest loosening beneath Heisenberg's hand and nodded vaguely, falling into the comforts and softness. "Thank you, Kar.

Heisenberg smiled and patted his head, standing and eyes glancing to the vast-seeing windows overlooking the pit they fought in this morning. He then winked down at Ethan, "get some sleep, blondie."

Ethan idly nodded again, the warm liquid from the mug passing into his chest with a syrup-like texture. Although he wanted to argue what would you care? he embraced a numbing weight, pressing his eyelids and legs. The blackness didn't last long, unfortunately, but his waking was only brief; the light was purple and navy, red blinking eyes of a hibernating army overlooked from the dwelling he slept in. His head lolled to the cooler end of his pillow and, if he craned himself a little more, he glimpsed Heisenberg's bedroom, a fishbowl to the outside of his mechanical world. He sat, unsleeping, hatless, shirtless, glassesless, and smoking which wisped into the living space.

Karl Heisenberg had not changed, truly, but maybe—just maybe—enough for Ethan Winters to grow a fleshy spot on his heart for him. Yes, he still built an army: yes, he spoke crude and in a distant Southern drawl: yes, he seemed manic: and yes, he festered in a great, dark shade of hatred. Alas, Ethan saw him as human, not a monster. And that, unbeknownst to Ethan, was why Heisenberg cared. Cared enough to allow Ethan a restful nap throughout the later morning of the following day, his factory falling into an unheard-of silence.

Chapter Sixteen; Peering

It was as if they were children; hands clenched on the peaks of fences, intrudingly leering at neighbours with nosy intentions. But replace the fence with a mountain range and leers with binoculars but the same meddlesomeness.

Women with thin blonde hair or red buns and men with shaved heads treaded around the crunchy snow camp clad in black windcheaters and red scarves. Their heads were kept warm by either grey or beige ushankas, hands gloved, and boots pulled high to knees. They all looked so expert and aware of what they faced in the Southern valley. Rose only realised then she wasn't here in secret.

"Chris," she whispered, tugging at the hem of his coat; no matter the weather, the coat stayed on. "Chris, who is everyone here? Are they Umbrella—"

"Not really, no," he said behind a cigarette he chewed as lighters couldn't flare up against all the wind. "Just do as I told you at the airport; we're conjoined at the hip unless I say otherwise."

He missed Rose's disappointed glance, and she bundled in on herself, lips pouted and steam ready to huff out of her ears. She was being used or would soon be. That birthday present was false, Chris had been acting—she wasn't one to jump to conclusions, but she swore it—and their "secret mission" became a failed ruse. A dull heartache panged in her chest, and she continued to sit, unhappy and in silence, as Chris turned and yelled a few orders as people exchanged places between outside, trucks and inside the tent-domes that had been erected.

"I want to go home," she said gently, biting her knuckle in fear of a respiting cry. "Chris—"

"In a moment," he hushed, waving a spurning gesture.

"Chris!" she raised her voice, shifting in her position on the sandbags. His face tore away from the three he spoke to. "I want to go home."

"You wanted to come here—"

"Yeah, without an army." Rose slipped onto her feet and dusted stray bits of snow from her rustling pants. "I understand you aren't a one-man show, Chris, but you made me a promise; we'd find dad."

Chris sighed and gestured his men away, catching Rose's shoulder before she made for a leave. He took her to a quiet alley between convoys and breathed out harshly. Normality returned to his character, something she'd missed over the last few hours.

"Rose."

"Chris.

He smiled at her, a little simper tugging at the corner of her lips. He got down on one knee and rubbed at his snow stained stubble. "I understand I made a promise, but I never said how that promise would be carried out."

"Then why be so secretive about it at the diner?" she asked, combing some hair under her cap.

Chris's jaw wiggled wordlessly. "Your guard couldn't hear it because, in reality, this is a secret mission…or, in more technical terms, a classified operation."

Hope sparked in her eyes again, something restoring to her. "So, we're really not meant to be doing this?"

"Well, I was going to, it's just not under usual orders…" he glanced to her and then away, to the slithering glimpse of the village. "I wasn't meant to bring you, but plans changed…attitudes changed."

He nodded, listlessly, and with pursed lips, an aimless glaze over his eyes. Rose could tell he was thinking fondly, but of what was mostly indecipherable. She began picking the thin ends of her nails and let out a small, breathy laugh.

"You had me there, or more when we arrived at the airport," she recollected, "I thought I was going to be a weapon, again."

"Rose, I would never let that happen, again—"

"Good but don't go risking your life," Rose half-snapped. "If you're going in there, give me a gun; don't use me as one."

Chris shrugged in agreeance and quickly unstrapped a velcro stitching. He revealed a folded hand around the barrel of a silver pistol, short but its poise promised sharpness. "Here's your real present. It's not from me but from the man who organised this. You'd know him from a while ago."

"Yes," she said, "I think I would."

Her intuitive nature led her fingers to an engraved few initials, rubbing away the tarnish freshly painted on its grip. They seemed smudged, old and weathered and, in honesty, it didn't fit the shape of her palm; evidently, this was a gift with better, more skilful intentions than her. But she took the holster Chris handed her and buckled it to her chest.

"You'll be great, Rose," Chris vowed, flicking the brim of her cap. She believed him but still, an unease ate away at her confidence for what laid in the distance wasn't meant to be there. Chris Redfield swore it had been destroyed and, even with a handgun, Rose doubted whether she should cross into distantly familiar territory.

Chapter Seventeen; Stalkers & Stakers

The begrudging duty of waking Ethan was not repaid well. The blonde was easily startled and, despite it being late into the afternoon, grumbled around the living quarters and lamented all his aches and yellowing bruises.

"Ohhh, I'm so sorry, buttercup," Heisenberg mocked, half-hearted as his day's work had been frozen to allow Ethan some more rest but clearly, no amount of sleep could brighten his sourness. Especially when he hauled him through the rough weather and to the steps of Lady Dimitrescu's castle. He abandoned Ethan quickly, muttering about lordly duties he was not yet accepted in, and the only relieving factor bought to Ethan's mind was that the lady would be out, stalking beside Heisenberg.

Like stone gargoyles, the four lords sought for a perch in the sweeping snowy land deemed home that now foreigners tread on. They appeared gutsier and more well-equipped unlike certain priors Moreau still plucked from between his teeth. A broad hulk of a man led a triangle-formation of a squad and Mother Miranda claimed she saw a young girl among them. She dithered and grinned, proclaiming that might be their target!

Rosemary? Heisenberg thought with a light frown.

"Glad to see you out of your cave," Lady Dimitrescu jeered, her smile like that of a hound about to sink its jaws into a rabbit's neck. "Mother didn't think you'd make it."

Heisenberg rudely shoved past, stabbing the hilt of his hammer into the grass hidden beneath snow. "Well, I guess I'm here."

"I heard you had a little sleepover," she continued as Heisenberg lowered into a steady crouch around a footprint. Donna moved up quickly from behind Moreau and Dimitrescu, slipping up next to Heisenberg, him catching her by the wrists. From over the rim of his glasses, he leered at the lady, ready to pounce but Donna hushed him.

"Just remember who's babysitting your little shits, Dimitrescu," he grumbled, seeming ruffled and agitated; his mood stole the blow from his words. She stepped over him to come shoulder-to-shoulder with Mother Miranda, resting in hag form.

"I wouldn't say Ethan is babysitting," Donna said coolly but with a smile as she got back to her feet. Heisenberg glanced up at her, tilting his head. "I feel like you babysit him—"

"I do not!" Heisenberg defended, the two women ahead glancing back before resuming their glances. He calmed himself. Donna squeezed his arm.

"Kar, you care for him, right?"

Heisenberg thought it was in his nature; Donna would've believed that had she not seen a different, thicker tension between Ethan and him. However, there was no purpose in admitting something that wasn't…true—

—God, the stinging it bought to his chest…his heart, perhaps?

"I should go and check on him," he spoke, contradicting his innermost thoughts. His head spun with how fast he leapt, wondering off before Dimitrescu could call him a coward for retreating or Mother Miranda cawed him back.

Moreau approached Donna and whispered, quietly as his clumsy voice could manage, "they're too close."

"I think they are," she lamented, stroking her veil. I fear it.

"You little, puppet piece of shit!" Ethan caterwauled, feet flinging and bashing where they didn't reach comfortably.

He just wanted to play a game of hide n' seek; despite their prior wrongdoings, Ethan figured the sisters were impassable to violence…or that's at least what he forced himself to believe as they lay on the library floor, whinging and clutching at their stomachs because there just wasn't enough blood to go around that evening. A buried fatherly instinct surfaced but Ethan received no thanks. Cassandra ruthlessly stalked the corridors, her feet smacking along the tiles and marble, nails scratching grooves into walls and her voice trickling with a sickly-sweet taunt encroached.

"Daniela, Daniela, help—please," Ethan pleaded to the younger. She balked until urged away by Angie; why did Donna not take it out into the snow? Bela had been hidden for the last hour well, thinning into nothing but air when Cassandra began the countdown.

"Angie!" The blonde was left shrieking, truly frightened as now his physical movement had been restricted, wrists entangled in a light's cord and further locked in the corner of a broom closet. He tried to settle his mind with the likelihood Cassandra played like Bela, collected and contented with just a scare but that look she'd shot Ethan and grin that split her face in two conveyed otherwise.

He flicked hair from his face, huffing to blow it away. Beads of sweat creased at his hairline, tracing his ribs and stomach, and his wrists grew a little slippery. Ethan heaved, jerking and wrenching yet, somehow, a decades—centuries!—old piece of string prevailed and he hung, spent and tiring. However, adrenaline surged in a ripping pulse through his veins, exposed in his arms and hands from straining, and blood bubbled beneath the skin, infecting his face with red and pink.

The doorknob jiggered.

Ethan released a petrified cry. Light seeped through a crack, which widened with a little gasp drawn from the big, metal man.

"Oh, fuck me…it's you," he chuckled heartily, masking the desperate-seeming relief that made the tail-end of his spine tingle. Heisenberg propped himself against the doorframe, flicking down his glasses and eyes doing a cheeky sweep of the blonde.

"Now, how did you get into this little tangle up, hm?" he questioned, accusingly with a particular deep intone to his voice.

Ethan attempted to find his footing and timidly bowed his head, whimpering to the ground, "can you just help and not say anything…please?"

Heisenberg shrugged, tilting himself away and peeling into the tight space of the closet. Ethan adjusted himself, wiggling away from Heisenberg's hips but they seemed to attract, touching. In an effort to distract himself, he glanced up, the tops of Heisenberg's eyes raised high, and the tip of his tongue pinched between his lips, intensely concentrating on undoing the knot with one hand. The other alone could cuff Ethan's wrists, a thick thumb in the palm of his left hand.

In the heat, Heisenberg's glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose and Ethan raised a knee, but they bounced to the floor. His restraints came free, and, without a moment's thought, they both bent in sync to grab the clattering glasses. Their heads cracked and a sweet, nervous giggled was shared between them.

"Ethannn!" a sister sung out. Cassandra. Ethan's head had been flooded with an onslaught of all things not-right and buried away from the situation; this very frightening game of hide n' seek.

"Thank God you're here," Ethan whispered, arm pressed against Heisenberg's chest. "You can get me out of this fucking manhunt, right?"

Heisenberg held a certain, worrying glint in his eye; it struck Ethan he was an uncle, the funniest family member to roam this castle. Of course, he'd be in on the game and, already, he reached over Ethan, shutting them in.

"Are you kidding?" the blonde rasped, breathing hard and heavy. He rubbed his wrists.

"Well, I imagined you started this game, so you'll finish it," Heisenberg said with a confident point. Ethan held his arms, trying to make himself small and with the wild belief, if he clutched at his chest tight enough, his breathing would soften. "And as much as I am enjoying being confined with you in this tight space, I must ask of you to stop breathing so loud!"

Heisenberg's jaw was so close to Ethan's face, and he realised how pinned he was against the wall.

"It's probably how you got all those injuries in the old world!"

"I can't help being loud!" Ethan bristled, a hotness on his neck and face; he hoped Heisenberg couldn't feel nor see his vibrant glow. "And I don't see you doing anything about it so, to me, it seems like you like it!"

Heisenberg shrugged, or as much as the closet would allow such a gesture. "Sure, I like loud, but I have an idea—"

"I'm not being loud—H-Ah!"

The breath gushed out of him and, unless Heisenberg was about to kill him, they'd never been so touchy. Heisenberg crooked an arm just above Ethan's head, grazing his forehead as he moved it. His head disappeared beside Ethan's, and he muttered, "they said you whimper."

"I'm not—not whimpering, you mutt," he breathed, inhaling to pull his chest from Heisenberg's and quaver trembled in a spiral-like fashion around nerves in his shoulders and spine. He couldn't comprehend why he felt such a way.

"Just listen," Heisenberg whispered, his lips moving loudly. A deep rumble roiled in his throat and his wintry, naked fingers imprinted circles on his wrist, feeling for the shallow welts the cord pressed. He lightly frowned, briefly losing amusement in Ethan's quiet mewls.

"It's fine," Ethan said, shaking Heisenberg's grip away and held himself in his chest. "But this…this isn't fair—"

"How so?"

The blonde glowed roseate and dipped his head just enough that his eyes vanished. Something unseen tilted him forward and it became mutual, breathing slowed and hands going limp at their sides, not sure what to hold or grip when mouths met mouths. Heisenberg held his lips against Ethan's and heard the footsteps pass unlike him.

It was short-lived.

Someone threw open their little crevice of privacy and Ethan, compelled by an unfamiliar vigour, launched Heisenberg pinwheeling out, toppling atop of Donna at the feet of Lady Dimitrescu. She disappointedly looked down on their hysterics before her eyes found Ethan's. The manthing was clutching alarmedly at his knees, as though trying to rip out his heart and shout for it to be still, just for a moment to process those wild emotions—

"Ethan?" Heisenberg softly shivered, hauling Donna up. She shared a similar concern as if she knew their secret.

"No, no, shut up!" Ethan wheezed. He glared at Dimitrescu, an impolite way of asking what she wanted.

"Your daughter, Ethan. Rosemary, we believe, is here—oh, why are you turning that colour?" she demanded, hands frantic. "Karl, did you not inform him?"

"Rosemary?" Ethan cried. "Why is she here? What the—Heisenberg, you were supposed to tell me this?"

"No, Ethan—

"You know what, just shut the fuck up, alright?" he snapped, throwing up his hands. He pointed at Dimitrescu. "Where the fuck is Rosemary? Who—why do I feel?"

"We've broken him," Donna unintentionally jested.

Dimitrescu at least found her laughter in Ethan's panic. She offered out a long hand to him, "come, manthing. Maybe we shall sit you down and explain what we saw seeing Heisenberg is a little too distracted."

Ethan faced the ground, unwilling to give Heisenberg the satisfaction of forgiveness yet, and felt utterly overwhelmed enough to take the lady's hand. He peeped once over his shoulder as he left the hall, seeing Donna's hand on Heisenberg's back and Heisenberg mutter four simple words, "I fucked up, Donna."

Chapter Eighteen; Sleepless man

Rosemary Winters was a warm, breathing blood-relative—a daughter—to Ethan Winters.

How in lord's fucking name had I not remembered that? More frustratingly, how come no one told me I had a daughter?

Of course, there was that inkling of an obscure fatherly sense when handling tasks like a dinner for the Dimitrescu daughters or when Donna's fingers were just too cold to put up her hair so he would braid it. He'd just plainly assumed it was manly nature…with a hint of something womanly. At the arrival of such a realisation, other than that horrific discomfort of a burn singeing at his temples and a tingling underneath his fingernails, all those actions suddenly just made sense. A peculiar smell flittered around his hands and something small and fleshy pressed to his chin whenever he closed his eyes. This had made sleep scarce, a difficult wrestle that had become a nightly habit. However, he didn't speak up about it, at least for a week because…well…he still slept within radius of Heisenberg; a thin wall the only barrier between them…or something they might do.

Several days of ponderous wanders had proven Ethan was indecisive about their closet kiss, mostly because he couldn't figure out whether he had leaned in or away or maybe he just fell into the feeling. That incident imprinted a tenderness on his heart, which Heisenberg's mere presence pressed against or whenever he spoke to Ethan in their morning routine of slipping past each other.

"Why don't you just sleep elsewhere?" Moreau grumbly asked Ethan on the day he'd spent at the reservoir, toying with the idea of hiking up to the castle and resuming his original bedroom.

Ethan only shrugged and his gilled friend attempted to pry but soon saw it useless. In his silent amble home—factory…you mean factory, Ethan. Whatever—in his stalk back to bed, he childishly humoured himself with the idea Heisenberg, who would either bury himself deep in scrap metal or fizzle off into thin air, confined in Donna the same way Ethan used Moreau. He liked to think this since it felt optimistic; Heisenberg hadn't just kissed him to fuck with him…or to break a boundary to cross further.

Skipping dinner, which Heisenberg had not protested as he too went without, Ethan laid on the couch, fingers drumming on his chest and eyes pinned to the ceiling where faint pencil scribbles were; if he squinted, he could make out some Pythagoras theorem or even some sort of aerodynamics. Science, the maths sort, wasn't really his speciality. Apparently, his attributes consisted of being a "stay-at-home-dad" and, somewhere at the bottom of his heart, he wondered if he had sat on a rug in a sun-drenched room, dressed in sloppy pyjamas and matched his big adult hands with that of an infant's on her back, legs kicking and giggling. It was a vivid memory and, although he could've just asked Heisenberg about his daughter, there was something else.

I need to know.

He got up quick, ignoring how the room spun, and made too much of a haste into Heisenberg's room, door always left agape. The sleepless man, there he was, twirling a lighter in the air with a flaming cigarette clenched between teeth. Burnished eyes agaze upon what he'd curated from simple pieces of garbage and one large hand rubbing over his heart, as though it ached and wept against his ribcage. When he heard the electric scrape of socks on his rough, red rug, Heisenberg glanced and gripped at his hair.

Ethan licked his lips and withheld a nervous waver in his chest. "I want you to tell me everything, even those parts where you tried to hurt me or even how why me losing my hand feels so familiar."

"Ok—"

"But I don't want a novel of it; I want your summary, like just something easy to remember," he continued to blurt. "Please."

Heisenberg's chin was frozen in a raise, his nod interrupted but his head lowered, and he laid a hand, bare and pulsing with veins that thickened up his arm, on the mattress. "Come, sit."

Ethan surprised himself with his lack of reluctance, conforming immediately to what Heisenberg had suggested and they sat close, a sort of new comfort relaxing their tension. When he heard no answer, he followed his friend's aloof glare into the metal and copper fields, an early morning mist of steam laying atop of it. Following a long drag and dancing exhale of smoke, Heisenberg dredged up encounters and recounts, inspiring a firestorm in Ethan's head but, with the progress of his story, it lessened and simmered. All of it was truthful; Ethan's first capture by Heisenberg, the council meeting that went a bit too far, the deaths, the betrayal, the anguished cries of a man who just wanted to rebel, and, that's where the tale drew to an end because—

"You know, you kind of killed me," Heisenberg said without a hint of spite and instead a chuckle. "But, from popular belief, you semi-killed Mother Miranda."

"Sorry we didn't get to do that together," Ethan laughed, scratching the back of his head. Silence fluttered upon them before torn away when he continued, "You know, I remember all that…in fact, I think I remember almost everything a little too well after these past few days."

"Is that so?" the man asked, abruptly suspicious of Ethan's being here, in his bedroom. He tapped some loose ash into a tray and then smothered the light out. "Then why bother hearing it all again?"

Ethan refrained from shrugging, knowing he couldn't say what he wanted to with being too nonchalant. His words would hold weight, but what said weight would inflict upon Heisenberg was unknown to him until he spoke them. "I just wanted to make sure you were being honest…because…because sometimes I'm not sure anything you do is honest."

Heisenberg seemed untroubled but there was a twitch in his eyes, an irritation since he was always truthful. But he defaulted, "I'm meant to be a villain, do you really expect truth from me?"

Ethan sniggered and rolled his eyes. "I don't think you're a villain…sometimes." He hiccupped a chortle when Heisenberg grabbed him around the shoulders and ruffled his hair, grinning large.

"Sometimes? What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing! Nothing!" Ethan cried through a smile, batting at his hands.

"When have I been a villain and when have—"

"When you kissed me," he joshed, slightly fearing what Heisenberg might do with such a tight grasp in his hair. But the silver man only blushed, the trickle of light giving way to it, and gently moved Ethan away. Hair fell in delicate strands over his face, and he begun to tremble. "Kar—?"

"Did…Was I the villain then or…" he whispered, "the good guy?"

"Uhrm," Ethan swallowed, pulling his knees up under his chin feeling as if he could fold in on himself and disappear into a void where ashamed and badly embarrassed victims went. "I—uh—I don't know Kar…"

The deepest, lowest whimper mused from Heisenberg's pursed lips and his eyes flicked away, pupils dilating. There was an odd, bittersweetness to their flushing and little shakes, wanting to make a move to resolve the awful burden of tension.

"Buh-buh-because…" Think Ethan, think. "Because you almost squashed me!"

"What?" Heisenberg choked, posture shooting upright and fists balling. "I did not!"

"You almost did—"

"Ethan Winters, I am not that heavy!" he exclaimed, eyes slanted, and lips curled. "And I was only doing what I had to keep us alive!"

Ethan's head rolled around his shoulders, nearing a shriek of laughter, and burst with an aggression of giddiness, "well, if you weren't that heavy, I suppose I wasn't that loud!"

"I'll give you fucking loud," he imperilled, his body throwing itself at Ethan's. The blonde's legs flailed outwards, and he defensively sprawled on his back but couldn't wriggle left or right for Heisenberg's hands guarded his only escape. "Listen, you're doing it right now."

"Because you have me pinned down, against a bed," Ethan said slowly, stifling his noises of panic. "Your fault."

"Oh, is it?" he teased, flashing a canine-grin, and his chest seemed to lower. Or maybe Ethan got the wrong idea for when he gently reached with his lips, Heisenberg swiftly pulled away into a standing position. He reeled himself to the window, slumping against it. "That wouldn't be wise to do, blondie."

Ethan sat and covered himself as if he were naked. A lingering sensation ingrained itself on his skin and wrists. "Why? Did I do—"

"You should sleep, Ethan. I think we should both sleep." Heisenberg crooned a heaviness in those words, something that urged not to be questioned and tone pursued Ethan out of the room. On his lonesome, the metal man resumed a position on the bed, crinkling his fingers where he had pinned Ethan down but quickly withdrew away. He felt his friend watch from afar as his head collapsed into hands, but he knew—or at least prayed—Ethan did not hear what he thought; Heisenberg was right but that decision, as hard as it was to fraught within such a frenzied urge, he greatly feared a mistake would be made. Too soon, too soon, blondie.

Chapter Nineteen; Restless and testy

Chris was a crow; his dark coat bristled like a ruffle of feathers and took up a perch on the sandbags. He was watchful, awaiting their next swoop since their last, allegedly, positioned them in a forsaken chaos. A team reaped by whatever laid in the clutches of the village's boundaries. Rose had been present, but in an armoured van huddled between crates of silver bullets and sacks. When Chris returned from scouting, it looked as though he had no face; he'd gone so pale, and the whites of his eyes had consumed his pupils and irises. Was this what he looked like frightened or was it the purest of fear?

Back in the camp—which had been moved a little into the valley—she was confined to a dome-tent. As a classified member of their team, she was privileged enough with her own room that even Chris, for once, didn't step foot in. She curled up beside a space heater, scanning Village of Shadows without a sign of worn-out interests, and sometimes tapped to a far-off beat on her plate; her phone, due to some sort of metal poles in the Earth or other science nonsense, couldn't pick up the right signal out here. It contributed further to her fidgets and the agitation compelled her to peer outside which is where she saw Chris, now like a bird silhouetted against the night.

Something that brewed week-long nudged at her conscious, to be bought into consideration and mulled on. She weighed up consequences and outcomes…she might've been biased but Rose thought she had the right opinion here: seven days and almost six nights of doing nothing and knowing nothing. She wanted to come out of the dark and find some light, feel the warmth of knowledge on her face. Her fingers gripped tighter to the tent's fabric entrance before she ripped away and scavenged around for her jacket. A week of contemplation gave way to many opportunities of hiding leftover bread rolls and chicken drumsticks in her cargo pants, and a few bars of sweets in the inner breast of her father's jacket. It was just water, a flashlight and a way out she needed.

On her first convoy there, she'd sketched the road since, already, she pondered her going back but wholly not on her lonesome. Rose envisioned Chris becoming rebellious and going behind whoever's back, again, for the greater good. He'd come wake her late and tell her to dress warm and their plight would be successful until plunging into the blackness of the valley. He would briefly become frustrated, but Rose would reveal to him her napkin, scribbles of a vague path etched onto it. Presently, to stand singly on the barren stretch of road, flashlight off until she reached the outer boundaries of humanity, became the first time Rose had felt afraid in Romania. But if Chris won't do this, I will.

Her beginning few steps on the embarkment meant her subconscious had willingly signed an invisible contract, declaring anything, meaning injury or death, would be pinned against her. So when she chose to foolishly vault a log not even five minutes beyond the guard, and sprained her ankle, that was her fault. And she'd never loved being held accountable before.

A particular thrill enlightened her senses, and the adrenaline heightened the awareness of what might lurk beneath the white carpet ahead. Rose was suddenly useful; an example of bravery; a primary to being solo. Walking with an increased pace through the night, flashlight pinched in her teeth when she needed to look at the map, ensuring she stopped every half-an-hour to replenish, she grew and became the expert adult; that's what she thought.

The eventual overpass, however, came too soon and her confidence seemed to liquify and slowly drip from her, like a pinnacle of ice under the sun. The village was nearing. Despite this achievement, Rose glanced over her shoulder, her hair of ivory making a gentle rustling sound on her parka, which beneath sat her father's jacket. Her face was pink and nose a vibrant red light, so cold, and fingers felt a little paralysed. Breath wisped and tangled in the air, pointing the way she had travelled from.

What a hike, I've done so well! She thought although she wanted to yell it. But Rosemary, you cannot go back now, you made somewhat a promise. Don't turn around.

She obeyed her mind and crossed through, an instant regret trembling through her spine when she didn't look at the ground. Without the support of Earth, she slipped on the sleek hill and veered feet-first into a creak. Winter's freeze jolted up her body and, abruptly, that poor ankle became worse.

Good one, Rose. You really stuffed it.

The smoky peaks of where once many dwelled under were just in reach but, without really encountering any danger, she'd successfully hit a dead-end. Rose had no choice but to collapse on all fours and wade through the creek's shallow waters, dampening her parka's arms and chest. She slithered to the opposite bank and quickly dusted off snow and icy debris, quietly exclaiming curses against the weather. Briefly, it crossed her mind that this didn't seem like the right place, even if a castle leered in the distance and, she thought, a factory to the West. Alas, her suspicion was denied when she saw the second armoured truck which had come down the same day as her. It was left abandoned since the vehicle could go nowhere without a driver and passengers. She shuffled to it, the snow shin deep after the afternoon dump, and ran a gloved hand over its hood, frowning at the scratch marks and little dops of crimson.

Then, at an accidental glance to her feet, she saw the streaks of clotty blood. Some sick sort of artistry dragged corpses like a paintbrush in a maze of patterns and the vilest of flies swarmed around an older body; a woman, brunette with a bun, and her vest had been obliterated by whatever tore open her chest. Rose failed to stifle a shriek and pinwheeled into a mound of red, bloody snow. It got caught in her hair, stained her chin and cheeks, and propelled her ambling legs in a dead-run to the centre of the old town square. But that was even worse; there were more, all pale faced like Chris yet just a bit…deader. The acrid stench, radiating in a visual steam of human organs and eyeballs strewn along the cobblestone.

Rose dry-retched, buckling to her knees and crashing to her side. She turned her flashlight off, not wanting to see even the dimmest image. In fear she was shutting down, Rose willed herself in a blind crawl away from the pile, fingers struggling to hold a grip until her feet found themselves and walked her to a house. It was empty but warmer…further from the monstrous nightmares that would plague her well into her elder years. Her composure returned quick, and she grounded herself by pinching her arms and giving herself big Chinese-burns; Chris had taught her this, as way of reminding yourself, your body, you are not in physical pain, only emotional stress. Her reality stilled in a non-nauseating image, and she allowed herself a few moments before rolling on to her knees and peering out an empty window-frame.

Over the tops of quivering knuckles, her big round eyes dilated at the sight of a bobbing lantern, held by a large coat with a flurry of hunched creatures swirling around him. He gruffly yelled at them, belting one in the stomach with a thick boot. It yelped but simmered into a snigger before conforming to what he told it.

Rose's lips parted in curiosity, and she leaned a little, tempted to flash her light at it. Instead, she sneezed, a straight, dead-give away. Six pairs of white eyes glared up through the dark and the man, who wore low-set glasses, looked too. Rose remained unmoving, scared a sudden movement would startle them. She tried not to breathe so they couldn't see it in the air, but a burning hyperventilation seared in her chest, and she gently punched it, warning her body.

Nothing happened. No one, no thing made the first nor last move. The man had saw her, she swear she met his eye, but, clearly, she was of no interest, and he bid her a subtle gesture of goodbye before waving and shouting, his hollers making his pets scamper.

"Shit," Rose hushed, crumpling into a ball. "Shitshitshitshit!"

This was foolish; idiotic. She could hear Chris now, leaning over her dead body, angry and grieving. Rose thought she was going to die and that was a possibility she never considered whilst on her calm journey here. She felt surrounded by those things and the only move she could make would be further into the village but that, she smartly agreed, would not happen until the far-off dawn.

What the fuck have you done, Rosemary?

Chapter Twenty; An ichor's ardour

A feast! According to Lady Dimitrescu, a decade and a quarter had passed without such a delight and, in its honourable return, an artistry of wedges and slabs of stringy-textured meat, golden chalices brinked with blood wine that stained your tongue like sour blueberries, and lavish cutlery was arranged along with a table-long crimson cloth. Golden leaves withered out of vases and three hefty chandeliers with flambeaus in its black tarnished metal clutches swung over their heads. Inhaling the alcoholic syrups, the three Dimitrescu sisters veered into their swarm-forms and made the overhanging decors swivel, their rusted chains groaning and tugging at the ceiling. Their mother made no attempt in stopping them, acknowledging Mother Miranda's amusement since, after all, the feast was only devised for her pleasure.

Ethan originally found hesitance in the indulgence of a celebration held to laugh at the death of operatives just attempting to do their jobs. But it wasn't them they ate…oddly enough; he thinks it was cow despite the morsel tastings he had. The evening's progression bore a loud talkative nature and soon hysterical screeching of laughter and anger and yelling, Ethan suddenly finding himself in a more sober moment a prime contributor. He conversed nonsense with Moreau and jeered at Dimitrescu who appeared unoffended and instead entertained by this puny blonde's ramblings. Heisenberg watched him meticulously across the narrow table, coolly leaned back and chin on his knuckle, the other hand expertly twiddling a knife suspended in mid-air.

"Karl, dear, don't play with your cutlery," Dimitrescu hissed, her chair positioned higher than even Miranda's so her bosom wouldn't squash the table and her high-piled plate of food. "Use your manners—"

TWANG!

The butterknife punctured the evening chatter, pricking into the fine, silken veil of Bela. Her eyes struck wide, but the sickening thrill of menace inspired a giggle, and she ripped the knife free, holding the blade's tip delicately. Dimitrescu resigned to silence as Mother Miranda commended Heisenberg's fondness for his uncle role. He only grinned in return, loosening the collar of his tunic, but his eyes remained lingering on Ethan. The blonde cowered into his seat before whispering politely for Donna to pass the jug of blood-wine.

"Ethan, that's your fourth—"

"I can handle my alcohol, Donna," he rasped, the sharper note in his tone heard by the entire table but was answered with smirks.

Donna did as he had asked before excusing herself for the evening. Angie wasn't as enthused to leave but, upon the doll-maker's departure, the feast's festivities dwindled, and the family unsteadily dispersed under shadows and into the dim snowy landscape. The weather abated and allowed an easy traverse to the factory, smog and smoke billowing against the daybreak; alas, their morning seemed years away. When dull sunlight shivered over peaks of snow mounds, pink crystals caught alight and roiled beneath their staggered steps, contending the glistening grip of ice and their knees found relief from the aches when they reached the frontmost hanger-area. It was there the final hours of night spiralled.

Ethan's arms roped around Heisenberg's dense neck and his coarse fingers instinctively draped over his waist, keeping him from puddling on the floor. Chin propped on his friend's chest, Ethan asked, "Kar, I'm confused."

Aren't we both?

He frowned and reeled Ethan into a bridal carry, an urgent regret pounding in his subconsciousness as he wasn't too steady himself. To ensure somewhat of a balance, Heisenberg grounded himself from the thick cloudy haze in his head by gently clutching Ethan.

"I don't understand why you would ever feel…" the blonde licked his lips, conjuring…fathoming the question stinging the tip of his tongue as severely as the wine had. "That way for me, I think I mean."

He fiddled with the ends of Heisenberg's hair and traced his jaw where their hands met in a firm grip. They paused in the corridor between factory and home, the final cross into intimate territory. "I never wanted to tell you this," Heisenberg begun, rooted remorse scratching its way up and out of his throat; it shredded his voice. "Those years you were trapped…or dead—I'm not sure—I watched you."

this hulk of shadow with a little light, awaiting my next breath

A brave spark of recognition came to life in Ethan's eyes but still, a crinkle of his eyebrows prevailed. "But why?"

"Because," he slurred, "I knew I could find your trust and hold it…uh…tight. I just suppose these emotions happened to become more when I felt you."

Your physical being was—and always will be—more than your crystal skin, Ethan.

He resumed his lumber forward after Ethan diminished into a light, silent weight whose presence was only noted when his fingers lightly pinched into Heisenberg's shoulders as he placed his friend on the couch.

"Holy shit, where did the floor go?" Ethan jokingly panicked; he wasn't too far gone in alcohol's clutches. Heisenberg shook his head, the edge of his grin flashing a shard of teeth and latched for the grip of a wall as he tried to leave. "Aw—you're not coming to lay with me?"

The metal man's back erected and a little quiver wavered over his face, his lips and nose scrunching up. Those confronting words sundered Heisenberg's conscious, footing uttering whether it was wise to leave or stay. "You're drunk, Ethan—"

"I'm still conscious of what I want," the ivory haired man cajoled. "I'm not oblivious to your intentions, Kar."

Fuck! Where the fuck did this come from? Heisenberg failed to disguise his momentary aback expression but did manage to close his jaw and reposition his authority with a wider stance. "Don't."

"Don't what?" Ethan purred, slouched, and laying hands between his thighs. He simpered, an impish tone breaking through and a blithe notion filtered into his words, "if you're sure you can control yourself, then stand near me. Innocent men don't quiver in the corner of a room with their tail between their legs."

A bilious shade darkened Heisenberg's eyes and he encroached, usurping the room. Upon the command of "closer", Heisenberg clenched the cushions with his veiny hands on either side of Ethan's shoulders and pushed a knee between his legs, feeling the protest of smaller hands. His neck-chains and whistle bumped Ethan's nose and, crudely, he invoked the visual of a bare chest, the metal jewellery swinging back and forth, back and forth with each thrust of a hip; it became so vividly real like the hand on his lower back, assisting in the pushing—a dither ran down Ethan's spine, interrupting his lustrous thought.

"Ah, look who's nervous now," Heisenberg brooded, his leering presence enclosing the air around them. Ethan wanted to end the game—he had lost control and that was against his reasoning of starting this situation. He went to leave, to retreat after committing to his part of the tease but Heisenberg's hands came down on his chest and his voice raised, "sit!"

"How about you sit for once?" Ethan hissed, grabbing at Heisenberg's shirt and ripping him off his already limp balance. He braced himself against Heisenberg, having switched positions, and smiled bumpily. He released a petulant laugh, lowering between the man's legs, Heisenberg regarding carefully but made no attempt to stop him.

The blonde moved quick, a hasty undoing of his belt. Heisenberg's fingers pressed into the couch's arms, once blunt nails tearing a hole through the fabric and, in the wake of impending pleasure, his hips posed to arch as a mouth curled around him. Ethan's tongue frisked and fluttered, the odd inexperienced quality projecting innocence and the mere deliberation of such a possibility festered up a fierce heat in Heisenberg's stomach—Oh God, he might've not been his claim, but Ethan was vestal, untouched and unstained. He just needed some guidance.

Heisenberg's agape mouth came back together, and chin met with his chest where a sheen gleamed with the openness of his low shirt. His head stilled from its restive, thrilled lolls, and their eyes found their eventual meeting, Ethan's kept low, but he too shared pleasure in retaining eye contact. A vehement wolfishness on Heisenberg's face inspired a light fear within the blonde and he went to pull away, drawing out a long, thin line of saliva and panted with small rises in his chest. Heisenberg's leather and scratchy grapple found a lock within knots of his fair hair and when Ethan let out a noise of surprise when his mouth was forced forward, Heisenberg thumbed his forehead and hushed, "I'm just giving you a little instruction, it's OK."

Ethan's throat constricted and he gasped, stifling a violent choke. Face tainted pink, his eyes glanced away, spotting a jittering pack of nails on the table, linking it to Heisenberg's flexing hand; it was unintentional, derived from the metal wielder's pleasure.

"Look at me," Heisenberg commanded, tightening his grip and Ethan blinked up, a low-hung mist of tears in his eyes. "Fuck, good boy. Keeping looking at me."

Ethan sunk into the floor, a tic passing from his knees to neck when Heisenberg held him. Ethan slapped at Heisenberg's leg and was pulled away again, gasping and coughing gently. Heisenberg grabbed his chin and angled his head towards his, now leaning into him, and thumbed his wet lips. His eyes, half-closed, travelled down Ethan's jittering body and he reached to grab his wrists, rubbing them soothingly until they stopped shaking.

"I think that's enough, blondie," Heisenberg told him, his voice returning to the usual shallows of deepness. He flicked away Ethan's chin and made himself modest, stepping over his friend still on the floor. He clutched at Ethan's hair once more before vanishing out of the living space and into the factory's corridor. Ethan collapsed against the couch, struggling to pant.

The fuck kind of blowjob was that? he shuddered. His throat burnt and he touched it with a very distant sense of achievement, followed by a darker urge of guilt.

Chapter Twenty-One; Damnit Rose!

"We don't know where she's gone," explained the guards on repeat. With each round of a clockwise scour, their responses became weaker and smaller, until it was just the sullen shake of the head. The gesture further provoked a deeply inspired anger in Chris, his skin so hot with fluster he'd long laid his coat over sandbags and griped at his hair, baring teeth to the icy wind.

Damnit Rose! Damnit Rose! Damnit!

Where did that child go? Obviously not far but it was definitely—and he feared it—beyond the guard posts. He glared into the frosty wilderness, ashen branches crooked and poised to grab little girls who strayed too far. Despite suggestions from his loyal team, he ventured out with just a little flashlight, ravaging the barren foliage in hopes of finding a scarf or cloth snagged from Rose in a moment of surprise.

Chris had come to the ends of his wit before he found deep footprints, seemingly fresh and a little jaunt seeming. He matched one of her converses to it, carefully tracing the grooves of a sole and, wittingly unprepared, pursued the trail further.

"Chris! Chris!" A young woman from his team cried. He stopped and sneered at her; without verbally saying it, Chris had warned her that this intrusion should be important. She huffed, the cold really taking the breath out of her. "The cell—huff, huff—he needs to—huff—speak with you."

Chris softened. "Thank you."

He took the black rectangle of a phone, and she began her pace slowly, as though she had intentions of letting Chris catch up soon. However, mainly, it was to put a bit of distance between them since those phone calls were special. Chris had never specified why.

"Redfield," he greeted.

"Kennedy; would it kill you to say hello like a normal person?" they asked.

The dark-haired man smiled, lips cracking with a little dryness due to the snow. "I know it would kill you to do a lot of things."

He imagined their eyes rolling and them beginning to move around, conjuring up their words with hints of punishment. "Have you found her?"

"No, but I just found a footprint," he explained, unconsciously rubbing the shoe in his hand. "I fear she might've fled into the village—"

"And why do you say fled?"

Chris frowned at his own word choice but, somehow, he figured it fit. "Winters was—"

"It's Rose, Chris." There was constricted movement from the other end. "We spent five years with her, and you still belittle her to that name?"

Chris rolled his shoulders back at the uncomfortable, unhealed memory. The man on the line had a point, he just called her that without really knowing and when she wasn't around—

—when she was missing—

he felt even guiltier. "Rose was growing impatient; she's a teenager, it doesn't surprise me, Kennedy. It just makes me worried she won't choose the right path out there."

"She can handle herself, Chris," they said which took him back with surprise. "I care for her as much as we both did—"

"Don't."

"—and as cruel as it is, we need to know what she is capable of."

He clutched at the phone, sick to the stomach his friend would suggest such an inhumane experiment. He saw the point, of course, but there lingered a heavy reluctance.

"Chris?"

"It's still Redfield," he firmed, grinding his teeth together. "Would I be able to lurk? We can't let her get killed."

He pictured a nod and his friend spoke in agreeance, "we can't let her get hurt. I suggest you find somewhere high and close to watch. Don't you dare let one of those bastards lay a finger on her, alright?"

Chris laughed. "You're contradicting yourself! It's as if you—"

"I care, Redfield. If it were up to me…" they paused and lowered their tone, "if it were up to me, a lot of things would be different here. People and each other would be different too."

His lips twitched, allowing those words to sink into his skin like someone's touch. Their touch. Chris decided it was best to end the call in that moment before a closeness dawned on them. Their goodbyes were short and empty, and Chris trudged up to his female agent, who awaited up ahead. Travelling further up the path, he explained their target and mission and, although she appeared opposed, she chose not to speak of it.

"We start tonight," he demanded, and, with a nod, she jogged to the guard. Alone, Chris glanced into the seemingly more alive sky hanging over the village and his fists, if not already, clenched tighter.

Damnit Rose, there better be a good explanation to this.

Chapter Twenty-Two; I promise, Kar

Yet again, the fool of a blonde remained sleeping in the warm kettle that was Heisenberg's factory. Well, at least he thought he was a fool.

The confines of a balmy space where the light flickered between red and orange, casting their shadows upon the wall and playing tricks on their eyes; neither could tell who was coming down the hall. In the corridors between an exit and beds, sometimes chests would graze, and backs would slip along the wall. Hands eager to grab would draw up under arms and Ethan would give a little smile whilst Heisenberg would nod, eyes as severe as that night. Attempts of conversations became corny, words and sentences paling into rude laughter. Once, Heisenberg left the room after eating with Ethan and his usual head tap had grown fierce, a ruffle in his hair bringing back the remembrance of his clutch. Ethan chose to sleep in the castle that evening with the brutal realisation they were back at square one.

On Mother Miranda's orders, whoever trespassed their land the lords were not yet strong enough to go up against and, during a council meeting, Heisenberg was upbraided for leading a strike against the operatives despite the oddity of Lady Dimitrescu siding with him. Repulsed, he left for the tunnels with Donna teetering in tow. As Ethan's time spent longer as a new lord, his days felt like weeks and, eventually, a hobby came from his boredom, making. In their previous stint of awkward silence, Heisenberg did happen to help Ethan learn basic physics and some sort of hard maths which, surprisingly, he got his head around quickly and instantly begun dabbling with scrap metal. Some days, if he were up to it, he'd get on his hands and knees or get his hands dirty and caught in a conveyer belt to fix something the metal wielder had missed; it bought him back to the nice old days of being a runner…more so slave.

So, on the day Heisenberg sulked off into the tunnels, banished from the courtroom, Ethan unconsciously thought he would follow and cheer him up with a little assistance—

no don't think that

—around the factory. The tunnels were stale, and everything felt musty, like an attic space longing for a window or skylight to be opened. The only breaths of air wheezed in and out through the courtyard entrances but, usually, that pink runt of a flesh sack named Baby brooded, wailing for the attention it lacked unless it was Donna. Ethan became cautious to avoid it and wondered why he had saved that thing; it must've been to discreetly please Heisenberg.

Whispering muttered from the right, obscured by the heavy rainfall and snow outside, pelting above ground. The tunnels shuddered beneath the weather's weight and Ethan had to strain his ears to hear the slightest peep. He pressed his body to the dirt shaft walls and narrowed his eyes, hoping to gather the slightest identity of who was here.

"You're hereeeeee!" shrilled the doll, rattling along the floor in a dead-beeline to Ethan. He startled, flailing his arms at it, and wildly shushed it, crouching. She latched on to his chest and he griped Angie's waist, shaking it.

"Shut up," he hissed, "can you be quiet, goddamnit?"

Angie giggled and simmered into sharp rasping. "I know what you and the big metal man did!"

Ethan's eyes dilated and he pulled her away, keeping her at arm's length. "What did you say?"

"You heard me," she grinned, thin arms going limp. Ethan was about ready to dropkick her. "I thought you were smart enough to know what comes after a kiss, Winters; more, moremoremoremore!"

"Shut up!"

He throttled her and her head rolled around with shrieking laughter. Whoever he had sorely attempted to eavesdrop on came flashing around the corner at the sound of their dispute. Donna put out her fine fingers in a gesture of begging and Angie ripped herself away from the chagrined man who bundled into himself.

"What are you doing here?" Heisenberg cholericly seethed, his coat billowing with his fierce movement. He collared Ethan. "You can't be down here!"

"I was going home!" the blonde fought. Home. That word, description, held the same weight as the stench of rain; muddy and foreboding. Petrichor made your hair flatten, skin damp, and eyes heavy; proclaiming the factory was a place of love or kinship had a similar effect.

"I should…I should go," Donna quietly excused, shuffling backwards.

"No, Donna," Heisenberg breathed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He folded up his glasses. "Donna, please—"

"We've talked enough for one evening; I really think I should go," she firmed, emphasising her supportive, sisterly nature. Her shivering black figure disbanded, and Heisenberg manhandled and ushered his friend back to the castle.

"What were you talking about?" Ethan asked, oddly ecstatic by a possible mystery. "Is it your plan? Were you ever going to tell—"

"I decided against it just then," he said gravely. Ethan torn himself from Heisenberg's grip and glared. "Look, Ethan, it's not something you—we, even, should be involved in together right now."

The blonde looked as though he had a comeback, but he swallowed his wit and turned his back, mulling aloud, "I know it was against the lady."

Heisenberg grinned. "That's obvious, is it not?"

Ethan pivoted, the metal man taken aback by how quick he'd turned, and their faces leered into each other's. "Then why conspire against someone you're willing to send me back to?" The silver man's lips parted but there was no excuse, so his friend continued in a mocking coo, "don't you care for me? Or is it my mouth you only enjoy?"

Taut by the sardonic gist, Heisenberg resorted to a mild violence, quick. His arms shot out and one hand caught Ethan's whilst the other lightly pinned him by the neck against a frail wall. It shook beneath Ethan's back and Ethan slowly raised his eyes to meet Heisenberg's. The first most physicalness they had since that night, and it held equal tension.

"Go fuck yourself, Ethan Winters," Heisenberg snapped.

"And let you miss out?" Ethan proved he was not wavered by the situation, even when his feet briefly lost their hold on the ground. For an instant, he couldn't breathe quite right, and he kicked Heisenberg's shin—

this better not become our thing

—and his pained wheeze got him put down. Heisenberg's amusement faded and he muttered, "sorry…I-I-I'm not sure what that was…"

"…no, it's fine," Ethan gently laughed. I kinda liked it. "You weren't that rough—"

"I could've been rougher!" he hissed.

There were the edges of a far-off laughter, bleeding through the thin walls and ceiling. Heisenberg, blushing peach, yelled if Donna was lurking but all that came in response was the pattering of fleeing feet. Ethan gripped the cuff of Heisenberg's sleeve, grounding him.

"Uhm—I think you're right," he said lowly. "I should probably sleep in the castle tonight."

"Good idea," they both chorused, scratching the back of their heads, and nodding absently.

An awkward force kept them lingering and, suddenly, Ethan really needed an embrace. His hand got one when Heisenberg held it tenderly, thumbing the back of it as they stumbled. Each step made the blonde feel worse, and he felt a rush of tears spring up in his eyes, the vicious urge to claw at Heisenberg's shirt and beg to be taken home.

"Ethan," he spoke, a new heart behind the name. He continued to clutch at his hand and bought it to his chest, just to feel a vague touch. "Come to me in the morning, please."

Ethan simpered and motioned his head ambiguously. "OK. I promise I will, Kar."

Finally, the eventual hug. It was long and warm, creating a place they wanted to remain in. Needed to. Ethan left a small kiss on Heisenberg's collar bone, as far as he could reach, and their fingers laced once more before the parting.

With his arms wrapped tight around himself, Ethan attempted to retain that same touch. But no matter how much he held himself to it, Heisenberg's scent left him, especially when he was approached by Lady Dimitrescu.

He had barely surfaced for two minutes when she sulked around him, nostrils flaring with some sort of purpose until she caught a certain smell and gagged on it.

"Not the same manthing; how odd," she commented. Her figure melded to the shadows and Ethan was allowed to leave, hurrying away, and missing the moment her large body settled at a table. Her talons gripped for a phone, and she rung, a suspicious glint in her eye, and informed Mother Miranda of her thoughts.

Chapter Twenty-Three; In lilacs she lay

After a while, nothing seemed too frightening anymore.

The winter enclave the valley was encapsulated in became an Eden once the sun rose, falling over the hills and paths with a luscious pink spill. Her skin thawed and eyelashes batted away snowy crust. Legs and back ached the same whilst her fingers didn't wake for a long while, even when she squeezed them under her armpits.

Rose yawned, having paced for a time, well into the morning at least. Every so often, she peered back, her hair making a frosty sound full of snow and ice debris as it rustled over her shoulder. Chris never came for her, and a darker corner of her conscious figured he just didn't care; this provoked all truth that she was just a weapon—a biological weapon. She had embarked on a solo mission and would complete said mission once she found a shard of her father; be that in death or life. Her fingers cinched the ends of Ethan's coat, rubbing the hems and lining and zipper, muttering to herself, "what would Ethan do?"

She came to an eventual circle, having lost all sense of direction back at some steel gates and feared she had trodden the same worn path thrice. Out here, there were only a scattering of smoky roof peaks, their brick facades creaking under a winter's breeze and making her jumpier. Rose ducked below skeletal branches and her sneakers stubbed toes with gravestones. It was just like home, back in New Orleans but here the sky was a heavy, dark grey looming with a few silent cackles of lightening. And no one grieved their losses; she quickly figured there was none more to weep over. Had the whimsical lords feasted on them all?

The small graveyard lacked any sign of life but the writhing snow and soil, as though bodies turned in their grave upon Rose's intrusion. She dusted aside streaks of hair that fell across her face and combed out all the snow, eyes nervously searching around. It was desolate, barren and bane ridden but that was just a sense, not a visual; it looked like any other graveyard. However, when the ground begun to move and wiggle, Rose became alarmed, and the caw of her own scream surprised her. It had been at least twenty-four hours without hearing another human speak and, briefly, she was stunned into a lie that there was someone else around.

Grey, decaying claws grappled for her little ankles and the teenager flailed, helplessly sprawling on the ground. Her heart shot up through her throat and her brain boggled inside her skull, trapping Rose within a daze. Emaciated figures growled atop of her, their drool dampened her parka which she hastily discarded in her efforts of escape. Her fleeing successfully drove her from what her silly mind thought were zombies and her legs flung her far into more foreign territory. In a skittish fashion, Rose dashed left and right before barrelling through a fence when another zombie came crawling up through the ground.

"Shitfuckyou!" she yipped, smashing her foot into its face. Beneath the force of her shoe, its jaw snapped, and teeth clattered. She broke into a crawl, legs having a struggle in retaining a solid footing, and with her elbows, foolishly hurled herself over a fence. Rose was blind to the chasm awaiting to engulf her and she plunged without realising it until—

thump!

In lilacs she fell to lay, skin whitening without the blood beneath it, pooling in rivers through her hair and scalp. Her fair pink lips wheezed a weak wisp into the air, eyes merely registering the height she'd came from. So much blood. She attempted a final stand, shakily rising from her palms. Blood, dribbling thickly. Rose crumpled, uncomfortably, and inhaled a mouthful of snow.

At least they weren't chasing her anymore.

Chapter Twenty-Four; Mmm, tastes good

A promise was a promise and Ethan would keep it. For the restive night he wrestled through, it became the scrap of Heisenberg he conserved against his heart. I will never sleep here again, he knew as he made a hasty exit just as sunlight trickled through rafters. He departed empty-handed, having left clothes at the factory, and a thrilling tumult pounded in his heart and head; a wonderful nausea made his footing sway. He quickened his lumber at every startling scratch of an above footstep. Ethan meticulously plotted his leave when the Dimitrescu residence slumbered. His only caution he remained weary of was Mother Miranda, who lurked in shade, and with each dark turn he plunged himself into was a risky step.

Without encountering Baby, however, Ethan, blonde hair slick and sweaty, clinging to his forehead, finally released a breath of reprieve. Prior tension that had made him slouch lifted, pinching his shoulders upright. He swiped away his hair, once neatly groomed into a suburban cut now shaggily tickling his shoulders, and hauled himself up a ladder suspended down by Heisenberg the previous night.

'blood on her skin'

Music hounded at the tin walls and throbbed in the concrete floors.

'dripping with sin, do it again'

Yet, somehow, the factory's frontal workspace remained gentle, and the lyrics were awfully muffled, as though on purpose not to wake the whole village.

'living dead girl'

The singer slurred his words with a long rasp, stretched each word with the shriek of a guitar chord. Ethan's head unconsciously bobbed to a distant kick-drum, timing the rhythm. He wandered through a thin corridor before opening up to the abrupt descent into a valley of rippling metal and blinking red lights. Steam caressed his face, cold sweats drooling down his neck and under his shirt as he passed through and under arches of a hanging army, seemingly on rest today.

"Kar?" he called out, gingerly approaching the door. It doesn't matter what happened between you and him, Ethan, it's time to forgive and forget—you liked it. "Kar?"

"Mhm?" echoed a grunt.

Ethan perked and his pace changed into a slight skip, peering into a wide metal-shop; the coolest room within the entire factory that wasn't a living space. An aroma of sweet oil and matchsticks greeted him before Heisenberg could, the wielder posed back to Ethan. His arms fought with his hair, flexing brawn beneath a damp singlet, and he glared into a dusty mirror, a weathered hair-tie pinched between teeth grimaced fiercely.

Ethan failed to stifle his laughter, excusing the blush forming on his face and the trembles in his knees.

"What are you laughing at?" Heisenberg seethed, as muffled as his music crackling from the rolling vinyl.

"Nothing," Ethan teased, simmering into a smile. He came over and lightly tapped his shoulder, Heisenberg's hands folded up in his lap out of defeat. He surrendered his hair into Ethan's hands.

"What are you doing down here?" he asked, grumpily as Ethan wiped down the mirror from morning fog. The silver man appeared ruffled and unslept.

Whilst leaning over him to reach a brush, Ethan shrugged and answered, "To clearly brighten your mood, whatever that may be today…" he reeled back and fondled with the brush shyly. "You asked me to come to you this morning…last night, in the tunnels."

Heisenberg's lips made an "O" sound and, as his friend yanked at knots, his hand shot up to grab his. "I shouldn't have asked you to come."

Ethan shook his grip away and continued combing. "Who else is going to do your hair? Besides, what's changed your mind?"

There was no response, them both indulging in an intimate but timid silence. The music paused, sinking into a static hum. Morning noise seeped inside and seemed to sullen Heisenberg more yet whenever he glanced up a little, he saw Ethan's reflection, happily doing something he'd never been taught to do.

"I always wanted to do this with Rose; even before I knew she was a thing—or existed," he told, a faint, faked memory coming to mind. "I had a dream last I slept here; I was on the floor of a dayroom, I think, and I was there all day just playing with blocks and other toys with a baby who didn't really seem to care."

But I had a thought, Kar, and it felt so real; I looked at this girl and thought on her first day of school, I would tie up her hair," Ethan dolefully said. A sad reminiscence panged at his heart. "There, maybe shake your head around, see if it's tight enough—"

"Oh, I think it's tight enough," Heisenberg joked, rubbing at his scalp. He simpered in their blunt moment of amusement before paling, Heisenberg quite literally.

"Kar are you alright?" the blonde fretted, gripping his friend's arms, and felt them tense as they rose, hands covering Heisenberg's face. He groaned, longingly, and a whimper edged his tone. Ethan attempted a more tender touch, but Heisenberg stood quickly, rubbing his neck. "I can't help unless you tell me what's wrong, Kar—"

Heisenberg let loose a sarcastic laugh. "I'd like to see you try."

Ethan frowned. "Excuse me?" He moved towards him with a purposeful stride. "If this has something to do with going against Miranda—Just remember that you tried to get me to help you as a mortal!"

"That was when I didn't feel anything for you, Ethan!" Heisenberg glowered although his delivery expressed as a desperate cry. His friend paused their approach, and he shook with heavy breathes. "I don't think you get how…the difference between then and now, is what I'm trying to say."

"I was dead then and I am dead now; what difference does that make?" Ethan yelled, raising his arms so quickly Heisenberg flinched away. He calmed, retracting into himself. "Shit, Kar—"

"No," the metal wielder stiffened, dejected from that welcome of Ethan's emotion. "No, that's not the difference I worry about; I already said…it's because I care too much for you…just look!" Heisenberg roughly snatched Ethan's wrist, dragging him closer, and yanked up his sleeve. His bare fingers traced the cold indent of a bruise that expanded more the sleeve revealed. Ethan lightly winced at the touch but slowly melted into it, just wanting an embrace—to embrace Kar in the most vulnerable moment.

"They will never stop hurting us, Ethan," Heisenberg whispered. "That's why I need to stop them."

"How about we stop them?" the blonde pleaded. Heisenberg licked his lips and glanced away but the chilled hands of Ethan pulled him back. "Trust me, Kar, I reconsidered your offer the day you saved my ass from Dimitrescu." He smiled, fond of the gentle memory. "That psycho bitch apparently dissembled my daughter and tried to use her for something I can't even remember but I know it's bad…I know it's worth getting hurt to defend for."

When Heisenberg lowered his head, the loose, easy strands of hair the colour of what he wielded dithered and hung, touching Ethan's nose. Their bodies fell together, arms lassoing necks and hands scrunching up hair. A morning of heartache haltingly alleviated, kindling an innocent heat between them. Ethan discovered within those affections he'd been mistaken for what home could be defined as. Maybe he had yet to truly settle on it but, then, it was Heisenberg's chest until the brilliant idea came to his head; a way to lighten the mood.

The vinyl player scratched to life, a tune buzzing until entwining into a melody of hushed singing voices, rising in octaves.

'ooo, it tastes good with the money'

"I didn't mean to burden you," Heisenberg muttered, embarrassed.

Ethan pulled his head away from the hug. "No, burden me…but…" He dug Heisenberg's hands from his pockets and curled their fingers together, squeezing between the knuckles and held successful eye-contact; briefly, Ethan had forgotten the rapture those eyes gave, and so to Heisenberg. "I know you're sad, but maybe we should dance?"

'mmm, it tastes good with the money'

"I'm sure you're a horrible dancer!" Heisenberg exclaimed, laughably. "You're talking to an uncle."

Their feet shuffled out-of-sync, slowly building up evidence behind the man's claim, but Ethan persisted, determination lighting a fight in his eyes.

'and all my faith'

Chests came together, tight, the metal man guided Ethan into a certain state of fluid rhythm.

'it slides right into place'

"You might be the hair dad," Heisenberg begun, smirking to show a pearly glisten of his metal piercing.

"But you're the dance dad, yeah, yeah—I figured," Ethan jeered and took Heisenberg's glasses, pressing them up his own face.

'the air up here so fresh and clean'

He snorted out a chortle when his friend shoved him away with enough force to propel him into a pinwheeling spin.

'people from nowhere'

"You don't even have balance!" Heisenberg goaded, chasing after Ethan's helpless flailing figure, smiling wide.

'make poison everywhere'

His hand glided smoothly to Ethan's lower waist, holding him in a tipped position and the world had never felt more right from a sideways glance. Ethan folded his arms, asking, "do I look cool?"

"Why dance when you don't know how?" the silver man snickered. Ethan readjusted his position, arms limply hung around Heisenberg's neck.

'sketching ruins'

He reeled himself up so their faces were closer and gave a small shrug. "Not sure, maybe I like you?"

Heisenberg's mouth fell into an open joy and his shoulders pinched together with a shuddering chuckle. "Is that right?"

Ethan shrugged again, hooked his arm around Heisenberg and—finally—their lips touched tenderly and melded into a kiss.

'in the darrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrk'

At the edge of the chorus, the song fell into a calamity of vibrant sound and thundered the ground they stood. However, no matter the violence, their ardent embrace of arms, legs and lips prevailed perpetually, just the way they'd wished it to. Briefly, Heisenberg parted, tilting his head so their foreheads and noses still touched, and he felt the aback expression on his friend's face. Ethan hiccupped a laugh and Heisenberg jested, "again?"

"Until the song ends!" Ethan grinned, throwing his head back with more bubbling noises of delight. Heisenberg rolled his eyes and laid his lips on his neck, chin, and face right until their song ended with an instrumental blow.

Chapter Twenty-Five; Her soft icy skin

Evening vanquished the day swiftly, eating away at the sun to allow a misty sheet to sprawl over the downer valley. Heisenberg raised the doors, opening the dense factory space to the vastness of an outside dwelling. Ethan sat contently, cross legged and polishing a bracelet buried like secret treasure in an abandoned trove.

A distant hum came closer, grumbling from a defined throat, and a hand ruffled Ethan's hair out of its careful place; that touch had evolved into something tender. The metal wielder, an odour of wood and steam etched into his skin, plonked beside his newfound love and their knees met as he offered him tea.

"Thank you," Ethan smiled, a giddy warmth lingering between them as Heisenberg rubbed the blonde's lower back. "Did you nap well?"

He shrugged, stretching out his arms before they came around his friend's shoulders. "You almost kicked me off the couch."

They shared a serious look, dissolving into laughter. Their dancing had tumbled into hot and passionate, but the emotional exhaustion wore Ethan to a gentle nap which Heisenberg followed suit. They hadn't meant to sleep for so long, but they slumbered into golden hour. It was warm, it was intimate, it was touching; how it should've begun but, deeply, they were both unbothered by their prior experiences. And that cheeky nature still persisted, penetrating their mature moment when Ethan realised his "tea" was cold. Heisenberg's hand flicked up to the bottom of the mug, liquid sloshing up Ethan's neck and down his shirt.

"Oh, you mutt!" Ethan cried, throwing the remains of water at his friend.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me, metal man!" he launched to grab the man's arms, but Heisenberg was quicker, pinning him against the ground.

"Aw, what about metal lover?" he sing-songed, both grinning like the foolish, struck idiots they had become over the last few hours. Ethan reached around his head and unplucked the hair tie, a shimmering wave of silver obscuring Heisenberg's eyes. He briefly struggled until the blonde swiped the hair away, grabbing his face for another kiss as if their bank of affection hadn't run dry; it honestly wouldn't.

thump

Their kiss rived, Ethan's whining grip of defiance clutching into Heisenberg's arms. His whistle swung against Ethan's tilted chin, Heisenberg grabbing it.

"What did you hear?" the blonde asked, stroking his face.

The metal man's eyebrows cinched together. "Just something muffled, I did leave the vinyl on." He shrugged, satisfied with that conclusion whilst his partner started to clamber to their feet.

"We should check it out—"

"No, no. 'Checking out' weird noises is probably how you ended up in this village in the first place," he tutted, a light but commanding hand on his chest.

Ethan smiled and lowered back accordingly. "So should I just lay here then?"

"Mm, well. That would be nice," he said, voice deepening to the mellowing hum of that night. "We might just end up staying here all the time."

The blonde stretched his arms out and around Heisenberg's neck, fingertips tracing the nap and head cocked to the side. His eyes did an innocent wander as he suggested, "or we could move somewhere comfortable; like the bed—"

"You move fast, blondie!" Heisenberg chuckled loudly, hiding his red face in the crook between Ethan's shoulder and neck.

THUMP!

"Kar!"

The couple's heads shot up and Ethan rolled on to his stomach, bracing himself whilst Heisenberg became his little protective shell, one hand between Ethan's shoulder blades.

"Kar!" Donna wailed, skittering huffing around the corner. A dripping wet Moreau came in tow, flippered feet tripping on the hem of her robes.

"Donna, what's going on?" Ethan answered for the clearly stunned Heisenberg. When greeted with odd looks from the two intruders, the couple quickly adjusted themselves, awkwardly rubbing arms.

Donna licked her lips before gesturing wildly. "No time for questions—if there is a later, Kar, you can tell me—"

"If there is a…Donna, what's going on?" Heisenberg frowned gravely, dour edging his tone.

Too out-of-breath, stolen from the coldening evening, Moreau garbled out, "there has been something! The daughters smell human blood!"

Ethan didn't share the look his friend gave him and instead determinedly yelled, "where?"

They ventured out into the darkening cold. Donna treaded slowly and Heisenberg would sometimes pause and offer her small hand his large one, guiding her over the mounds. Ethan conducted his own path, cotton cap pulled over his ears and lantern swinging and bobbing.

"Rose!" he cried, his echo harking into the endless night.

"Ethan! Ethan! Please be quiet!" Moreau begged, bulbous eyes searching.

Ethan violently swung his hands away and snapped, "you're just as annoying as Donna's bitching puppet!"

"Ethan," Heisenberg gently seethed, coming up beside him with a bump of assurance. His lover sighed and rubbed their chest. "We'll find her."

"How? This place feels so large in the dark," Ethan stifled his sob, legs shaking.

Heisenberg hugged him close before it turned into guidance to the nearest hiding point, Lady Dimitrescu and hag Mother Miranda trudging through the surface of snow like floating lights. They passed very close, and Moreau courageously agreed to lead a distraction to allow his friends' escape. Ethan deemed him brave and, head full of ego, Moreau successfully moved them astray. Heisenberg, struggling to crouch in a confined place between two stones, shuffled uncomfortably as they watched Lady Dimitrescu's light fade.

"Shit!" the metal wielder couldn't help but shriek, plunging into the black void of a shallow chasm. Ethan whirled and Donna reached. They scoured for a safer path and traversed swiftly, descending into a snowed over field, stretching vast along a frozen river.

"I'm fine! I'm fine!" Heisenberg dismissed their help before Ethan yelped with joy at the startling sight of a familiar coat half buried in snow; the tag read Rosemary Winters. They carefully tugged at the hem and, with Heisenberg's strength, withdrew a fair skinned and bloodied body from the sinister and devouring clutches of winter.

"Rose! Rose!" Ethan had become limited to exclaiming and tapped at her soft icy face, puffy and purple from freezing damage.

Moreau's diversion came circling and Heisenberg pried the blonde from his daughter, taking the injured girl into his chest whilst Donna gingerly picked up her cap, fallen and letting her hair flail in the increasing breeze. To Ethan's displeasure, they had to travel quietly and slow to not leave dents in the snow and the hike to the factory grew longer with each harsh slap of the winds.

"This is bad! This is real bad!" the distressed father proclaimed, flustered and losing all sense of composure. "She's bleeding—"

"Here." Heisenberg lightly touched her side once they laid her on a bench cleared by a hasty Donna. He pressed Donna's hands to Rose's mangled hip wound where shards of wood shallowly impaled. "Ethan, there's a clean cupboard of rags, pass me one please."

"Okokok," Ethan wheezed, hands clumsily regarding over the small windows and doors until plucking out a few white rags. With the pressure applied to the wound, Ethan swore he witnessed the tiniest hint of a peachy colour return to her white canvas of flesh. A light seize rippled through Rose's body and her lips parted in a wakening yip, Donna fretting this further to Heisenberg.

"What's going on?" the blonde whimpered.

Donna—

We need to knock her out, Kar.

"No, won't that hurt her?"

Where?

Left, up right.

"Kar, please, tell me what's happening to Rose!"

Green bottle—no, no, the jade one!

What's the bloody difference!?

Donna, please—

"Kar, please tell me!" Ethan raised his voice, hands outstretched in a shaky gesture. The room ceased spinning and Heisenberg collected Ethan into his chest and led him into the bowels of the factory, Rose's whining becoming muffled. In an orange-lit corridor, the couple swayed in a grieving embrace, shuddering, and snagging grips tightening.

"I'm sorry, Ethan," Heisenberg whispered. "She'll be OK, we just need medicine—"

"Where can we get it?" he asked lowly, his trembles relieving. Heisenberg didn't answer for a long time. "I know she can't stay here forever, Kar; I don't want her getting hurt."

Heisenberg withdrew and held Ethan by the shoulders. "Ethan, I'm not letting them lay a single hair on either you or Rose. They won't come within a breath's metre of you, alright?"

His tone was alight with vengeance, or at least an impending violence; a hard promise.

"We're going to go back in there now, but I need you—and I know it's hard—to stay calm and hold Rose's hand." Ethan nodded; chin caught in Heisenberg's grasp. "I'll ask Donna to get something from the castle—"

"But that's dangerous!"

"She cares just as much as I do and that's a lot, blondie. She can handle herself; you need to be here beside Rose," he explained gently, a rougher hand moving to caress his face. He grew shy and bowed his head slightly, fingers fiddling with the loose strings of Ethan's shirt. "Can you sleep here tonight, please?"

"I was thinking the same thing," Ethan said, their hands curling around each other's.

Chapter Twenty-Six; Calm down Redfield

"You need to breathe, Redfield."

"She's fucking dead!"

"Chris."

Static. The refreshing nosies of a struggling city, the valley of which laid just outside the caller's windows.

"Chris, you were following orders—"

"You're orders! Admit you were wrong, Kennedy."

A frown, crinkling skin that, despite their age, had not yet cracked.

"Shit, I'm sorry. I need a moment to breathe."

"I doubt she is dead, Redfield. Tell me what you saw."

"Her fall off a fucking cliff. We're here right now knee deep in snow and can't even find an imprint..." Pause. "We haven't lost her if that's what you're thinking, Kennedy."

"No, I believe you, Chris. However, this might work in our favour."

"Kennedy, be careful—"

"Shut up and just listen. Rose is missing. I'll work on an incident report and deem her dead."

A silence of consideration. "Won't you need photos?"

"Yes. Rose is still alive, Chris. Remember whenever she grazed a knee? What would she do?"

Chris pondered, and the caller heard his smile. "Swear and get back up."

"A little fall has never hurt this one. Find her and fake photos; this is her ticket out of here, understand?"

"Yes, sir."

The caller smirked. "I still don't like that name."

"We'll get there, eventually."

Their face fell blank. Every time, they inch closer to apology but then disperse, cartwheeling back to square one. "Well, before then, I suggest you get searching, Redfield."

"Sure. Good...?"

"Oh, so you care what time it is now?" The caller jested. "Goodnight, Chris."

"Goodnight."

Chris already felt lighter. He just needed to shrug away the burden of finding the most likely dead girl. He would start with the castle, lit like a blazing lantern.

Chapter Twenty-Seven; The caring kind of betrayal

Rose remained within the unforgiving clutches of a deep, painful sleep. Ethan tediously watched over her for a day and half an evening, no breaks to eat or breathe. He lamented aloud once that when they first laid eyes on her corpse in the snow, it was difficult to believe...to grasp that was his little Winters, his little girl. The only real connection he could muster was the pang that felt instinctual, a shrilling thrill from his toes to skull. It screamed guilt, abhorrence and passion. Without hearing her voice, witnessing an awkward skip in her steps, or seeing her wipe her nose a lot more fiercely than necessary, Ethan would be unsure if Rosemary was his daughter; those traits were his...they had to be hers too, right?

Heisenberg hadn't long given up on Ethan yet—he wasn't capable of such a weakness. Blondie, his blondie, so frail and pale beneath the miserable hanging light swaying over the almost-dead girl. At least they'd moved her to a couch but that was more so for Ethan's sake so he could kneel on carpet instead of wood; the floors had bruised his knees and, if under different circumstances, Heisenberg would've joked he was jealous.

When the third dawn was merely upon the factory with a flush of pink light, Heisenberg emerged from his bedroom to search for the warmth he once laid beside. His warmth was found in a lingering state, swaying like long thin grass in a breeze.

"She's getting conscious, Kar," Ethan whispered without glancing to see whose presence had joined his in the room. Heisenberg's hot skin pressed against and through Ethan's shirt, the ardor sprawling to his chest in a pleading hug.

He pressed a kiss into his blonde hair. "Please rest—"

"I can't!" Ethan cried, shuddering and his pent-up impatience bled out along his face in the colour of a fierce red. Heisenberg pursed his lips, feeling the infliction of his frustration; Donna was sent a day ago and had not returned successful, only with news that it was difficult to get into the medicine cabinet at Lady Dimitrescu's. Once, as Ethan had heard, there was a man, a Duke...The Duke, who wandered the village with a carriage enchanted with whatever one needed. He had vanished long ago, and Donna had repined this before she set out on her first attempt. Ethan wished this Duke still existed.

Ethan fretted how quick the days were passing but in the dim of the living space, filled with the gentle, struggling breaths of Rose, Heisenberg soothed him with a hand on the back of his neck.

"I will go in tonight...I hate how you feel, blondie..." Heisenberg bit his tongue in fear his words would be repented or how he had phrased his words; he cared so much but, whenever he went to verbalise his feelings, there was still a barrier between them. Alas, Ethan remained silent, head crashing onto Heisenberg's chest.

"Just let me go, Kar—"

"No!" He said a little too loudly.

"Why not?" Ethan hissed back before reconsidering his tone. He relaxed and rubbed his palms together, eyes flicking between Rose and Heisenberg. "Haven't they hurt you enough, Kar?"

Heisenberg's eyes casted downward, unwilling to show those shameful colours of torment and other anguishes that had bleached his past. He cupped Ethan's hand on his cheek, thumbing his knuckles still scratched up from hauling Rose in from the snow. Heisenberg refocussed himself on the teenager—God, too young to be here. He narrowed his eyes, wanting to know what she saw...what hurt her or, the scarier important thought, what Mother Miranda wanted from her. Despite being the black sheep, Karl Heisenberg was wiser than those above him; he knew Ethan Winters would always be the more powerful figure...how did a century of planning miss that fact?

"Kar?" Ethan prod, poking his ribs with an elbow.

"Mm?" He turned, recognising the hesitance on his friend's face with the additional crimson of withheld anger. He sighed, shoulders slumping but not yet in defeat; he would fight for his right to leave tonight and help Rose. "You need to sleep, blondie. One of us needs to go in and it can't be someone half out of their wits."

He witnessed a small rebellion in Ethan, clenching up his fists and teeth squeezing down on his bottom lip. He muttered something about getting water but didn't move until Heisenberg had disappeared into his room for shoes and a shirt. Ethan reached out and tapped Rose's head.

"It's alright kid, leave this up to this dad," he whispered, a quick glance to Heisenberg's doorway where a light flickered on. His eyes remained trained there as he shuffled to the kitchenette, hand fumbling for the glass jug of water and a cup. From two days of watching, Ethan knew off-by-heart the place Rose's sedatives were kept, having given them to her once. The cupboard creaked quietly, and Ethan cringed. However, in that moment of tensed stillness, he reconsidered his plan; he wouldn't rely on water to drug Heisenberg—

Jesus Christ, that sounded awful...I'm sorry Kar.

Carefully, he slipped the odd pill under his tongue and threw aside reluctance. He forced a sense of purpose into his stride and leaned into the room, Heisenberg on the edge of his bed tying his heavy boots. When he rose, he found Ethan hovering before him. He hugged him around the waist and Ethan lowered to his lap, embracing kindly. Innocence masked true intention, even when their bodies briefly parted, faces grazing and noses nudging. Chins tilted and lips fused. Heisenberg felt remorse, thinking how awful his descent into the basement would be soon; he was unbeknownst to the pill, flicked through his mouth when their tongues met. Ethan drew away, quickly brushing his tongue of the dissolving remnants on his sleeve and raised his chin at Heisenberg who experienced an instant effect, consciousness dwindled and slipping.

"I'm so sorry," Ethan breathed, laying the metal man down as a paralysis enveloped his limbs and twitching face. He griped the blonde's wrist, a rough snatch that weakened and felt ultimately useless. A horrendous guilt ripped through Ethan followed by the exertion of leaving. He managed to depart with a dim light and wet eyes, frightened for the aftermath of Rose's recovery; his daughter might be fine, but his new relationship creaked on thin ice.

Chapter Twenty-Eight; The startling realisation

In the wake of Mother Miranda's scrutiny and warning, the Beneviento residence remained unheard of in the castle, even when dinner was served. In a quaint corner of her rickety, looming abode, Donna Beneviento swayed in a rocking chair on rugged carpet and childishly dented the wallpaper behind. Angie limply slumped like the lifeless doll she became without her master's control—or that's what some believed—and, unconsciously, Donna stroked her little wedding dressed figure. Her absent gaze flittered the barren scape of white, specks and dustings sometimes obscuring the view but she chose to not move...she was afraid she might cry.

A little bobbing light seared through the gloom, thrice face-planting in mounds of snow and Donna perked, Angie lolling in her lap like a disgruntled cat, roused too early from its slumber. Her faint facial features, as elegant as her surrounding dolls, creased gently and she rose from the rocking chair, shuffling to the front door.

Originally, there was no soul to welcome; as there shouldn't be considering the recent Miranda imposed rules. She waited, Angie, the forever selfish malice, whinging at the wind.

"Hang on, I know I saw something!" Donna exclaimed, the cool breeze hitting the roof of her mouth unpleasantly. The wobbling light arose from snowy depths and staggered to her feet. A lantern shattered into pointy fragments and the beholder briefly caught alight.

"Shit, shit, shit!" Ethan Winters cussed, desperately drowning his hand in the cold. Donna stood and watched, dumbfounded by his mere presence until he properly greeted her and came inside. "I didn't know how to get to you through the tunnels!"

"You still shouldn't have been out so late!" She fretted, gripping at her hair like the metal man did to himself; their sisterly/brotherly bond expressed its true colours through frustrations at Ethan. "What if someone saw you?"

"No one did," he heartened, touching her hands. "I just...I just really need your help, please. I think I fucked up—"

"Where's Kar?" She alarmingly noticed, head flinging around; he wasn't hard to miss. Ethan slunk into his shoulders at the remembrance of poisoning Heisenberg.

"Asleep..." he paused and rubbed a hand through his hair, baring his teeth. "Very asleep."

Donna cocked her head and made a sweet little sound of realisation which quickly turned into disgust, Ethan nodding as way of confession. Her eyes narrowed in a ponder and body language suggested she was closing in at the mere thought of returning to the castle. She drooped her head.

"I'm sorry that I could not bring Rose any medicine," she lamented, a cool hint to her tone. Donna's slender fingers groped at her arms and Ethan approached cautiously, asking if she were alright as she was overwhelmed with a sudden fragility. "They yelled at me each time I was caught...it just got worse..."

"Did they hurt you?" Ethan asked with a mild concern burning up his throat.

She shook her head, loose hair flailing over her face. "We need Kar, Ethan! He's big and brave! We need Kar!" She appeared angry, the red blush of her skin flashing fiercely at him. "But if you've done something to him—"

"I didn't hurt him, Donna. I just didn't want him to go in!" He gently snapped but more to himself.

"I know you wouldn't! I might not know exactly but I have an idea of what you two are to each other...I just don't get why you would deflect him trying to help," Donna exasperated, gesturing her hands. OK, it was very clear now; Donna was mad. She had every right to be if it was at me.

Ethan couldn't help but take himself to a corner and brace his body against the wall, forehead lightly tapping it. Stupidstupidstupid. His friend...his metal lover...was just trying to help but Ethan's humanness, his ichor, persisted over what was steely and brave. In actuality, he should've allowed Heisenberg to go.

But, I suppose that's love. I hope it's the love you feel, Kar.

He breathed heavily. Donna rubbed his forearm, a silent forgiveness—no, understanding manifesting between them. He fell into her comfort, and she agreed what he did was stupid but expected.

"Of me or—"

"Of liking someone." She folded her hands behind her back and flicked her head to the basement steps; Ethan could hear the faint caw of Baby. "Now, come on."

"Donna, you don't have to," Ethan said slowly, taking chary steps.

"No, I think I should. At least to show you."

Dank and dark was not the most desirable combination however it was better than the bleary drear of a damp medicine room. Donna informed Ethan of what he figured; the lords had long since discarded "human" medicine as they used fungi and the like to patch up cuts and bullets holes and—oh, you know—stab wounds to the heart. Ethan's fingers were charred within ten minutes of being there, his candle smothered by the thick drab and quickly resorted to Donna's keen eyesight.

A peal of skittering glass told them they were standing right outside the answer to Rose's abrasions. Donna knelt into an unsuspecting puddle of liquid and felt for a particular texture.

"They last caught me here, red-handed with rubbing alcohol," she whispered, the whites of her eyes peering up at the blonde, his face engulfed mostly into dense shadow. The outline of his chin flashed when he nodded and reached to haul her up steadily. "If I'm correct—could you light a match please?"

Ethan struck the coarse side of the box, flame licking down the wood viciously as Donna tinkered with a chain. "How much noise can we make down here?"

She looked at him, startled. "Depends on what you're thinking of doing...Oh, I don't like that smile, Ethan!"

He shrugged and tapped two fingers to the cabinet's glass face, feeling creases of age and mold. At the ginger touch of it, Ethan became aware of his lordly senses; his passionate days had long smudged those out. He knew they would be no use then but, listlessly, his flesh became a sponge and soaked up the lining of fungus. It encased his worn fingertips and the red dashes on his knuckles, new skin spiderwebbing over scabs. Donna's eyes dilated, enthused by the sight.

"Talk about a mold killer," Ethan whispered, and his friend got the jest, curbing her giggles. "Remind me to tell Kar about that."

"After you two make up," she suggested. He frowned at her, and she continued, "don't think he'll take to what you did lightly, Ethan...he even gets angry at me sometimes."

Ethan smirked to her surprise and curled a firm grip around the rusted chain restraining the cabinet. "Well, if it's his usual anger—" he grunted and yanked, the decayed metal snapping with a dull screech "—I'm certain I will not only be able to handle it but enjoy it as well."

Expectedly, the joke went over Donna's head, leaving her lips parted and eyes blinking. Ethan couldn't bring himself to explaining it because, as he unlatched the medicine and held the weathered bottles in his hands, he knew how much he would have to tell Rose when she woke up. Donna rejoiced with a small skip, Ethan grabbing the crook of her bent arm to prevent her from slipping but, using the same hold on her, shoved her to the ground as a violent buzz shrieked nearby.

Oh shit. Oh great. Oh fan-fucking-tastic! We have company.

"Ethan? Ethan, what do you hear?" Donna clutched at his pant's leg, voice ablaze with fear. Ethan, the medicine tucked into his shirt, unraveled the numerous indigo and blue bottles onto the floor with gentle clinks.

"Stay on the ground and don't get up unless I either say so or am taken from the room," he instructed, hoping his tone held similar intensity to Heisenberg's; to feel as shielded and safe. "And take these! Take these to Rose, please."

"Ethan!" Donna rasped, clutching the meds to her chest but a spare, outstretched hand grazing his. "Ethan, please—"

"I won't let them hurt you!" He promised, although it rippled with fright.

He ushered her with his feet beneath a clothed table he priorly blindly stubbed a toe and winded himself on. She obediently did so as the buzzing loudened. Ethan's readiness to fight was momentarily struck by the abruptness of an undiscerning light force, penetrating the gloom harshly. His bodily reflex was an ultimate downfall, arms raising to block out the upper corridor's glare, hence unable to save his fall when ambushed. The sisters' snarling sniggers nipped at his skin and tussled his footing. Ethan's head smacked—

THUMP!

—the edge of a table, rivers of hot blood snaking down the leg and onto Donna's hand. She quickly withdrew and witnessed just the tips of Ethan's toes kick and scramble for escape before dragged away upstairs. He was bought like a bandit by guards to a King, but this King was a nine-foot bloodless skinned woman, wielding a sorrowful scowl and hands poised around a drawn waist. Her lips caked with red colour flicked up in the corners and she bent to be eye-level.

"Well, I haven't seen you for a while, Ethan Winters," crackled the hag-form of Mother Miranda, seemingly emerging from Lady Dimitrescu's skirts. Bela and Cassandra shoved Ethan to his knees, Daniela withdrawing from violence. Miranda reached and snagged Ethan's chin, nostrils flaring like Dimitrescu's once had; she shared a similar reaction.

"What are you doing, manthing?" Dimitrescu interrogated. "We've missed you, dearly."

"I had a headache..." he refrained from stuttering, grabbing his lips with his teeth. "I-I was looking for painkillers."

Dimitrescu straightened and Miranda raised her chin; her eyes held the same allurement as her natural form. "Then I suppose, Alcina, you should offer Winters a bed for the night; it's such a hike to the factory!"

Ethan struggled not to question their knowledge of his relationship and bit down harder on his tongue, graciously taking the offer. Their, the ladies', leering glances pursed Ethan up the tight stairwell to his room still in ruins, and, all throughout the night, the sisters took turns guarding and pacing. He huddled in a corner and rocked back and forth, muttering, I really fucked up, Heisenberg.

Chapter Twenty-Nine; A little Ethan Winters

He woke, eyes tearing open and awful aches panging up and along his spine. Nerves dithered in his feet and blood gushed through his veins to bring him an eventual breath of air. Karl Heisenberg rose like a dead man, defying gravity as he stumbled from the bed and clutched at a dresser.

"Ethan," he groggily yelled, sounding too much like his fish-faced moron of a brother. "Ethan—please! Come back!"

Clasped in the hot, clammy hands of fever and horrific dizziness, the floor reached for his face but he quickly pulled back. As much as he refuted, he had to shut his eyes and keep out all the alluring hallucinations.

You're in your bedroom, not space—stop floating! Ground yourself! Ground your-fucking-self or your little blondie is going to get hurt!

He groaned, slurring the sound but the eventual return of non-double vision simmered his worries and his feet fell flat into the carpet. "Fuck, Ethan. What did you do to me?" He lolled his head around until it cracked and did the same with the muscle of his shoulders. With his body set back in place, he was aware enough to hear the skittered clatter faintly come through his closed door.

Shit—the kid. It couldn't be though, right?

He stalked, rubbing his scratchy beard unconsciously, and mulled lowly over what he was to do. Was he—was he allowed to hit a child? Like, what if she attacked, he meant? Holy shit, I don't know how to handle children! We're not allowed to drop-kick babies but what if they bite me? Can I at least push a teenager?—breathe, Heisenberg, breathe.

He poked open his door. The single peep of squeaking hinges inspired a thunderous crash and it propelled him out and yelling for peace, hands raised. The couch was bare, Rose seemingly vanished from the sheets and cushions; gone and no longer looking horribly pale. That meant she was somewhere, still here, looking pink and alive, weary and afraid...dangerous. Heisenberg stood slowly, palms visible to display he was unarmed, and he circled, eyes tracing the room until laying upon where his bedroom door—which swung outwards—had struck the wall; it wasn't touching anything. It took only Heisenberg one small step before the door flicked back, Rose poised wide with a silver pistol raised and a bloody nose.

Heisenberg smiled although, instantly, he felt like the monster that had just crawled from beneath her bed. "Good morning Rose—"

BANG!

"Ah!" She cried, trembling fingers attempting to retain a grip on the hot gun.

"You shoot like your father!" Heisenberg laughed, having caught the bullet inches from his ear. He deflected it into the bit of wall behind her, splintering the plaster. "Anyway, I don't think he'd like you having that gun."

"Stay back!" She hissed, flicking hair from her face to remain tough. God, it was such an Ethan thing to do! How cute. "Are you the fish one? Or the tall one?"

"The what one?" He frowned, hand still outstretched for the weapon. He reconsidered. "I hope I'm the tall one—"

"Shutup!" She warned, watching how heavy of offence he took. "No—sorry, don't but I need to think."

Heisenberg folded his arms, speaking whilst his eyes searched for a sign of metal on her, "no, no, it's fine. You're father stutters too—take your time, sweetheart."

Rose's guard wavered, shoulders ceased their shaking and big wide, young eyes crinkled. "My father?"

"Yeah, blondie," he said, raising his chin. Found it, upper left ear was something silver and shiny, curled around the top to the lobe. It would hurt but he was taking anything to get her off her feet.

"How—how do you know him—HEY!"

She became suspended in the air, expectedly whining about the telekinetic pull on her ear and grappled for invisible hands.

"OK, first thing about being an adult, kid. You strike me as the type who wants to be one so I will treat you like one!" Heisenberg said, giddy he might've figured out how to handle children. "Firstly, you introduce yourself so, hello, I'm the metal one! And considerably tall one because that nine-foot bitch cheated."

Secondly, drop the gun. Go on, drop it, please. When your father isn't around, it's uncle Heisenberg in charge and uncle Heisenberg says drop the gun Rose, now."

Her face conveyed a severe abackness and she obeyed, dropping the pistol and raising her empty hands. Heisenberg kicked the weapon away, and, with one hand concentrated on Rose, the other reached and lifted the gun on top of the higher cupboards. Satisfied, he glanced to her.

"Good. We cool, kid?" He asked kindly. She nodded before dropping onto the couch, legs flailing and her landing clunky. She suddenly did a wild spin, patting down her lien shirt. "What's wrong?"

"Dad's jacket—where is it?"

"I think he's got it. It was bought back don't worry—oh, no," Heisenberg said lowly. He came toward her slowly and leaned over her. "You're bleeding again."

"Am I?"

"Yeah. We think it's infected," he explained from the opposite side of the room.

"My nose?"

"No, you're nose is fine. It's your stomach, did you nick something on the way down?" He asked, feeling more confident in his abilities now that she was awake. However, it was hard to understand what she needed when she was too shy to speak. "Rose?"

Heisenberg unintentionally glared, but softened his eyes when he saw her, not only doubled over and wincing, but the petrified dilation of her face and lips uttering something close to a scream. He peered into the corridor, finally hearing the encroaching slaps of moist feet and frantic taps of a doll-maker's shoes. Great—let's bring the whole fucking circus to the infant of this village!

"Kar!" Donna cawed, a scarlet tint to her tone that instantly made Rose gravely unwelcome. "Kar—!"

"Your boyfriend did something dumb," Moreau finished, being the first to the enter the room. Rose shivered in their mere presence although they seemed preoccupied on upbraiding Heisenberg.

"I know," Heisenberg replied, narrow eyed and sullen. "I just don't know what because he knocked me out!" His gaze slipped to the west most corner and he remembered the child. "Oh, and, everyone, Rose. Rose, Aunty Donna and fish-fu—"

"Karl," Donna said, her tone softening whilst her words scolded. She then whispered, "I don't think we're allowed to swear around it."

"I'm not an it," Rose firmed, standing with wobbly footing. Heisenberg's arms yet again went out to catch her whilst she denied any aid. "I'm fine...just stay over there and maybe—oh, I don't know—if you're not going to kill me at least tell me where the fuck I am!"

Haha, kid's first time swearing, Heisenberg's dadish mind sniggered.

"Well, sweetheart, papa did something bad," Heisenberg said bluntly. Donna caught a fierce glint to his expression, the heat rising to his skin. She knew he'd be mad but it was Ethan doing something for his daughter...there had to be some sort of forgiveness there.

"Here, we bought you medicine," Donna interrupted, her brittle fingers stretching out over a familiar, invisible barrier. "You have to take—"

"Thank you, you seem like the more logical one here so instead of giving me medicine can you tell me where my father is?" Rose raised her voice, hand still clutched at her waist. She had established her stubbornness and Heisenberg caved in fear she wouldn't help herself if she didn't get the answer. However, he didn't even know himself and that rage morphed to a sharp fear.

"Actually, I'd like to know that too," he asked, leaning on the couch's arm. Rose inched away to gesture they were not yet friends. Donna didn't fear her brother, it was more so Moreau who cowered but Heisenberg suspected correctly Moreau came since Donna needed backup—they needed backup for whatever they were about to do.

"He's still in the castle," she explained, weary eyes on Rose. The sight of the child bought a darker shade of guilt to her already blushing face. "Ethan saved me, he put me under a table and he didn't come back downstairs."

Heisenberg's jaw twitched, and he turned his head sideways, flexing a pointed jaw under distant factory lights.

"The castle? Is that the tall one?" Rose perked, nudging Heisenberg's elbow.

Without looking, he nodded. "Yeah, the super-sized bitch."

"Kar," Donna whined.

"What? I'm mad; I'm allowed to swear a little!" He snapped before his body unraveled and his ruffled persona withered into a long sigh. "We need to go get him."

Moreau blubbered forward, "what about Rose?"

Heisenberg marched to the other side of the room and snatched up his hammer and coat, laid restive against the wall. "She stays here—"

"Over my father's dead body I will!" She hissed, teeth clapping together. She stifled a groan, diminishing her anguish into a little whimper. "Just pass me some painkillers and I'll be fine, I swear."

Heisenberg tilted his chin and flicked his hand to Moreau. "Give her a piggyback in the tunnels, she'll only slow us down otherwise."

"Kar, you can't be serious!" Donna flailed, a quiet Angie on her shoulder like a parrot. Rose smiled largely, feeling a little less paralysed by fear.

"Deadly serious, my love," he said with a smirk, thumbing the brim of his hat.

Chapter Thirty; Vinegar tea

Immured to the ruins of a shredded bedroom, Ethan's only act of protest was refusing food, water and the sisters' persistent nagging for him to sleep. Within a prison, he remained in one corner and adapted to something he wasn't sure he had done before; meditate. However, relaxation didn't come easy for within two hours of crossing his legs and humming softly, an anxious harlequin and ivory toned mold seeped and secreted from his shadow, tainting the walls and ceiling with blight. He came to realise the more he freaked out about it, the deeper the mold stained and vaster spread it ate. Frustrated sobs bubbled up in his chest and fear lowered him into a crouched huddle, begging for comforting company—

Kar! Kar, where are you?

Lady Dimitrescu found the blonde in his flustered state and unconsciously restrained a laugh, a deeper part of her feeling pity.

"I don't know what's happening," he quavered to the unidentifiable presence in the room. "I don't fucking know what' going on with me! Am I turning into you?"

She scrutinised him, tapping a talon to his shoulder which shivered with sobs.

"I don't want to be a monster," Ethan whispered, hands gripping at his hair. "Please let me go home."

"And where is home, Ethan Winters?" Dimitrescu questioned, a suggestion of hilarity to her voice. She broke into a slow, agitating pace around the hunched mess of tears and pleads. "Is it just a place you fantasise of? Or is it with someone you fantasise about? Because either way, you understand they aren't real—"

"Shut up! Shut up!" He nearly screamed, knees falling flat on the ground. He finally saw the tray of teacups she bought in but did not yet pay mind to it.

"Rumours spread easily in small spaces, Ethan. I'd be careful of that," she explained with a grin, feeling unthreatened by his red, ruddy face. Even more so when he yelped at the onslaught of searing skin, groping at his shirt to reveal the mold biting at him. "Is that why you needed the medicine, Ethan?"

He glanced up at her, momentarily vulnerable to telling the truth but bit down on his honesty. "Yes. Yes it is."

She straightened up and reached for a cup of tea, handing it to him when he chose to stand. "I don't suppose Heisenberg had anything to do with this, unless you know about...?"

"About what? What's in the tea?" He smelt the tinge of a harsh taste, burning his nose and triggering distant alarm bells. "Heisenberg had nothing to do with this...I'm sure of it—"

"Oh, Ethan! Don't go making me feel bad for you!" She chortled, a hand over her painted lips. Ethan furrowed his brows, contemplating lips pressed to the edge of the china. "Just drink the tea, darling. Mother Miranda wishes to speak to you in the courtroom and we can't have you acting out, can we?"

He glowered but the mold took on the same fierceness as a rash and, with the little aid of Dimitrescu's delicate tap to the mug's bottom, gulped down the scalding liquid. His abilities subsided almost instantly, and he regained a physicality to his personality.

"You are an interesting case, Ethan," Dimitrescu told him as they glided downstairs, her shoulders relieved when the space gaped into the exposed breadth of the library. "It appears to me—Heisenberg might've had enough wits to inform you this himself—that your abilities are uncanny like...no thanks to that garbage fool."

Ethan dwelled too hard on what Heisenberg had done to the point guilt surfaced as a hot flush of tears, dribbling down his face. He wavered, creeping behind the woman to clear his face and, with a tight throat, entered the courtroom. In her moonlit stance, Mother Miranda received Ethan and interrogated him with soft, drawn touches, tracing from shoulder to wrist and circled him. The three sisters remained quiet in presence, Ethan only sighting them from the corner of his unmoving eyes; Miranda's touch had laid a paralysing trance on him.

"I hope you have not crossed us, Ethan Winters," Mother Miranda warned gravely, her godly physic igniting an angsty prickle down his spine. "That would be a great loss on our behalf. But, clearly, I see your honesty has prevailed all."

She pivoted, moving so fluidly she floated, and speared a glare at Dimitrescu.

"Tell me to return when he actually has something to say, Alcina."

Dimitrescu failed to cry out in time before Miranda swept into a flurry of feathers and wind, whisking into thin air. Ethan stumbled from his trance, alarmed by the closeness of a curious Daniela, who quickly sidelined when Bela and Cassandra piped up.

"He's lying, mother!" Bela crowed in ways of comfort.

"I'm not," Ethan whispered, finding it suddenly hard to speak against the swelling in his throat. That tea...what was in that tea?

"Look at him! Dripping in guilt! We can wrench it out of him," Cassandra crudely remarked, rubbing her nails together to convey a sense of nonchalantness. Yet, her eagerness poked holes in such a facade when Dimitrescu defeatedly nodded and her children cartwheeled at him.

Ethan started pinwheeling to a window but the latch was solid with rust, no matter the pulls and grunts. He resorted to pounding his foot at the glass but to no avail, he was swept into the air and thrown to the concrete floor. An abrupt sickness incased his already ill-wounded body and he seized where he crumpled, choking for aid or relief. The black robed girls parted and allowed their mother entry, where she crooned upon the blonde, foaming at his mouth.

"We know how men lie, manthing. Don't think you can cunningly get through us!" She rasped, throatily laughing in a more bellowing contrast to Bela and Cassandra's cackles. Daniela remained small, tucked in a corner and only watched. "Look at you! I almost feel bad for putting vinegar in your tea because now your blood will taste awfully stale!"

She reared back in sync with the flashes of a snowstorm in which a saviour marched through, the name Ethan keep shrieking in his mind whilst sprawled on the floor, hot vile in his throat and hungry violence leering close.

Chapter Thirty-One; Redfield's impending carnage

To say it was a bewilderment would've underrated the problem Chris faced…more so stood in the middle of, mouth agape like a bumbling fool and fingers flexed like his veiny neck.

"Base isn't going to believe this," his woman friend and Tundra to the Hound Wolf Squad, Emily, commented. She posed in waiting, like the rest, for even just the smallest order. Their Alpha stood paralyzed with incredulity, breathing hard and grip shaking around the phone. She touched his hand and shook her head, her comrades agreeing that calling Kennedy now would not change anything.

"I don't understand," he finally snarled, jaw wiggling tightly and his posture becoming jaunt. "Ethan wandered into the heart of that bitch Miranda and smite her…was that not supposed to work?!"

His squadron cowered, confused on who this new Chris Redfield was.

"We need to make a move now, sir," Canine Dion explained, firmer than the rest despite his rank. Chris broke into a pace, agitating the impatience they all endured. "Sir—"

"Can't a man think for a damn minute?" Chris roared, hands rubbing through his short hair and then scraping his chin. His lips pursed; eyes locked yet again on the standing castle which he swore he watched tumble into oblivion. He squinted, as if trying to see through all those walls and penetrate the chambers, searching with bloodlust for signs of life. They weren't that far off now; give or take another half-hour and they'd be pounding on the front gate.

He was at a fork in the road; to know or remain oblivious. Rose might've been dragged there, nails scraping and head flailing in an effort to escape. Fuck, that was so wrong of me. Should've, could've, would've, the trio of words rushed cruelly through his mind.

Should've listened to Kennedy.

Could've protected Rosemary Winters from BSAA'S clutches.

Would've been in a healthy, happy relationship. Hell, even marriage!

Chris Redfield wouldn't have been standing there, in the snowy mounds whilst his team crouched uncomfortably; their legs bent and curled, minds alight with the possibilities of BSAA getting them in big trouble. Come on, Redfield, make the damn decision.

His shoulders rolled back, the brawn of hard-earned muscle rippling beneath his coat and the tactile gear strapped over his heart wheezed at his stretch. His normal, more casual demeanor returned, and he pivoted gently, fingers raised in demanding direction. "We continue North, lest any of you have better ideas."

They eagerly pounced up at the opportunity to move and the Alpha led his pack into the thick and violent decent of the village meant to be dead.

Chapter Thirty-Two; The penny drops

Enervated from a timeless period of torture vaguely stained in his memory, Ethan attempted to contend the seductive clasps of unconsciousness and pressed his palms into the ground, rising on his elbows until he was propped on his knees. His head lolled back, skin touched by moonlight and bleached by sickness. The only one left in the room was Daniela, he'd known of her being there since her sisters left. Groaning through bloodied lips, he weakly asked, "what do you want from me?"

She pattered over, a curious aura highlighting her sincere innocence. "Did you drink the tea mother gave you before?"

Ethan moaned, pained and tired, his eyes shutting.

"I'm only trying to help," her velvet tones spoke, illustrating her as a visage in his mind. He nodded. "It was vinegar, Ethan. You're going to feel very sick."

He yawned, stifling a gag at the pure mentioning of vinegar. Through the lucid vision of fluttering eyes, he witnessed his hands decay, crumpling to merely nothing until Daniela soothingly took them in hers.

"Try to think of something nice," she suggested, her dark lips parting into a tender smile.

"Why are you helping me?" He begged, nasally from his awfully sore nose. Within a blink, she'd vanished and a new presence replenished the silence; a lanky girl, jeans a pale blue and coat a familiar beige or khaki, he honestly couldn't tell. The teenager approached and held his face in cold hands.

"Hi dad," she whispered hoarsely. His eyes dilated and the best simper he could achieve lit up his happiness.

"Rosemary," he wheezed, clutching to feel her hair that slithered like silk along his fingers and skin like a child's. "I'm so sorry!"

"No! Dad! No! It's OK!" She wept back, pulling in for a hug a little too tight. "Why are you sorry?"

He hiccuped and shook his head into her shoulder. "I should've let Kar do this...I should've let him come here so I could've been there when you woke up!"

Limpness. Unresponsive. Rose had frozen like a quick spreading ice and her voice held the same bitterness. "So you confess?"

"Huh?" Ethan broke their hug, throwing himself onto scrabbling elbows when Rose rotted into a wretched skin.

"You confess to being a bad, bad man?!" She wailed, voice twisted into abated wheezes until smoothing. Mother Miranda, slicked skin and grandly dressed, her pretending done so well and real. "How could you lie, Ethan Winters? You're one of us!"

"No, I'm not!" He shrieked, teeth snapping viciously. Vigour returned with a harsh clash of adrenaline and gave him the will to stand and squeeze his knuckles. "I, like Heisenberg and Donna, will never be like you—"

"You don't know who you speak of!" Miranda impinged, booming vocals trembling the ground they stood on. Ethan did not waver. "Alike you, they do not have hearts. Heisenberg runs on steam and gasoline, Donna her ability to believe someone cares, that gilled freak thrives on power above him, and Dimitrescu...well, she needs blood! Those are not hearts, Ethan, those are desires and you too function off one."

He grinned, sheepishness vanishing into the darker pits of his subconscious where he shoved aside all his pains too. "Oh yeah?"

"Very, and your desire happens to be mine too; your daughter—"

"She's not my desire, she's my daughter you psycho bitch! Whatever you want to take from her, take from me!" He attested, desperately as a wind billowed through windows and swept his hair over his face. He persevered their showdown with a grim look from beneath fallen strains of hair, eyes shrouded in shadow. "I am made of mold and flesh, and most of all I have a heart so if you want to get to Rose, you come through me!"

Mother Miranda smiled, amused by what Ethan Winters believed in; a little thing called hope and he had indulged too much in it, coupled with lies and avoided truths. "Tell me, Ethan Winters, where is your heart?"

The dim of the courtroom hushed over them, the rafters creaking with an audience of hounding Lycans, and stained glass windows filtering in indigo light. Ethan could see his breath before him as he thought, touching his chest where there was once a rhythm. He gasped, and saw where that important organ had been evoked to; she fondled it, gored and thumping, in her hands. She raised it high, letting the moon spear it.

"You are weak!" She cried. "Murdered by yourself and others, for what cause and only to return to the limbo that is here! Give in, Winters, you are a Lord!"

"I am not!" He screamed, buckling with the ferocity of such a sound. Something within him fell out of place; someone had lied to him. "I'm...not a Lord...I know I'm not..."

The goddess took his chin and held his lips near hers. "You were made by one of us—" her hand plunged through his flesh and bone, grasping at the blood and tendons of his chest before finding the mechanical heart "—you are not flesh and bone, Ethan. You are but another toy crafted by the metal wielder!"

The Lycans' choir grew violent with howls when the mechanical heart was unveiled to them; made of wood, screws, cogs, and whistles...just like his new hand.

"You were never individual, you are us! We've always known but oh was it fun to keep you in the dark!" She chortled as Ethan uttered uselessly, just like the first time, his chest gapping and gushing gore spluttering on the floor. "But, my dear, I have seen how you and Heisenberg's love abandoned truth. He is a dreamer, don't you know that? One who refuses to face truth even in the direst of situations."

Ethan collapsed with a wheeze, not matter his strong fight, and shook his head. "That's not true!"

"And now the man who died thrice will beg for his life unless he sees my mercy!" Mother Miranda declared, toying with the little, struggling heart, pumping its last breaths. "Beg, go on—"

"Stop!" Ethan shuddered, the courtroom face-planting into silence. He shot out a hand and kept himself upright, frail and shaken. "I will not beg for my life."

"But look at your tears! You want to, so badly, Ethan Winters!" She crooned, dancing around his huddled wreck of a body, much like her daughter earlier. "You sob and weep at the simplest of welts and now you can't help but give in! Make it easy, give in!"

"No!"

Kar, please, where are you?

"Let yourself die or become a free lord, the choice is simple."

Kar, I'm sorry for what I did. Just take care of Rose, please.

"I suppose you are weak enough and I could make the choice for you."

Shit, I'm so sorry. I've fucked everything up.

"Oh, come on! I'm sure you've always known, darkly, you were one of us!"

Don't be mad at me, please! You can but I think—

"Don't be pathetic, you're making us impatient."

—I love you.

"Ah, what a guest we have here!" Rose stepped from behind the metal man, a clutch on his sleeve for support but when he moved into the courtroom, she remained a few safe paces behind. "My, two guests! What a delight!"

Heisenberg glided quietly, Mother Miranda watchful waiting and made no effort to intervene when he knelt and held Ethan by the ears. Tearful eyes met those of dry and hard ice before a pair tore away and lips became a weapon. Ethan's hearing thinned into a shrilling ring, bouncing in his skull as the world took his remaining life and Heisenberg yelled to fight.

It stopped when Heisenberg allowed Ethan to hear again and he fell into the arms of his daughter.

"Oh, Rose, is that you?" He gingerly asked, struggling to pull his jacket around his chest so she didn't have to see the hole. She gave him a confused frown whilst Heisenberg loomed with his hammer over his shoulder.

"We'll be taking him now, Miranda," he proclaimed, eyes peering over glasses. She nodded slowly before revealing the heart to him but too quick for him to save it from being crumpled beneath her smiting abilities. Heisenberg bewailed, fervour burning in his eyes and aching in his heart. His face scrunched and god did he want to fight; rain down a bloody violence so abhorrent the love struck Ethan would cower and withdraw his confession. But the chance was done for him when a bullet slugged through the largest window and shattered Mother Miranda's chest, her arms splaying.

"Heisenberg, we have to go!" Rose called over the sudden anarchy thundering from the rafters and the distant reveal of Lady Dimitrescu. She sobbed forth, cradling the woman she cared so dearly for. "Heisenberg!"

"Heisenberg!" Dimitrescu bit, harsher than Rose's. The metal man finally discarded his graphic intentions and abated from his screeching sister. He hauled Ethan, still and mouth agape, into his chest and felt a tinge of relief when he felt fingers clutch the collar of his shirt.

"Come on, Rose," he shouted, ushering her with a light kick to the shins.

Chapter Thirty-Three; A crossing of paths

Chris triumphed with the winning shot; the one to pin right through Mother Miranda's chest. His feet hit the ground in a dead-sprint, covering the bare distance from sniper to castle, squadron's backs hitting the outer wall and sliding along it. Lycans flung themselves through glass at the mere scent of boiling human blood and sweat without taking the moment to soak in anguish. It transformed into a vicious ambush, but Chris bore no witness to it, instantly abandoning his team at the glimpse of flurry blonde hair, peeking from the crook of a heavily coated arm.

Ethan-Fucking-Winters. You're alive?

His body jolted to a halt, refusing to go beyond a boundary between new and old world. Frightened if he slipped another pace forward, he wouldn't return home, even when he spotted Rose, twisting around last minute and locking eyes.

"Ethan!" Chris bellowed, hands cupped over his mouth and seemingly invincible to damage inflicted by the raging Lycans.

The big bastard clutching the blonde whirled, coat billowing with the force of his turn and he gently gave an ambiguous gesture before they were swept into a courtyard. Chris teetered along, gripping the ivory gates to see a black-robed figure—of womanly build—beckon her friends into the dark throat of a tunnel. Due to the unlit nature below, Chris's squints became useless, and he chose to come forth.

"Rose!" he cawed but she had vanished. He must've been a startling sight for the woman lingering behind leapt and dived inside; she made this world seem so vivid, as if Chris was an apparition unable to speak and only fright. "Rose! Please, come out—"

Small feet broke through the snowy ground, padding fiercely in a beeline. He was unable to recognize what it was before being tackled, getting an eventual grip on the doll, and throttling it. It cackled and gouged at his eyes reminding him of a horror-movie he foolishly chose to watch when a teenager. He cussed the nuisance, but she proved persistent until a Lycan lunged between, separating their snowy squabble. Chris sprawled on his back, having taken a rough clip to the jaw and his conscious lolled. Ears thudding and everything muffling.

Fuck, Redfield, get up!

"Come on," he grunted, unsteadily raising on his elbows, and realized how he had crushed the puppet who gave small rises in her chest. Mournfully, he spotted that Rose had escaped him, Ethan carried off with her and he punched the ground, yelling out and further attracting more Lycan attentions.

Chapter Thirty-Four; The fourth revival of Ethan Winters

The world buzzed with questions Heisenberg did not yet have the answers for. It was originally instigated by Donna, the doll-maker who remained in the cold outside the tunnels, frenzied with the loss of Angie.

"Where did Angie go, Kar? Where is she?" She fretted, boisterous and shivering. She felt so selfish when her eyes lurked on Ethan, his body wrapped in Heisenberg's coat. Moreau shared quiet condolences, more troubled by their friend's sudden passing than his mother's—idol's—injury, still cajoling in the distance. Rose's hands griped Heisenberg's arm, eventually clambering back onto the blistering, squelching back of Moreau, who held her carefully and asked if she felt alright.

"Just a little faint is all," she responded, petting his slimy forehead.

"You are very kind, Rosemary," he smiled.

Their forming friendship was pierced by Heisenberg's shoulder shuddering sob as he crumpled, Ethan spilling out from his arms loose and eyes stilled. Donna consolidated him with a hug and squeeze around the shoulders, her glance to the gloomy daughter and blubbering brother conveyed she or they could do nothing else.

"Come on blondie," Heisenberg whispered before pressing his lips to Ethan's cold sweating forehead. "Just give my hand a squeeze, as tight as you can, please."

The starkness of a painful memory icily gripped his heart and strangled him; the time he made Ethan that special hand. In a balmy place, alone and close. He recalled that estranged touch of intimacy and it was that afternoon that became the first of many he loved Ethan, properly. Clutching Heisenberg's hand which he shook excitedly.

"Please, please, Ethan," he implored. "Come back, please just fucking come back!"

His trio of friends loomed in leer, waiting for him to give-in. He held Ethan's neck in one hand, the other in his hair, stroking and tugging, hoping for that little flinch he did. He poked him in all the places that made him laugh; shook his shoulders that made his eyes jostle; and, as a last resort despite his firm non-belief in fairytales, laid a kiss on his mouth. Alas, there was no warmth in or out, a simple shell without a husky wind—

Wait.

The shallowness. A rise in his chest, so struggled and determined. He held his ear against his beaten chest, eyes alight with hope. Rose was above Heisenberg, clutching something tiny and brittle. He understood immediately what she showed him and quickly stood, gesturing for his friends to follow. They ran with a desperate pace, feet scuffing and muddling, and the ascent to the lab was hasty, almost dropping the body. Moreau dispersed from them to get water from a well while Donna fetched more medicine for Rose who refused to acknowledge her exhaustion.

On a bench she once sprawled on—like father like daughter—Rose assisted in placing Ethan on. But there, where hope and light graced him, Ethan ceased breathing and Heisenberg's head crashed into his hands. Pent up acrimony blustered from him, muffled into his arms and Rose panicked.

"No! He had a pulse just a minute ago!" She reassured and reached across the table, hitting Heisenberg. "Hey! Can't you do something—"

"No! I can't!" He whined, shaking his hands, and grappling at his hair, last tied up by Ethan; he feared if he took it out, he'd never have something of his blondie to hold onto again. "No, not this time."

"Why not?" Rose yelled, giving a great flailing gesture. She retrieved the item that inspired such short-lived ambition down in the tunnels; the remnants of a slow, breathing mechanism. The heart Heisenberg took in his palms, an invention he had not felt for three years. The girl hovered her hand over it. "Heisenberg, if you did this once, you could do it again—"

"I can't," he sobbed dryly, "because when this was first made, I didn't know if it would work or not and he was stronger than..." his head hung, swaying limply, "...I didn't love him—it didn't matter as much as it does now."

Rose understood it with the weirdest depth but maybe just not personally. Instead, she had witnessed it between Chris and a stranger, how one can do something in the past to their friend but then, a few years later and with deeper affections, everything just gets harder. You care more, that's simply it. This metal manic in front of her humanised within seconds, just by showing her his wet eyes and the full weight of who they both cared for, right there between them, bought her head down in a sullen bow.

"You probably never did this for me but, thank you," she said quietly, thumbing the cold palm of her father's hand. It was only at her following words did Heisenberg realise what she spoke was for him to hear and indulge in. "You let me see him again. You rose him from the dead, you Frankenstein wannabe."

Heisenberg snorted, telling yet again she was her father's girl; he was certain once Ethan had said something similar. "I want him to see more of you, Rose. He's missed...so much."

Rose only nodded, biting her lower lip in ponder. "I think you can repair this, Heisenberg. I think you can bring my dad back—"

"Please, it's Kar, kid. Kar," he reminded, fondling with the shattered heart in his hand; the weight, the texture, the workings were so delicate. How the fuck am I going to do this without hurting you, Ethan?

"Ok then, Kar." Rose looked up, squaring him in the eye. "Can you help my dad?"

Heisenberg released his pursed lips and glanced to his work benches. "Yes, yes I can."

Chapter Thirty-Five; Her Lady brews

Mother Miranda had crystalized, drawing herself into a fast and rooted slumber at what Lady Dimitrescu considered the "worst-time-possible". Without her charge, her magnificent lead, how would they balance all the uprising from that old garbage man's factory? And now, with the additional perpetrators intruding from the outside in search of Miranda's Rose, Dimitrescu feared another failsafe would have to be pulled; she dreaded the outcome.

Her daughters were of no assistance, three emotionally struck bumblers in her castle's dwelling, teetering around her shadow, especially Cassandra. Poor dear Cassandra, Daniel and Bela lamented. The favorite to pick at like Dimitrescu's talons did to meat. They just had to stay silent and aware, obedient, and afraid; hopefully their mother would soon come around. Dimitrescu brewed behind a window overlooking the courtroom where a sudden gunfire thundered on them and now their bullet-ridden walls wheezed in winter air, making the Lycans cause a stir. She pondered where that man leading the foreign charge vanished off to; perhaps he dragged his bloody face and limbs off into his grave—God did Dimitrescu laugh at that. His squadron nowhere to be seen and she could only wish her little Lycan friends, swayed to her bidding when Mother Miranda was conscious, devoured them as she thought and mulled on a way to bring down their prior master.

Mother was right! That inferior heighted man had always brewed on something…something to tear my family apart. Why, now it is my chance to brew, conspire against you!

She withdrew herself from her little windowsill and laid bare fingers on the sleeping skin of Mother Miranda, stroking it fondly with a light crinkle in her face when she sensed her daughters' presence; they despised seeing their mother mourn. Thankfully, when Dimitrescu turned, it was not to upbraid rather announce and ignite a housefire's worth of tenacity.

"Mother Miranda vowed to return at full force soon for she was weak when the bullet struck but it was apparently what she required!" She smiled, brightly, and felt compelled to raise her arms in a grand gesture. "So when she does awaken, we must be prepared to serve yet again but this time with more specialty!"

"And how do we do that, mother?" Daniela dared to inquire, her mental state afar from being afraid of Dimitrescu's reign.

The Lady's expression only widened. "We understand Heisenberg is harboring the human child but let us not strike for a few nights; I wish to brew for eventually, Ethan Winters will make an awful mistake—I sense he is the type to do so, after all."

Especially with his new little infatuation.

Chapter Thirty-Six; The night is over

The configuration of such a mechanism was a delicate procedure which carried sleeplessly into the dawn and left a shallow paralysis in Heisenberg's lower spine. He stretched, and aided Rose in fixing the heart in the cavity it came from.

"So, difficult question; how in the hell does this work?" Rose asked, her frown digging trenches on her forehead.

Heisenberg smiled. "The short explanation is the one I gave to your father when he lost his hand; his mold creates stems—believe it or not, papa is stronger than us, he is just a little..." he mulled. "...not trained so well but these stems need a case."

"Hm. Without a case, it's like the body without skin?" Rose attempted.

"Yes, almost but let's stick with that. In the end it just works—

hopefully

—and the mold stems will create whatever they need. The heart is more fragile than a hand, you see; the hand can be left untreated but the heart, like a brain or lung, cannot."

The final step was an electric defibrillator, but one that sent stronger pulses, a machine that could easily fry a human-heart and was made like an Einsteinen device; copper bolts and golden and iron casing. Seemingly satisfied, Rose's curiosity faded to concern, and Heisenberg helped her sleep—sorry Ethan, I drugged her tea—and settled in a watcher's position, overlooking the succession of his invention which became delayed well into daylight, when Donna and Moreau had long retired. And the first movement Heisenberg brushed off for being a trick of the eye; his eyelids bore heaviness and head sluggishness. It took Ethan to perform a body-wide spasm, which to him struck his nose with the punch of revived mortality, and a loud crack of bones.

"Holy shit!" Heisenberg shrieked, taking one long leap. Rose surfaced from her groggy fraught and nearly lost her footing coming over. She slapped her hands on the table and waited, both eager for another seizure. It came and passed, Heisenberg prompting Ethan's conscious with a gentle shoulder shake.

"Is it—is it even working right?" Rose said, struggling for a pulse.

Heisenberg laid his ear to his chest, feeling a ripple of past remorse lift from him and gave her a thumbs up at the sweet sounds, badum, badum, badum, badum. It's working! More startlingly was the sudden light slap Heisenberg got to the face, quickly apologised with a gentler tap. He grabbed his hand, sighing out heavily, but passed Ethan's waking hand to Rose's.

"Dad? Dad—"

Ethan choked and bashed a fist to his chest, heaving in gulps of air, steam and all the scents he cherished. Predictably, his hand tore from Rose's and arms flung around Heisenberg's neck, lassoing tight. He held so frightfully and dear, he nearly thumped off the table hadn't of been for Heisenberg's support, bringing him back up.

"Fucking hell, blondie. You gave me a fright!" Heisenberg wept happily, dampening Ethan's quivering shoulder.

"I thought I was fucking gone! Imsosorry Imsosorry!" he whispered for his hoarse throat would allow not an octave higher. Regrettably, he broke their embrace and fondly glanced at the new face in the room, her presence abroadly familiar. Sunder dithered through him, and he tenderly grabbed her face, squishing and pinching the baby-fat yet to dissolve into adulthood.

"Oh, it's you...oh, it's you! Thank God, it's you!" He exulted vibrantly, hugging her too suddenly. She laid her arms around him and coddled, letting him clutch at her hair. "Imsosorry, imsosorry."

"Dad, it's fine," she said, surprised by herself how comfortable that name rolled off the tongue. Heisenberg rubbed Ethan's ower back, reverently smiling, and Rose took the gesture and parted the hug, teary eyed out of joy.

"Would you mind getting him some water, please?" Heisenberg gently asked of her to Ethan's dismay. Rose diligently went off, navigating easily though she slowed her pace, feeling the couple's need to converse.

Alone with his friend, Ethan sat with his assistance and laughed, "I need to look after you when you're sick for once."

Heisenberg's smile remained unchanged, and he stroked Ethan's face, the blonde falling into the touch, pretending to be oblivious to the hurt he endured upon Heisenberg.

"Why didn't you tell me?" He finally asked, touching his chest once empty now full.

"I wanted you to feel normal...to keep you alive," Heisenberg lamented. He felt at ease enough to let down his hair and shaggily scruff it, allowing Ethan the pleasure as well. "You needed the heart as I couldn't find the one Miranda took from you."

A withering quiet fell heavily onto them, dulling the passion and a subtle depression emerged. Ethan feared he could not touch Heisenberg, withdrawing his arms in a fold and clearing his throat. "Thank you for looking after her," he said, flicking his head to the doorway his daughter had disappeared down.

I wish it were you instead, Heisenberg wanted to say but to be angry at Ethan felt so...wrong. Right then, all he wanted more was to forget the whole drugging incident and just hold him but, suddenly, a barrier reared between. It thickened with each passing second Ethan withheld his true apology and Heisenberg swallowed his emotion, appearing blunt when Rose toddled back in. She broke the ice, inspiring laughter when Ethan struggled to swallow such cold water and it came dribbling down his chin, Heisenberg quick to dab it up. Their warm normality should've returned there when the night blew over, but that evening lingered like muddy storm clouds, refusing to rain until thunder struck. Neither wanted to be thunder.

Chapter Thirty-Seven; Capture

Fuck me, where am I now?

Chris Redfield's morning was dull and grey, eyes fluttering, and head encased within a groggy haze. With his weak consciousness pinned against the unknown, a great confusion made the hairs on the back of his neck erect and his knees—when he felt them—tremble.

Holy shit, where am I?

He racked what felt like a seemingly fried excuse for a brain and realized it would be best to firstly open his eyes and greet whatever visual lay before him. Iron bars, a rotting ceiling, and moist hay padding his back. He groaned, a pulsing headache dizzying his vague movements as he groped in the dimly lit space of winter sun and found hold on the brick wall. On his feet, Chris discovered he was not alone.

"Not you, please not you," he grumbled to the dormant looking doll. Angie sneered at him.

"The feeling is mutual."

"Just sh, sh, sh," he hushed, flailing a hand. He hadn't felt this much of a headache since his last hang-over…whenever that was. "I need to…I need to fucking think—wait, what the hell are you?"

Angie shrugged and swung her legs childishly off the ledge of the dungeon bench. "Donna made me but I'm a doll." She grinned. "Or maybe I'm the annoying little voice that doesn't really exist but I'm there, right in the back of your head."

Chris glowered, blinking slowly. When the fuck did it not be about zombies? At least they didn't have the mental capacity to fuck with you…mostly.

"Anyway, you messed up; you took a stupid tumble and bought me down with you!" she explained in a seething tone, clearly pissed, before finding interest in scratching her little porcelain nails on the wood. Chris did a wild pat down of himself, struggling to comprehend where his gun, let alone holster went. "I wouldn't bother, they probably took—"

"Who is they?" he nearly shouted but quietened under her stern look. "Do you know where my team is?"

"Firstly, the big lady who owns this castle and secondly…" she shrugged.

Chris's jaw tightened and he internally yelled, Goddamnit! However, he willed himself into a state of composure and breathed, inhaling and exhaling heavily.

"Can you at least tell me where Ethan or Rose are?" he managed as politely as possible. "Or, why you are still here."

Angie blinked, Chris taken aback thinking it was not possible for such a thing of her to do. "I'm still here because Mother Miranda had a failsafe—" Chris's face melted together with wrinkles and crinkles, mouth parting slightly "—but I don't suppose you big men made of brawn would've figured that."

In his hulking coat, Chris crumpled into a crouch and rubbed his hands over his face, drained and exhausted and this new information burdening him more. "Of course, she did—fuck! Shit." Now Rose was in serious danger and he had been demeaned to a little bird inside a stupid cage.

"You know, I don't get one thing," the doll said, a hint of tease edging her tone.

"What?" he grunted, his chest boiling up like a kettle.

"You knew she would be in danger here but here she is, running around freely."

Chris looked up. "What are you trying to say?"

Angie flicked her eyes away, longingly wishing Donna would come and intervene. Chris, left hanging, fumbled over her words, and ultimately came to the offense; you're an idiot, Chris. He decided to take his anger upon the bars, shaking them and demanding to speak with whichever fungus-motherfucker stuck him in there. The response came as a violent Lycan stopped before any real bloodshed could puddle onto the floors; it was then Chris Redfield came face-to-face with Lady Dimitrescu and, as she dragged him from the dungeon, through his struggle he couldn't help but think why the fuck couldn't you get fucking zombies, Ethan?!

Angie didn't see Chris for a while.

Chapter Thirty-Eight; A little bit of parenting

Upon a warming morning, or at least one Ethan could find his legs on—the numbness of death took a while to burn away—he came down to Rose in the factory's valley, tinkering around a mildly disgruntled Heisenberg. To allow "papa" some rest, the metal man distracted Rose with all the things against Ethan's fatherliness; just the casual sharp, pointy steel rods that could easily gouge out an eye with one wrong swing…or…you know…killer-fucking-drill-motherfuckers!

At least during those early hours of the day, when they soaked in sunlight, flittered through the high-skylight, Ethan wandered there without the bustling and rustling of Heisenberg trying to keep Rose's new injury a secret. It had been maybe a day and a bit, but the teenager had sustained a pricked finger, grazed knees and elbows and palms, fractured a finger, and maybe shredded up her chin but those latter two Heisenberg refused to take responsibility for. The room—an enclave of black and grey metal, curving skywards into magnificent, slouched arches with cathedral-sized windows, billowing over the outside haze of white and blue, just visible were grey wisps of eaten trees but without the view of any landscape, the factory was capable of manifesting it's own ecosystem…Ethan was breath-taken every time, knowing how hand-made most of what he saw was. But the place presently held a certain bliss to it, a family-loving environment forming without any words but also the underlying brooding clouding on Heisenberg's face.

"Since papa is here, I need to go get something—can you make sure she doesn't try and make friends with the drill again, please?" he asked of Ethan and, after a stretch, hesitated from kissing his forehead, resorting to a ruffle of Ethan's hair. An outgrown fringe tumbled over his eyebrows, and he blew it away, Rose giggling as she polished a random item, cross-legged on a musty cushion clinging loosely to a metal chair. Her eyes were so focused on what she fiddled with, she missed Ethan's longing gaze after the silvery man, pursing him into an alcove where he lingered and stroked some wires, side-eying the father and daughter.

"He's funny," Rose finally said, penetrating their tension. Ethan turned and decided to come crouch beside her, Rose comfortably bumping her father until he fell flat on his tailbone. "Crude but funny."

"That's one way to put it," he murmured, grinning. An unsettled quiet writhed between them, unwelcome and not quite wanting to be there but their subtle awkwardness made it stay. Without some sort of incident…a danger…a threat…Ethan flattened and became a little blunt, having great difficulty in deciding what to say. "Did—uh—who was it…"

Rose glanced to him, witnessing the anguish of a struggling man. Where his temples burnt, he touched, hoping to cool the pain away, until he recongised a woman's face.

"Did she take care of you?" he managed, giving a simper. He felt a little blue, a sinking pit gapping in his stomach and it swallowed all his current happiness. Rose shared a similar expression and hauled her knees into her chest.

"It doesn't really matter now but she didn't do much. It was more so a he…or two hes though I can't really remember," she explained, her tone absent of emotion and, when it had a hint of colour to it, she didn't appear sad. "Kar explained to me last night you might not remember much…I thought, kinda selfishly, that meant you wouldn't remember me, but I figured it was Mia you really wouldn't."

Ethan nodded vaguely, Mia Winters leaving a sour taste on his tongue; there was love but also hate, a harm in their affections. The feeling begun to haunt him, like a reminder whatever was between them wasn't normal…right…it wasn't like what he had with Heisenberg, no matter how limited their time had been. Mia Winters, a few scars on his brain and heart, rang a dour shrill in his mind.

"Where is Mia?" he asked gently, expecting the impending answer.

"Mum isn't with us anymore," Rose told him, languid but with a grim edge to her tone; regret and anger which split into a smile. "But, you know, it's funny. That wasn't as hard as I thought it would be to tell you."

Ethan frowned, sensing Rose wasn't as attached as she should've been to such a past and wanted to pry a little, feeling as though he had some sort of right to understand more. Instead, he said, "I don't think we were on good terms, Mia and I…but you don't really need to hear that. I think I remember Chris more than her."

Rose lit up at that name and her fists braced. "He is the best. Sorry dad, but he was a pretty good dad."

I think I told him to be.

"I'm sure he was," Ethan assured, smiling softly, and fiddled with the item Rose was rubbing; a flat copper piece, coated in glass to hold all the cog-innards. "Does…does he still—ah, what was it—him and his subtle—"

"Alcoholism, oh yeah. You bet, its hilarious!" she laughed, wailing out a wonderful noise brimming with cheer and her head went rearing back, jaw almost breaking. "Just not as bad as his smoking."

Ethan chuckled, hand against his faintly sore chest. "God, I remember that! He tended to stink of cigarettes and was so fit."

Rose wiped a little tear from her eye. "Oh, finally someone who agrees. But we shouldn't slag him off—"

"Wait," her father interrupted. He got a hunch about something. "He didn't let you smoke, did he?" The teenager's eyes blew wide, and she stifled a smile. "Rosemary Winters," he slurred, shaking his head.

"What? You should see the world out there!" She yelled petulantly before calming at Ethan's not-so-disappointed expression. "You're not mad?"

He pursed his lips and ambiguously wiggled his head. "Mmm, I think I need to have a word with Chris." Rose mimicked his humming noise until he bought forth the burning question searing annoyingly at the back of his head, however he feared to ask it. "Speaking of, did he bring you here?"

She shrugged. "Yes, but it was more a birthday present…you seem cool, dad, so don't get mad at me when I say this, but I got a little impatient."

Ethan tilted his head while she contemplated something. "Rose, you don't have to say anything now—"

"Oh, thank god, because you definitely would've been mad at me!" she breathed, hand on her chest to emphasize her drama.

Ethan let it pass but held on to the ends of his troubled thoughts, promising to bring it up at a not so fragile time; for now, he just wanted to enjoy his daughter's presence. Just a little while longer couldn't hurt. Rose flicked her head in the alcove's direction where Heisenberg appeared to be finishing whatever he was doing. Her fair hair settled, and she combed her fingers through the streaks of a multitude of blonde, platinum and silver; like Ethan's when he was a teenager. "Looks like you've found someone."

Ethan smirked and glanced over his shoulder as Heisenberg approached, busy with dusting away soot from his hands. His expression wrinkled with a severeness.

"Yeah," he cooed before going pink in the face.

"He seems…" she paused, "…he seems metally."

"Is that even a word?" Ethan pondered. Rose giggled with a dismissive hand gesture which quickly dropped to clutch the edges of her seat as the metal chair quivered, the atoms bending to the will of Heisenberg's flexed palm.

"Sorry, kid," he drawled, bending a little to see if what he searched for was there. Rose became suspended in mid-air, her trembling figure contrasted to her amused wide eyes. Ethan leapt to his feet, bumbling when Heisenberg interrupted, "don't worry, papa, she's safe. Look! She's got some solid balance!"

He swung his hand, Rose holding on tighter and tighter as the chair shot up and down the large valley of thin steam spurting from pipes and other metal. His fingers twisted, spinning the chair for a circling landing, the legs clattering down unsteadily.

"Kar!" Ethan laughed, slapping his forearm. "Kar, put her down gently—WOAH!"

The ventilation plate he wobbly stood on shivered and hovered, raising higher and higher, and Ethan floated with a little bit of fear.

"Alright, blondie, your turn!" Heisenberg called, Rose coming by his side.

"Balance, dad! Balance!" She shouted, then softly to the bearded man, "he's done this before, right?"

"Oh, yeah, for sure," he nodded, somewhat of a devilish flash of teeth at Ethan. In that split second, the blonde worried this was his revenge. He knelt, wooden fingers crunching the sides whilst his flesh hand reached for a railing of a nearby balcony, and he steadied himself. Below, Heisenberg paced over and, hands on hips, looked up.

Ethan gave him the bird. "Fuck you, Kar. Put me down," he hissed.

A waver of disappointment rippled over his face. "Just trying to replicate the old days, blondie. No mean to get worked up."

Ethan lightly frowned, his knees shaking but a jest came to mind, and he was lucky his daughter was oblivious when he spoke it, "we both know how we can do that, and it doesn't involve floating rather a pack of nails."

Heisenberg's jaw did a wiggle, resting in a challenged smile and he lowered Ethan but ultimately slid the plate from beneath his feet and caught him, setting him down.

"Glad you trust me, blondie," he rasped, dripping with greasy sarcasm.

He then discarded all previous intentions, although they lingered there in promise, and pivoted to Rose, remarking cheekily about her father's cowardliness, and then suggested she go hang out with Donna for a while; she's in the front room. Oddly, Heisenberg went with her, a leer shot over his shoulder at Ethan.

Chapter Thirty-Nine; Getting Even

Nothing really happened until the night like all good things did. The daylight dwindled quickly, Ethan supposed an actual winter had fallen upon them, but he had remained in the comforting dark of Heisenberg's bedroom for most of the sun-time, his damaged body demanding rest. Aside the thoughts of Lady Dimitrescu's storm brewing in the distance, Ethan only woke thrice.

Once to the startling, sharp clang of someone tumbling with a clumsy attempt to stop down a metal ramp. It made him spring too quickly to his feet, but his brief peak through the blinds proved it was only Heisenberg, Rose being nowhere in sight for hours. The second wakening was when the metal man carefully lumbered into bed, his skin etched with a freshly bathed scent of palm oil, but the deeply engrained perfume of his workshop rooted in his hair, nestled into the crook between Ethan's jaw and neck. In the dim, Ethan couldn't see how Heisenberg held him yet their heat bled from body to body, soothing the tension of muscle aches and that dull agony pounding in his heart. He was lulled into slumber, welcomed with a false sense of serenity in the sinister clutches of a hallucination, conjured by the mere edges of an evoked memory—

crouched in a pit of writhing black mold, sinking his feet into small jaws but with large teeth. Within his arms he held life, the only brightness buried in the dank pit. A pink infant clenched to his chest, reaching up tiny hands to bat his face. He felt at such a loss, exerted and the ground coming up to him. He just had to glance skyward, feeling the encroachment of another force, bringing in its wake a pact of harm—Mother Miranda and her decaying mouth unhinged and shrieking, "Evelineeeeeeee!"

No!

He was unsure whether he cried or screamed but this was his third awakening. Erected upright, wrists held to his chest and a shake seizing through him. Heisenberg stirred, groggy and faintly amidst the realm of consciousness but out he stretched, hands ready to caress. After a lantern was lit, the lovers sat, Heisenberg's back against the bedhead and Ethan slumped in his chest. The stroking hair touch grounded the blonde, a reminder of where and who he laid with; it exalted a protective shield, keeping them in the backwards embrace. Even the vaguest detail of what he'd witnessed behind closed eyes Ethan couldn't speak of as it grew too thick in his throat despite Heisenberg's gentle prying.

"Kar, where's my real heart?" he asked, raising his voice as much as he dared over Heisenberg's question; not for Rose's sake, who slept four rooms West, but to stop Heisenberg's muttering. "My old one, I mean."

With his fore and middle finger, Heisenberg traced the trail of Ethan's waist and middle of his chest. He pressed lightly and whispered hoarsely, "your heart is in your head; that's something I will never let Miranda take from you, Ethan." A low threat festered, and his fingers continued up to Ethan's chin, tilting it back, an absent plot forming behind his eyes. There was proclamation present in what he had told Ethan, but another emotion lay dormant, boiling to the skin—

don't think he'll take to what you did lightly, Ethan

—and those blatant eyes made intentions transparent, hardening until they appeared like pearls of ice. The hold on his chin drew their lips close, barely touching but moving firmly, deepening as faces stuck together. Ethan was reminded of Heisenberg's other hand, which poised around his waist, thumb flicking at his clothes before disappearing under, Ethan's body sliding up his chest, away from the touch.

"Kar!" I don't know how to do this. "Kar!"

He paralyzed, neck creating an arch-like shape, and legs unconsciously squeezed together. Heisenberg ceased all movement, gingerly swiping Ethan's flailing hair from his face so he could just see it, angled and gapping. Small sounds shivered out his throat, unbeknown to such a touch until he realized Heisenberg was waiting. Ethan managed a nod and his thighs dithered into relax, casually flinching as the metal man's palming grew rougher.

"I'm mad, Ethan," Heisenberg growled against the back of Ethan's neck, running his piercing from the nape to the beginning of his jaw. He lifted to his ear, "I'm just not sure how to say it without you understanding how I felt."

His hand curled around Ethan's lower—ah, ah, he-ah—a stroke and further teasing. The blonde's head flicked back, so starved, so unknown to a feeling like this. Sweat dampened along a sheen of his collarbones and forehead, panting lightly. Those useless hands that originally fell limp were bought to life by another sensation, Heisenberg's grip flicking quicker, up and down, and groped for a hold, finding solace in Heisenberg's hair and the other wrinkling the sheets.

"Do you know how I felt, Ethan?" he chided, the scratch of his beard rubbing along Ethan's shoulder and neck, laying biting kisses. He laughed when Ethan pulled at his hair, the blonde letting loose a rugged breath. Heisenberg untangled his fingers, bringing Ethan's wrist to his teeth and talking to it, "come on, have a guess."

Ah, ah, ah. "Mm-mm," Ethan shook his head, confining his breathless sounds loudening too much for his liking. Why was he so loud?

"Do you like it when I touch you there?" Heisenberg asked, fingers briefly slipping further. He evoked a violent flinch, only relaxed when the fierceness of such a touch withdrew back to strokes and brushes. Ethan's head lolled wildly. "Come on, don't make me ask again for you to use your words—"

"I can't!" Ethan confessed, moans quickly trickling out after his words and he could no longer stop them. Faster, faster, faster.

"See? Do you feel that blondie?" Heisenberg rasped without waiting for an answer; his point came to light. "You're helpless, can't speak, can't do anything! It's how I fucking felt!"

He sunk the hidden canines of his front most teeth shallowly into Ethan's shoulder, to enjoy the speechlessness. The blonde's head crumpled to the side until Heisenberg stopped and he breathed, "fuck—I'm sorry!"

Heisenberg slowly smiled and found all the right knots in Ethan's hair, rearing his head back and demanded, "go on, blondie."

Faster. Ah-hAH. Faster, quicker—slower—quickerquickerquicker.

"Fuck—"

"No, wrong word," Heisenberg jested, running a finger over Ethan's lips.

"Kar, I'm sorry!" he cried, and despite the pleasure, out came a remorseful sob, hiccupping and wavering his body unlike Heisenberg's hand had done. His head collapsed and rolled into the crook between Heisenberg's neck and collarbone and hands sleepily drooped, tired of gripping and knuckles red. "I feel so fucking awful."

Slower, slower, slower, barely moving.

"Sh, it's OK, Ethan," he smoothed, "you're already forgiven, as stupid as what you did was, but I just…heh, figured we should get even."

"Even? You asshole!" Ethan almost yelled, and begun to turn around when—

squeeze

—collapsed. Faster, faster, faster—fuckfuckfuck!

"You might be forgiven, Ethan Winters, but there is still one more thing you could do," Heisenberg said lowly. Ethan winced, no longer bothering to stifle whimpers as the metal man bit at his earlobe. Knowing he'd get no response, he continued with a firm grip on Ethan's neck, "never fucking do that again. You follow my lead now, alright?"

Ah—Kar, Kar, fuck, Kar—

"Use your words, blondie—"

"Yes, I understand!" he wailed, beginning to burn up in his chest.

"Good boy." Heisenberg let go, moments before the satisfaction and the blonde groaned, trembling, unable to finish himself since Heisenberg pinched his wrists together and waggled them in front of his face. "See? Even?"

"Fuck you."

"No, fuck you."

Ethan rolled his eyes, body calming and his back releasing from its arched hold. "Right."

"Eventually," Heisenberg jested, smiling wide as all became well between them.

Chapter Forty; Saving the unwelcomed guest

The evening giddiness and heat burnt up into the brisk of a crimson morning, one where the snow blushed beneath sunlight's grace and a soft howl of wind frisked against windows, bowing the glass. Ethan and Heisenberg wouldn't have left the confines of the living space if Moreau didn't arrive, his flopping feet alerting Rose in her lazy lie in. Donna had spent the night, too mournful to be on her lonesome in a big house of dolls when none were remotely close to Angie's charm and was the first to perk her head at what Moreau exclaimed about.

Like a spy, he's infiltration in the castle proved worthy for, in the earliest, bluest morning hours, he'd stalked Dimitrescu's shadow and found her leering in the dungeons, an abandoned and less elegant part of her residence. He came to them with stolen intel Miranda, still encased in slumber, was even oblivious too.

"Then out with it, fishy!" Rose sneered, waving her hands. Heisenberg, Ethan half-perched on his knee, threw her a sly grin; he appreciated the kid's humorous impatience.

"She took one of the foreigners!" he blundered, lips flapping and verging on a whine. Rose settled under Ethan's gentle wrist tap.

"Which one?" the blonde man asked, sternly. "Or, you know, describe them."

Moreau chewed on his tongue, thin arms swaying and conjuring his answer. "Hrm…short hair, big—expanding gesture of hands—big shoulders. Tall, tall man—"

"Man?" Ethan frowned, Heisenberg looking at him worriedly. "Rose, is Chris still…you know…."

"Buff? Yes," she answered, nodding vigorously and begun to pace.

Donna's head followed her and then swung to Moreau. "Was Angie there too? I don't understand how she can get lost in this place, so she must've been with this man, right?"

The gilled blubber brokenly stuttered, the uttering intensifying when the metal man slowly rose and pressed his palms into the table. His shoulders lowered and eyes fastened into slits; like windows in a castle wall, his irises akin to lanterns flaring. His three other friends simultaneously muttered, "Kar…?" as his face darkened.

"You've been by Miranda's side for at least the whole century," he rebutted, squinting harder, "so how are we meant to believe let alone trust you, gilly?"

Understanding his point, the living quarters fell sullen and silence withered their poise, Ethan uncomfortably shuffling his balance from foot-to-foot until the nervous fish blubbered, "because I—I—urhm—"

"Go on," Heisenberg said, wiggling his hand in his brother's face.

"Kar!" His blonde raised his voice, tearing him away from the table. They huddled in a fierce whispering argument. "Kar, when hasn't he been on your—our side recently?"

"He is just like Alcina; she'll swing sides, caring about you once and then later nothing! It's her manipulation at play, Ethan. She's probably coddled this poor fuck," he bickered. Ethan licked his lips, pursed and glaring until Heisenberg faltered.

Ahem. Donna cleared her throat whilst Rose's mouth gaped, quickly morphing into something a little smug. The couple pivoted and Ethan slipped away, back into his seat.

"Right. Fine, I'm convinced but only slightly; why should we get this man?" Heisenberg questioned the room, the whirring mechanics below them puffing warmth through the floorboards. He witnessed Ethan's face fall a little, along the lines of either disappointment or turmoil. Rose became tentative, her usual irony paling and all she wanted so badly to say rolled over her tongue, again, again, and again. To ensure she felt welcomed, Heisenberg dropped his tensed shoulders and lowered himself to her eye-level though she tore herself away.

"Rose?" Ethan pried. "Rose? What's up?"

"He could help us," she asserted, eyes flicking indecisively between the metal man and father unsure of who needed more convincing. "You told me, Kar, you hated it here—"

When did he say that? Ethan worriedly thought. Heisenberg, what did you tell my daughter when I slept?

"—you said you always wanted to take down Miranda and so does Chris!" her voice peaked in a slight raise.

Heisenberg filled the place with a sense of uncertainty; Ethan immediately understood where his hesitance derived from, and it infected him. The mere possibility of allowing someone else to help prickled the bearded man's face red and a grave distress revealed itself in his eyes. His infliction bounced on Donna too, dwelling of a time when Chris would never help. Simply, it was overthinking but all for the right reason as Heisenberg had mulled carefully on this attack for years. Now, just maybe, it was time for a change of plans.

"Please," Rose begged, sincere in needing their help.

Ethan was the first to agree, frightened of Rose taking matters into her own hands; that was why she was here in the first place, was it not? Donna took time to come around but the deep goodness in her that Ethan knew in the form of smuggling him clothes and warm food compelled her to nod. Heisenberg waited, dormant in his stance until, yet again, was drawn away from the group by Ethan's hand.

"Kar."

"Blondie."

The smaller man dipped his head, fingers fondling with Heisenberg's and flexing into each other's palms. "You're afraid, aren't you?"

A faint mutter of agreeance, vague in the thick factory air.

"I don't want to do something to upset you again, Kar—Heisenberg raised an eyebrow—well, OK, maybe but please help us. She's my daughter and that, in that supersized bitch's castle, was her father for the years I wasn't…"

The silver haired man stroked his blondie's arms reassuringly, not wasting any more time with his choice which he'd already made when Ethan spoke before; they needed to stick together, after all.

"I will, just, whatever happens, don't go getting your heart ripped out again, please."

"I thought she'd eaten you!" Angie quipped, tiny but oddly weighty feet leaving dents on Chris's struggling chest. "Manthing."

Chris groaned, brushing at his short-cropped hair, and fondled for solace to pull himself up. Breath gushed out of him when he crunched upright, and a million grains of sand-sensations roiled in the tips of his toes and fingers. Blood-loss, too much of it for that matter. His consciousness was vague, uncannily dull throughout his little tea-party with the pompous woman.

Fuck, again, Ethan. Why the fuck couldn't you just run into a couple of zombies or some buck-tooth-fucking hillbillies?

"Did you have fun?" the doll goaded, seemingly in too bright of a mood. Secretly, she was just glad to have the simplest of company. Chris noted her appearance was wrinkled and greying, a sadness etched on her face and her limbs stiffer; without a master's presence, she decayed…or that's what Chris had figured, straining his brain for the slightest memory.

"God you're annoying," he murmured, feeling the full effects of a teenager's hang-over. His head listlessly swayed around the cell, feeling tighter and more confined when he was in such a helpless state. Clumsily, he dragged his lower body along moist hay floors and reeled up the cell-bars. All that upper-body strength clenched in his abs, evading a prevailing weakness seducing him to the ground.

"What are you doing?" Angie squeaked, her thrilling voice fading with each word. Chris was unsure whether that was his imagination, or the doll was actually breaking. Thank fucking God if it was the latter. "Man, big man, stop!"

"I'm fine, fuck off—I have to get out of here!" He grunted, eager to not be a bottle of red wine again anytime soon. His knees shook as though he lacked bones and, without the weight of his coat somehow nicked by one of the three crowing daughters, he felt like he floated.

Stay grounded you idiot. Stay fucking grounded.

Clutching the bars, Chris cocked his head and sunk his jaws into his arm, just the way he taught Rose. Therapists would never approve but during times akin to these, desperation called for painful measures and his pinching teeth drew him back to reality. He wiggled off his stuntedness and violently tested the bar's sturdiness, seeing the ceiling crumbling plaster and other rougher debris.

"We need to break these," he said to Angie, not expecting any physical help. He tilted skywards. "Do you think she'll hear us?"

Angie shrugged.

"Not sure but you're not getting free without a little help!"

Grunt. THUMP!

In a hush of dust which stormed over Chris, the cell collapsed and, as heavy boots emerged, wandered through the veil of trickling rubble, Chris realized Angie hadn't spoken those words. Instead, the speaker loomed above, hulking and shouting to the muffled barrier of Chris's ears. The BSAA agent said words consumed by further commotion, resorting to yelling and remained unheard, two other faint figures breaking the wall of must.

"Chris!" a thinner man cried, his hands—one feeling oddly not-so-fleshy—reaching into the light and gripping his shoulder. A slighter, jumpier girl collected Angie and returned behind her father, leering. "Chris! Oh, thank God—Kar, back down!"

The hammer wielder appeared gentler under the blonde man's command, especially when Chris discovered their identity and said with delight, "Ethan?!"

Ethan nodded wildly and slapped Chris's back, helping him stand slowly and figure out his footing. There was a certain unsteadiness tugging him to bend forward, almost in a buckle. Ethan took one of his girthy arms around his neck, the other hanging off Rose's whilst the metallic smelling man vanished. Managing a small smile and already feeling the release of escape, Chris glanced to his blonde friend.

"How times have changed," he said wheezing.

The corners of Ethan's lips flicked up. "Heh, don't get too excited. We've got to get you out of here yet."

Chapter Forty-One; Physical dad

Escape was easy; if they remained vigilant and bristled like stalking cats, their path remained untroubled. Whatever trance had hazed up Chris's mind seemingly waned, and his feet finally felt flat on the ground again, which assisted Ethan greatly. Heisenberg lurked ahead, having crept out in case the tunnels needed clearing. Lady Dimitrescu had a delayed reaction, sweeping into the dungeons, and cried, stretching her long red lips, and shrieking in a flurry of rage.

The tunnels wept beneath her stomps and pitiful daughter's coos and the four fled quickly to their checkpoint, Moreau posed for attack but wavered at the mere sight of the hilt of a weapon. Thankfully, it was Heisenberg, who went to upbraid yet decided otherwise. In the factory's abode, Chris sneered around, the metal man gruffly warning him not to prick his little fingers before switching his personality to soothing when Rose worried about a bruise on Chris's eye.

"So, did they suck your blood or something better, Winters? Why in hell are you still alive?" Chris sniggered at Ethan, who shook his head.

"That's a story for another time. Did they do anything to you?" he asked, his concern shy compared to Rose's. Chris could stand and move easily, maybe complaining of a mild soreness in his forearms. "Look at them! They're fucking concrete pillars; of course, they're sore!"

The men of the room, excluding the fish and including the silver haired menace, laughed…more in a self-conscious tone on Heisenberg's behalf. The agent wasted little time explaining his being here and simply gestured sharply to Rose, said sharpness dwindling at her guilty expression. Their eyes held a forgiving stare, Ethan's intruding between and his heart grew cold, noting that a blood father could mean nothing against a physical father. Heisenberg too felt the chill, as though emotionally linked to Ethan's beliefs, and slid a comforting touch along his back, rubbing between his shoulder blades.

"Thank you for looking after Angie," Donna said, breaking whatever ice had formed between the mortal and Lord. Chris regarded her with a nod and Angie's eyes slipped to his with a hint of contempt. He expressed the feeling was mutual. "In return, I'd be happy to help you find your team."

Chris glowered. "My team? What would you know about my team?"

Heisenberg, impelled by brotherly discern, moved his body in front of Donna and the redness of Chris's face shriveled into his creases. "Kar, it's fine," Ethan muttered, nudging the back of his elbow.

Donna peered around Heisenberg's arm, unphased. "Yes, down near the reservoir. I think I saw a camp."

This response inspired a plan in the agent's eyes and instantly, he suggested arrangements, "I need to find my team before we consort this Miranda you've been speaking of…?"

"Heisenberg," the bearded man nodded, relaxing his fieriness. They gripped wrists, villain, and hero, united and a pulse thrilled through the bond. "Miranda will not waver at another bomb; you'll need something a little stronger than that."

"Like?" Rose piped, elbowing her way to the center. "You had a plan, right?"

Ethan and Heisenberg shared a scowl but not of spite, more of panic. The father faltered first, ducking his head and rubbed his neck, fingers briefly touching a deep, purple mark engraved by canine teeth and the curved edge of a licking piercing. He quickly brushed his hair over it and pinched his collar shut, foolishly unaware of any other lingering kisses. There was some love in this decision now, an intervening force pressing uncomfortable against morals; what was the right thing to say and what wasn't? Fortunately, Donna read their dilemma like a poem and ushered the conversation elsewhere.

"What would your plan be?" she asked Chris, struggling to meet his eye; so lost and firm, gaze having nowhere to comfortably rest. He almost shrugged, hands sliding down the side of his thighs and hips until coming across a bump; something Dimitrescu had missed. Alas, it was but a pack of tissues.

"I would contact someone—"

"Here!" Rose held out her cellular, boxy like a BlackBerry. Ethan frowned at it, Chris allowing him a closer look and a little amused by his confusion before Rose informed, "it's a military thing, dad."

"Right," Ethan nodded, glancing quickly to the military man. "Well, who can we call?"

Chris walked to the swung open front of the factory, Heisenberg close behind him. There was no signal and the metal man pointed out why; an old tower in the yard, slouched and rusted. Not yet ready to discard the plan, Chris withdrew into a thinking trance, contemplating his options until ultimately deciding he'd like to see his team to regroup. Ethan backed the idea, suggesting he remained behind to assist in the rebuild—or repair, as Heisenberg wittingly corrected—of the tower.

"Guess that leaves me to go with Chris!" Rose beamed but both men seemed reluctant to comply. "What?"

"It's dangerous," they said in sync, stifling back a childish simper. Unsatisfied, Rose glared rudely to Heisenberg.

"Not getting involved," he chuckled, chest doing its bubbling wiggle. "Your dads said no."

"Dads?" Ethan frowned, thumping the man's arm. Chris shared a similar expression but withheld himself.

As much as he wanted to allow the blonde man who'd been absent from Rose's adolescence—of no fault of his own, of course—to care for her, Chris felt more at ease with her conjoined to his hip; just like he'd said back at their camp, so far and long ago now. Additionally, came the conflict of interest he'd witnessed brew between whatever Heisenberg and Ethan had become. There was no judgment radiating from him because…well, same. It was just, due to prior knowledge of Ethan's actions, that man tended to bend to the will of who he loved.

"No, let the kid come with me," he prodded, the blonde girl already coming out of the factory. Ethan's mouth parted as their side drained of people, Moreau and Donna coming to Chris's. "I've looked after her once, surely I can do it for another few hours, Ethan."

Ethan restrained his huff into a sigh and nodded, a smile flickering in and out but did not light up his eyes. The silver man did not add anything to Ethan's defense, burdening a little more trust in Chris than the agent expected, before Chris took his leave, only stopped when Ethan handed him a gun.

"It's Rose's, nice birthday gift, Redfield but I think you should handle it," he remarked, Heisenberg's grunt heavy with experience.

Feeling a little reassured, Chris allowed the two lords ahead and let Rose wave a sly goodbye to her father, skipping off beside the agent. Weaving through the terrain, awkward silence weighted on them, occasionally broken by Rose who exhibited a bold connection with the woman called Donna and harshly mocked the one who was etched with the stink of piers.

"You weren't too afraid in there," she said on her eventual loop back to Chris.

"I didn't want to be," he explained. "We should take all the help we can get but…it's cruel, I hold on to the fact I killed that bastard before, I sure as hell can do it again."

Rose smiled. "The man—Kar, he told me Ethan said that when they first met."

"And how did they met?" Chris inquired, genuinely curious of this miracle. "Was it because of Miranda's failsafe?"

"I suppose. But Heisenberg bought Ethan back to life as we found out recently." She bobbed her head, hat firmly in place with her hair looped through the back hole. "I hope I get a little more time with him."

Half awry with finding signal, Chris nearly missed her words but figured through her facial features, low set and misty. She found sudden interest in picking nails and scrapped away pre-chipped polish Chris vaguely remembered her doing on the plane; he allowed her to do his thumbs and pinkies, knowing Kennedy would've offered her his whole two hands. Shit, Kennedy might be worried sick…if he really cared.

"Thanks for staying in one piece, kid," Chris said, bumping her. She merely toppled, leaping to retain her footing.

"Eh, no problem. Figured you'd chop me into smaller pieces if I didn't…plus, I wanted to see dad."

Moreau garbled about how they neared the reservoir and, on a mound Heisenberg once watched Ethan almost drown from, they perched and searchingly glared into every white crevice of the snow laced land. A blood-heavy rage festered to Chris's skin, and he shot upright, abruptly snatching for the collar of Moreau's rags. The fish ducked, backing against Donna and squashing Angie between them.

"Chris!" Rose hissed, her eyes not tearing from the smoke-heavy horizon.

"You little fuck!" Chris snapped, reaching again. "Were you lying to me? What, is that man hurting Ethan—"

"For fuck's sake, Chris! Look!" The teenager yanked him into her shoulder and spun his head to just beyond a few rows of houses. "Smoke!"

Ah, Chris felt like an idiot and stood, patting Moreau's trembling shoulder. Rose followed, dusting away snow from shins and hands, leaving damp prints on her light jeans.

"We'll split to cover more ground; you—he thumbed a gesture to Moreau—with me. Rose, go with your friend around the left—"

"We're not ambushing your friends!" Rose seethed.

"We're not." Chris blinked. "We're trying to figure out where they are and if they are who we need. When we get close, wait until you see me, and I'll signal. Got it?"

Chris regarded the two lords in question. Donna keenly nodded, Moreau hesitant feeling the darkness in Chris's intentions; he only wanted the fish with him because their trust, unlike with the doll maker's, felt weaker…almost indecisive.

Chapter Forty-Two; Rawdog

Lady Dimitrescu was correct in her assumption Ethan Winters would eventually make a grave mistake. Alas, when the moment dawned upon him, it honestly didn't feel like one…not until the aftermath. It simply just happened.

Tirelessly, the couple drained their efforts on the old radio tower, but Ethan had resided early to loiter around for the tools he could later relay out. To his surprise, Heisenberg wandered in, calmly wiping his hands on a rag and unstained by sweat. Crouched beside an open cupboard, Ethan relaxed to his knees as Heisenberg closed the door and rubbed his bare arms, thick with hair but still touchable by the cold.

"Finished early," Heisenberg sighed, stretching his arms behind his neck as he swayed over to the blonde, "and with time to spare."

Ethan shrugged. "Wasn't keeping track unless you were?"

The metal man chortled, rubbing his blondie's hair roughly and his hand gliding down the curve of his face, tilting up his chin. He bit his lower lip, hinting to an excitement.

"Well, I suppose if we finished that early, you deserve a reward, hm?" he teased, hooking his fingers brazenly beneath and around Heisenberg's belt. The silver man with a silver glint between his teeth laid a hand over Ethan's and cocked his head.

"What kind of reward?" he inquired, leaning in but was shoved away as Ethan rose, shrugging and eyes swinging around.

"I'm not sure…maybe a kiss?" he answered, syncing his footsteps with Heisenberg's approach, cornering him tightly against a bench. He was forced to slip on to, hoping he hadn't positioned himself on anything important. Their lips briefly met.

"Only a kiss?" Heisenberg complained lightly against his mouth, flicking his gaze around. He spread his hands either side of Ethan's hips, readying to grip at his thighs but for now thumbed their sides. "We're finally alone…or at least for a while."

"Aren't we in a hurry?" Ethan tilted his head and was met quickly with a head shake, bringing down a flurry of ivory hair. "Well…then, I have been having some feelings…"

Without the brutish perk of his lips; the provocative leer glittering lively within his eyes; or lacking a sensitive stroke from chest to waist, Heisenberg would've been worried if none of those words were spoken in Ethan's peculiar tone. Their hips rolled into the shape of the other, a hounding spite igniting within Heisenberg's wolfish features already present.

"Well, would you like me to show you what to do with these feelings?" he purred, lips grazing down the blonde's jawline, placing a red mark at the end. Ethan nodded, teeth shallowly dug into his lip but something eager—perhaps a curiosity—ate away nervousness.

"Yeah," he softly answered, necking and their kisses grew sloppy, hunger burning in a violent fester within Heisenberg's chest, but he refrained his ravaging. Ethan's grabs became rogue, shattering his façade of innocence and proceeded without stutter to the buckle of Heisenberg's belt. Alas, the wielder trapped his wrists together, a flare of satisfaction welling below his waist in a throbbing heat.

Not yet, not yet.

"Do you remember the closet?" Heisenberg hummed, stretching Ethan's pinched hands above his head. He flicked his eyes up, Ethan not having to see it rather feeling it; the familiar white cord curling in a tight knot. Above was a high sat lighting fixture, a spindly cord to click on the bulb now a restraint to Heisenberg's delight and to Ethan's fading of prior lusty confidence.

With one large hand, the other poised beneath his waist, Heisenberg seized Ethan's jittering chin, and his lips spread wide to smile, "may I?"

Ethan nodded and revealed a challenging hint to his gesture of agreeance; he thought he knew what his metal man was capable of, although only having experienced half the pleasure. A rough touch frisked all below his belt, which quickly vanished in their hassle to undress but his shirt, cinched between Ethan's teeth, didn't make it out in one piece, fluttering in halves to the floor.

The teasing scrape and skimming of that piercing he so longed to experience in the darkest fantasy tongued along his lower skin and Ethan mentally begged for free hands just to grasp at Heisenberg's hair. But, instead, his back could only arch outwards and eyes cartwheeled in their sockets, eyelids dithering delightedly. The light clicked.

on

It evoked amusement from them, Ethan's laugh shaky and Heisenberg's bellowing as he stepped back to admire his little masterpiece, but he dared not simply see Ethan as just a pleasure; for once, however, he'd indulge in it. Running his hands through his hair, slicking it back with a light sweat as the workspace grew hotter, he edged near again and fingers found a place on Ethan's thighs, hauling them up around his waist. He pulled the blonde higher to suck at his leg's flesh and closer, goading how much he'll squirm before delivering the warning blow.

"Let's see what you're really made of, Ethan Winters," Heisenberg growled, verging on animalistic furor, and pushing a first thrust, testing the limit. The burn rippled up Ethan's spine with such force it gripped to his scalp and jerked back his head, chin to the ceiling. A paralysis stiffened him; body locked in a thrown back position and hips in the feared grasp of Heisenberg, wrists struggling in a nebulous moment of escape—his nails pleaded to sink into the pulsing brawn of Heisenberg's back, breathing with the similarly large inflation of his chest.

A momentum increased, agitation of the best sort inflicting through Ethan's veins and something thick strangled his ability to speak. Slews, urs, ahs, and Kars flung from his lips, pecked by Heisenberg's which lingered by his ear, trickling all the little whisperings of encouragement.

You feel so nice.

Bare, pale back, rubbing up and down the wall; up, down, up, down.

Fuck, keeping looking at me like that.

The light looming above the sinful doings, struggled to keep up with such a pace; on, off, on, off.

You like that? Nod. Mm, yeah?

Up, down, up down. On, off, on, off.

Heisenberg's hand raised to his own lower back, assisting in the push—oh, fuck—and he let loose a withered sigh, contentment alighting it like a moan. The toolbox a meter from them wriggled and shook, its metal innards clattering. Ethan's body rode up the wall when the metal man pressed himself further and held himself there, expertly balanced and careened down. The blonde squirmed and gasped, arms pulling against constraints to hold Heisenberg.

Ah! Ah, ah!

"Do you ever hear how loud you get?" Heisenberg jeered, sneering against his neck which he bit. A weak mewl dribbled from Ethan and he squeezed one eye shut.

"I can't—I can't help it," he managed along with a smirk, but it trembled, only reassured by Heisenberg's hushing kiss.

"No, no. I like to know you're enjoying me," he whispered. "But, with all this noise you're making, I haven't yet heard a single little thank you."

Ethan braced himself, unable to conjure a coherent response already and lolled into a pained ecstasy. A nearby piece of scrap begun to shudder as Heisenberg swung his hips again, merging into a slow pace. "Come on, I'll make it easy for you—be a good boy and use your words," he griped in that deep, drawling accent, interrupted by small grunts.

"Kar," Ethan moaned mere perfectly, intaking larger breaths just to continue, "Kar…KarKarKar!"

"Yes?" he asked, raising his head and arms thick with popping veins as his clutch on the bench tightened, one hand promptly moving to slap Ethan's thigh. Nothing more came from the blonde's mouth, at least that of coherence. Their chins held close, their mouths moved in a mocking sync on Heisenberg's behalf, his smile speaking volumes of amusement.

Fuck, so good, faster.

"Oh, so we can speak, hm?" he rasped, latching in Ethan's hair.

Fasterfasterfasterplease.

The bench begun vibrating, its supports squeaking and denting the walls; the metal man's hips swinging beyond what his fitness allowed; back and forth, back and forth. Up, down, up, down. Onoffonoffonoffonoff. Updownupdownupdown. Backandforthbackandforthbackandforth.

eAh!

A cry and down came the snap of the light's cord, seizing briefly before dimming. Scraps and copper, steel and cobalt suspended around the room, scattered and shivering. Within the final clasp—

Pleasefinish, fuck pleasefinishnow—fuck.

—Heisenberg's growl peaked and deepened, simmering out into a shaken moan, Ethan mimicking in a whimpering tune. Their lips found the others in the dark, and the sweet release of everything good flushed through their systems with one last cry and a rode out high. Ethan's loose hands clutched for embrace, discovering their solace around Heisenberg's neck, and instantly welcomed with a tight hug. The man stroked his blondie's damp hair, a tremble tumbling his back and legs and he fell against the bench with his soft words, "you did great, shh, just relax. Good boy."

Chapter Forty-Three; Aftermath

Highs ridden to exhaustion, the veil of pleasure lifted and exposed the aches and restless slumber of pillow talk; these feelings were an Ethan Winters exclusive. He lay in a shallow sleep, snoozing to the distant humming of the slowing factory, blind and deaf to the chaos roiling on the surface of the snowy land. Behind closed eyes, in the blackness he did not hear his daughter's cries.

The approach had gone South, quickly. Found huddled around a fire were the scrawny remains of the Hound Wolf Squad, clutching to life stolen by Lycan grabs and the gripe of another force. Chris wandered right into a snare, the malevolent mutation haunting over them before crushing down. They all collapsed to the ground.

And Ethan would remain oblivious until the very near, encroaching future, running clumsily at a desperate pace, spearing for the factory. It would be then, struck with the face of his bloody daughter, the epiphany would dawn on Ethan that love makes him stupid. But for now, he worried about the weighted warmth lifting from his chest and shuffling from the living-quarters. Weathered hands smoothed the slippery sheets over their love after ensuring he hadn't completed ruined the blonde, yet his leave was halted by the desperate squeeze of a hand.

"Mhm?" Heisenberg lowly asked, the sound hanging in the back of his throat. The groggy blonde weakly bought their faces close, breathing hot air down their shirts.

"Where are you going?" Ethan murmured; eyes barely squinted. Heisenberg only kissed him softly, brushing his forehead, and told him to rest; he can handle everything.

The metal man took to the front workshop they'd nearly ruined in a careful lumber, upper legs straining. He cleared away any tinkerings he—they—broke and pressed fingers against the workbench, helplessly smiling and a warm joy spurred in his heart. Those moments were one to confine himself in, the ravaging and letting loose what he had so unwillingly contained but it was in those times of after-care did he eventually indulge in. At the mere memory, Heisenberg caressed a small bite on his neck, the indent of teeth marks freshly pressed and the skin yet to reinflate—

CRASH! THUNK!

Thundery and other rackets chorused from outside, making even the big silver man leap; the copper scraps he'd recently cleaned up flew through the cupboard's glass faces and whirled around the workshop. Never, at least for a while, had he been so startled. Verging on insomnia maybe contributed to such a thing. Perked with high eyebrows, Heisenberg armed his hammer and teetered to the raised door just west of the narrow corridor. Shoulder-to-shoulder, wriggling down the walls at a reasonable pace, he was yet again not prepared for the blur of hysterics tumbling and trembling, headbutting him to the ground.

"Dad! Dad! Ethan!" Rose shrieked, right temple profusely leaking blood. "Holy shit, dad! Where is my dad?"

"Rose?" Heisenberg started, picking her crumpled body from the ground with a tight hold on her shoulders. He led her into the workroom but decided otherwise, reeling her further down the hall to the caved valley, where steam and robotics lay paralyzed in silence. They crouched together, Rose's head leaning against his shoulder, shuddering with weeps.

"What the fuck is going on?" Ethan exclaimed, gawkily sprinting down the numerous flights of stairs. At the sight of his little girl in violent distress, he vaulted the railing, landing heavily, and barreled the final few paces, skidding along his knees; thank God he wore jeans. "Rose? Rosemary, what's happened?"

He licked his slightly swollen lips, boggling eyes and majorly disheveled, roughish expression, imploring Heisenberg for information. The metal man shook his head to convey he was equally in the dark until Rose ceased her sobbing, biting into her palm gently.

"Hey, hey, stop," Ethan pried her jaws and flesh away. "Breathe, it's alright—"

"Chris's team…we weren't sure where…how…why the fuck…I—"

"Kid," Heisenberg soothed, a soft hand over hers. "Why did you come back?"

"Where's Chris?" the blonde questioned.

Rose shook her head, ashamed to confess, "I ran off because he told me too. I waited for a moment, but he didn't come and something else did and I'm sorry, but I think I led it here!"

As if to her command, out rang another thunder of footfalls, slow-footed but then mild in their hurried race. Heisenberg fretted about the door, left ajar before it's thunk! against the wall. The two men moved Rose behind them, although Heisenberg gestured for Ethan to cower, and he eagerly eyed his hammer just a meter or so left…a little too out of his reach. The father held his daughter and Heisenberg took a bold step to his weapon, drawing it telekinetically to the palm of his hand when a black burl of muscle scurried from the clutches of the dense corridor, arms raised and roaring, "I'm a friend! I'm a friend!"

"Chris!" Rose marveled, her coat's hem slipping from Ethan's fingers as she abandoned him for Chris, pouncing with a deep hug; unfortunately, nothing would be more comforting than him and the embrace he'd given her since infanthood. "Holy, shit. Where did you go?"

"I was chasing you!" he exclaimed, shaking her by the shoulders. He eyed Ethan's glance, peering over Rose's shoulder and parted his lips, urged to apologize but withheld such useless words. "Please tell you two were successful on your part."

Ethan nodded, Rose tapping him, but he remained hesitant to return the favor. Heisenberg had to answer and pointed to the gapping windows overlooking the yard. "It should make calls outside the village, how far…I'm not sure." He swallowed thickly. "Where's Donna?"

Rose weakly squeezed out an apology, Ethan quickly intervening assuring her whatever happened wasn't her doings, let alone her fault. "When Miranda attacked—"

"Miranda?!" Ethan yelled, causing his daughter to flinch. His metal man shared similar shock. "She's awake? Since when?"

"Since half-an-hour ago, apparently," Chris hypothesized. "What Rose was trying to explain was Donna retreated with her to the reservoir. I'm sure she's fine—"

"She better fucking be!" Heisenberg snapped, Chris instantly bringing up his hands, but one clutched a gun. Rose pressed between.

"Yes, she is. I meant Moreau, I don't know where Moreau went!" she raised her voice, folding her arms with a challenging glare to both men. "I hope he's alright."

A moment of dwindled silence burdened their heads, bowing them as a distant clock ticked by. They were losing time and clawing at thin air, especially if Miranda was awake. Heisenberg wistfully glanced to his hanging army, silver hair flattening as his whole face drooped, opening up an endless stomach pit. All that sincere confidence was swallowed up, but he wouldn't let a little bit of doubt intervene with saving his past; what he always believed in. But you can't use Rose…you would break Ethan.

Severely uneased by their current state, and not wanting to become a foursome of reckless shambles, Chris proposed he make a call and begged Rose to remain with Ethan. She happily did so, a certain clinginess arising.

"Redfield," Ethan spoke before Chris could turn. "What the fuck are we meant to do?"

Chris eyed Heisenberg but the man seemed withdrawn, shaking his head. "We can't use Rose—he looked her directly in the eyes and, suddenly, Rose felt a little closer to him—Ethan told me he never wanted her to become a weapon and I'll remain true to that."

"What about your army?" Chris waved his hand, chewing on his lip in dire need of tabaco. Heisenberg came and stood beside him, finally an equal as their moral positions aligned. Ethan rubbed Rose's arms, thinking deeply until she questioned him and his use as a weapon.

"I'm not one," he told her before slurring out a pondering sound. "But, maybe just this once—you two!"

The men pivoted to father and daughter, Ethan's face alight with some realization. He might've been only a computer technician in whatever old world that lingered in the air like a faint perfume, but he knew a thing or two about a little something called containment, quarantine.

"That sounds extreme, I like it," Heisenberg grinned. Chris nodded, fingers stroking his chin and he wished to speak a few additional words but the smart kid in the room…he knew their minds were alike. Rose parted from Ethan and paced, scratching her head, and pressing the rag she'd been given to her slight wound.

"If Miranda has one failsafe, she's got another, right Kar?" she was answered by a slightly unsure mutter but Heisenberg's nonchalantless reassured her to pursue what else she thought. "We can quarantine until the BSAA come up with something a little stronger…sorry Kar, not like that but—"

"Yeah, no, you're good kid."

She smiled at him, but her eyes slipped in Ethan's direction. "But…is that right dad?"

That fatherly, overwhelming drive dug his hand into her hair, having lost her cap to her sadness during their prior escape, and ruffled it until she giggled and batted at his arms. His lover smirked, getting giddy just off Ethan's smile, and Chris nodded in approval.

"I think that's close enough but that all depends on what our big guy has to say, right, Redfield?" the blonde gestured.

Chapter Forty-Four; Home, home

Outside, the encapsulating white sprawls of mushy carpet and wind that soughed through writhing trees; Chris took it all in for hopefully, until he returned with the answer to this massive question would never lay eyes upon it again. Thank-fucking-God.

The boxy black phone rung long and piercing, the dial tone drawling to the point Chris and his wild determination faltered. Alas came Kennedy's shaky greeting and a hello between them had never been as sweet since 2026.

"Chris?" shivered out a pent-up word; there was reluctance and joy and pure terror.

"Yeah, I'm still alive," he smiled, breathing lightly at the beautiful relief of hearing such a sigh from Kennedy's end. "Did you miss me—"

"Shut up," he snapped but all in playful fun. "Fuck, where did you go?"

Chris rotated so his chest faced the horizon, feeling the relax of withdrawals as he dragged and exhaled wispy smoke; that so-called metal man was coming around to him when he offered a cigar. "Let's discuss that over wine and something nice when I return; I have a request to ask for now."

"Heh, when do you not?"

"We've decided we can't trust Miranda's unspecified amount of failsafes; we can't keep dropping explosions unless it's to subdue…it seems to only anger her further and that's the last thing we need right now."

"What are you suggesting here, Redfield?"

"Ethan—"

"Ethan?"

"Yes, Ethan Winters, alive and warm, proposes we drop a high-level quarantine upon the village. This will keep the bad in and further bad out…" he trailed, huffing. "Unfortunately, I fear a little good will be kept here."

"Which Winters do you mean?"

"I mean the one revived by one of the lords; Ethan isn't entirely alive, and I fear we'll be unable to pry him back home, even with Rose…but it's not out of love, Kennedy, he just wants to survive."

Kennedy mulled quietly, brewing up an opposing stance but none came to mind. "We'll discuss that later. For now, I'll organize a quarantine but, I'm warning you Chris, you'll have exactly two hours from my command…"

"…Kennedy?"

"Do you know what you're going to do within those two hours?"

Chris nodded. "Yes, we've organized to subdue Miranda whilst I get the lady. I've figured those two are close and one must go down."

A light laugh withered out from Kennedy. "Then I'll let you go."

"Yes, sir."

"But Redfield. Before you go, can you promise me something?"

"Depends on what that is, Kennedy—"

"Come home, please."

Chris's three most hated but light-hearted words he dithered at hearing. A plea but with an actuality beyond it and he could picture it now; this man quivering, gripping the edge of his desk and eyes shut tight, praying without religion.

"What home, Kennedy?"

"Home, home, Chris."

That was something he couldn't risk not returning to.

Chapter Forty-Five; Her Lady's final stand

They agreed on a two-way split, well-equipped and informed of their decision and time limit. They exchanged radios, Chris promising solemnly to Heisenberg if he sees Donna, he won't hurt her; she is the least threatening creature he's ever encountered.

"However, I'll need to hold on to your word, Ethan, if I am to keep my promise here," Chris said. The blonde nodded. "Don't go turning your little girl into a weapon, alright?"

Rose had already lowered into the tunnels, thrilled with her role as bait to lure out the inconspicuous Miranda. Ethan suddenly burdened too many vows but to retain his trust with Redfield, he shook his wrist and parted, barely hearing the words Chris threatened Heisenberg to swear upon.

On his regrettable lonesome, Chris trudged the front way to the castle, penetrating her Lady's land and his trespass was expectedly met with the pursuit of a dragon mutation; facing the vicious danger, Chris grinned and maybe thought this was better than zombies—but this was how the plan begun. The execution ran smooth, drawing out Lady Dimitrescu and her yelling chortles from the confines of her castle. She flew and pounced, Chris leading the chase with just a pistol, poised to the ground, and sometimes fired.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

"Puny man!" She cried but in the tones of a million. "I'd like to see you attempt your foolish—"

BANG!

She shrieked and reared back, Chris grunting, "doesn't she ever stay quiet?"

He weaved and ducked, finding his path to the fisher man's corner, the basin as still as ice. Chris's jaw tightened, bones popping and muscle pulsing, groaning aloud as he figured his next few paths. It was at this point his pre-planning notions dried up, but hope was his strongest force, and his wit had not yet dwindled. He remembered the report he shared with Rose, the winning bargain to get her here; the risky explorers swallowed by whatever lurked beneath the ice. And there before him was a lake, and it all fell into a few sudden moments.

I swear to God you fishy fuck, don't cross us now!

Chris breathed out a harsh few wisps of breaths when Lady Dimitrescu crashed through the frail wooden ports and huts, exploding splinters that lodged under his flesh. He rolled along the banks, teetering too close to the freezing waters, and clambered around clumsily, much unlike his usual poise. He scrambled the mounds of snow as she grazed above him, faired away by the bullets she'd once proclaimed as useless; maybe they were finally taking affect. Alas, he was purely mistaken as her jaws sunk into his back and tore him from his footing, flailing, and suspending him, playing with her food until he flung a grenade, bowling it down her open throat.

The boom rippled the air, violently, weakening her grasp and Chris plunged, clutched within the icy depths. Although his eyes remained tightly shut, understanding how to swim blind, he felt the whoosh rush past his right shoulder, an impact of displacement gushing him to the surface. Ice and flecks of debris etched to his skin, and hands wiped and careened for a hold. But then he sighted his savior and gasped joyfully, body entering a state of brief relax; the shadow covered the sun, Salvatore Moreau leading a rescue, unhinging large teeth, and clasping them into the neck of Alinca Dimitrescu—in a century of bending to her bidding, it only took the warmth of trust and slight patience to welcome the fish to the better side of a sinister war. He's prevailing efforts earnt Chris's approval, however short-lived, and he received no thanks for the agent refuted to waste time, clambering to unsteady feet and shivering with a vicious bite of the cold.

He limped ashore, wadding the finale and came down hard on his grazed palms. Gunless, helpless, and a little reckless, he pressed two fingers to his ear and tuned into the channel of his guide.

"I'm alive—"

An incoherent noise of thanks.

"—how long have I got?"

"You have an hour-and-a-half," the voice, hoarse from their cry, informed. "Come on, Chris. Just a homerun now."

Chris nodded dismissively, groaning, "I know. I know. Fucking long run though."

Chapter Forty-Six; Déjà vu

Whilst Chris Redfield rose from debris and the voice within his ear commanded him to head to the gate, Heisenberg, Ethan and Rose, established as the strangest shaped family, made haste in the castle. Rose pushed aside any worry she'd heard echo from Redfield's side of the fight; she couldn't be hesitant, not as her time dawned on her.

Out beneath the limelight of horrors, Rose remained under the loose guardianship of Heisenberg and Ethan, listening fearfully to their melees and tightly held the last moment she saw her father.

"I don't want to leave you again…I feel I have to be here with you!"

A hug, not as soft as Chris's and weathered but anew, introducing her body to a unique pink in her face and contentment within her heart.

"I'll see you soon; don't worry, Rosemary."

"Please let that be soon," she whispered to the blue halls, feeling as though she shrunk or became a little doll in Mother Miranda's playhouse. She tiptoed to the courtroom, where not so long before her had she witnessed her father's heart torn from his chest and heard all the awful spills from Heisenberg's lips; it was difficult to hear him the same.

Rounding corners in a hasty pace, the teenager closed on their meeting point and so did the couple, fraught with the final wrath of the sisters before they withered into ice and snow. The true plan would soon commence alas Rose was snagged by an early apparition of their finale fight; Mother Miranda grew impatient and shot through the courtroom's doorway, now a dark wiggling pit of mold. Alive and twitching, squirming, and screaming mold and the horrific mutation alternating between a goddess and something bigger…larger…propounding terror. Rose screamed, face almost ripping in half like her heart, shredded by the intense pounds and thumps against the cage of her chest.

Holy shit, dad, where are you? No, Rose. Breathe…you need to get close.

"Eveline!" Mother Miranda cawed and with the raise of a taloned hand, a reaching pillar shot towards the girl. "Come here, I want to get a better look at you!"

Rose's left shoulder broke the ground, cartwheeling clumsily from the grasp.

You need to get closer—come on, Rose. Remember the plan!

She repeated the move thrice until deciding best to change her strategy, launching off hinds and her ankles nicking the edge of Miranda's power. However, as she ignored until too late, the pursuit had cornered her within the room of trembling walls and shaking rafters.

Perfect, even if it didn't yet seem it.

Ethan crashed through the doorway, shouting out and seeming a little bloodier than normal; maybe even weaker. The adrenaline surged in a rushing violence, shoving him into the room when Rose was knocked by her backside and her nose smushed into the mold. Momentarily stunned, she was hindered enough for Miranda to finally cradle her despite the raging protests of Ethan, the blonde man flinging himself into the line of danger with a misally handgun; you've done this once before, you sure as hell can do it again.

"Put my daughter down you psycho bitch!" he screamed, hair flailing across his damp face, and he fired.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Miranda screeched in a thousand stolen tones and voices, wrecking the ceiling and a rain of debris shattered down. Ethan tucked and rolled forth as the severed arm broke away with Rose in clutch. Alas, she pushed away her father's arms which caught her from collapsing and plunged her hand in her jacket, waiting.

Just one more, come on…you got this.

"My Eveline!"

With the similar velocity of a silver, sharp blade, the sword of Miranda's reforming arm plunged through Rose's stomach, spurting out the other side inches from Ethan's panting face; it was meant for him. Her body arched forward with an abrupt jerk. She gasped and their plan of using her as bait tumbled down upon them, crashing with brilliant failure and the one bloodshed they couldn't afford.

BOOM!

Mother Miranda didn't have to withdraw her arm; simply, it combusted into smithereens. Flecks of mold laid across Rose's cheeks as her almost-corpse—

not again

—fluttered and crumpled. Ethan lifted her gently, assessing her for damage and after a shriek, she appeared to grin.

"Did I do good?" she breathed, panting with a struggle and arm hauled around her father's shoulders. He squinted at her raised hand; all five fingers adorned by grenade rings. Holy shit, she did it!

They had theorized that in order to weaken Miranda, she required some sort of explosive which Heisenberg had giddily dug from a crusty box. The only person Mother Miranda would ever let close, however, would be Rose, and even within the detrimental moment of a possible fatality, Ethan couldn't help but be proud.

"You did, but that's enough for you," he whispered, bending, and swinging up her legs which buckled. He attempted a running escape when the further agitated beast pushed a waver through the floors and tripped up the blonde. He clutched a little tighter at his daughter and shielded her from all the windows shattering in the wake of Miranda's rage. They rolled together, Ethan managing a crouched position and only knew Rose was alive because of the hand on his face, the rest of her draped body limp.

He heaved and glanced up; fuck, when will this ever end? He'd been here before and now it was again. Crouched in a pit of writhing black mold, sinking his feet into its small jaws but ones with large teeth. Within his arms, he held life, the only brightness buried in the dank pit. A pink girl clenched to his chest, reaching up her still tiny hands to bat his face. Nothing was at loss, not when company joined him like it should've in the beginning. Heisenberg stepped over his shoulder and faced his torment with hammer in hand, lover behind.

"Kar?" Ethan murmured. "Kar, are you alright?"

With that knife-like, foolish grin which bought promises of irrationality, Heisenberg glanced to his blondie. "Just had to smother my nieces, how about you?"

Ethan wiggled Rose a bit and Heisenberg's inferno strengthened before he asked, "has she hurt you?"

"Not yet!" She howled, rearing as violent chortles ripped through her chest and thundered around the room. "You can't defy me, Heisenberg, I raised you—"

"You told me I was a monster!" He shouted, hammer dropping to his side.

Mother Miranda's smile sliced open more. "What else would you be?"

He launched off his hinds, braced his hammer high, slung over his head, and bought it down in a near miss. Ethan shouted for his sake and Miranda was reminded of his presence, shooting out a pillar of mold but Ethan deflected it the moment it touched his skin. His defense did not stagger Miranda for she simply raised her chin and shook it.

"There's no point defending her, Ethan Winters," she warned, approaching despite Heisenberg's strong efforts of slinging and slashing. "You'll never be able to return with her; just like last time."

Ethan sneered, gripping Rose and she groaned softly, her hot forehead against his neck. "I'll do anything to keep her away from you—"

"Because Rose is not a weapon!" Heisenberg shrilled, leaving a deep gash from Miranda's backside to shoulder. She faltered, falling weak but was able to halt him in his pursuit; at his feet, the mold parted to unveil a sleeping girl, lost in the mere fatal depths of her own unconsciousness. "Donna?" he uttered, lips blabbering.

He crouched, Miranda allowing him a good look alas those brave eyes he met Ethan's with did not convey what her bargain aimed to. The metal man lumbered to his feet, footing swaying but otherwise solid, making a stance and tearing away his glare from lover to enemy. His barreled chest inhaled the infected, soiled air and the ultimate chance, time and place burdened on his shoulders. He just needed Ethan Winters and Rosemary Winters somewhere safe.

"We're not leaving!" Ethan protested as the woman's mold formed a private arena to encase them within; she hoped to riddle Heisenberg's plan with holes. "Kar! Heisenberg, what about you?"

Eventually, he had to look his blondie in the eye and the silver man turned. His skin was already alight with something Ethan had once faced and slaughtered and he never wished to see it again. Yet the option to abandon the steel so close to his heart was a vague struggle away. Rose needed help, she needed Chris Redfield.

"I'll find you in the morning, Ethan," Heisenberg vowed, "I promise."

The blonde did not waver, Mother Miranda taking great delight in their argument whilst she recovered, preparing for her last battle.

"Ethan—"

"Don't make me choose, Kar," he plead as a hot mist stung down his face, over scratches and grazes. "Because I—I don't want to make the wrong choice."

Heisenberg weakly smiled, resisting that sliver of emotion and within the second Ethan broke, he did too; hearts conjoined by tendons and touch, you'll never smile whilst they cry at your feet. "You won't, I know you won't. Remember who you were before this."

A father; a helpless, meagerly armed father now all the things he didn't want to become. Alas, here was chance to become that figure again and he took it, right as Heisenberg's back snapped into his metallic mutation and Miranda followed suit, her bloodthirsty eyes glossing over the bomb the metal man bought, one Rose was supposed to carry but he never would've let that happen. Ethan was struck out of the room by Heisenberg's force and begun his scamper down the maze of corridors as his watch screamed his final alarm; quarantine was upon them.

Chapter Forty-Seven; A lapse of time

Caught on the limbo between safe haven and a snowy, burning hell, Chris Redfield awaited Ethan Winters' appearance and was not surprised when he saw that blonde trudge over mounds. He couldn't help but smile; after fifteen years, Ethan remained the same idiot, smug and smarting. He limped, staggering under the weight of Rosemary Winters. The sight compelled Chris forward despite warning from his very injured entourage but he waved aside their reminders of the drop, his earpiece paying no mind to his actions; Kennedy wanted Rose to make it home as much as anyone.

"Thought you weren't going to make it, Ethan," Chris sighed, relieved and nonchalant of the way the father handed over his daughter willing. He even missed the man eyeing the blue barrier-line, gesturing to subtle intentions of allowing time to repeat itself; Ethan was ready to embrace that outcome.

"Chris," he said, standing close to the old friend. He laid a hand on Rose's stirring shoulder, waking from whatever trance her enduring pain had placed her under. "I won't be able to come with her, will I?"

The BSAA agent and lord met eyes and the weight of Mother Miranda's words bought a flash of indigo and green mold to Ethan's skin, quickly tearing away his hand in fear of afflicting upon Rose. And as the epiphany occurred to him, he saw Rose in the same light he saw Chris as; a troubled child who the world thought too much of. Chris Redfield was too strong for his own good, Ethan knew that sincerely, whilst Rose was not a weapon, he just wished her to be his little girl.

"Ethan?" Chris asked beneath the hush of the village's wind, masking the distant brawl between Lord and Mother. The blonde man remained dormant, unresponsive, and unwavering as he watched his watch tic the final seconds. An alarm blared from the convoy behind Chris, his wounded squadron howling and yelling desperately for their Alpha to get back. Ethan owed them the favour.

"Not again, Winters!" Chris yelled, his cry strangled by a burning, tight throat, and hand failing to grip Ethan's wrist. As the bubble came down, just a thin monochrome waver and blue electric zaps to announce its presence, a dust of snow lifted and washed over their shoes and caught in Chris's beard. He backed down, receding from the barrier as Ethan loomed on the opposing side, yet again separated by life and death.

The blonde then grinned and flipped Chris crudely. "You got me into this."

Chris saw the good-natured humor but struggled to ease along with it. To refrain his tears, he wheezed beneath Rose's body. "God, she's a lot heavier now," he tried to laugh.

"Hey, that's my daughter you're talking about," Ethan jeered as a heavy fall of tears made his face messy and red. He approached as far as the boundary would allow, electricity zipping off the surface and reflecting off his skin. "I love you, Rosemary. We'll meet again, I promise."

Her soft resting face wrinkled and paled with extreme blood-loss, but she came around too soon, shrieking at the sight of her father shrinking into the horizon.

"No! Dad! No! No!" she wailed, tussling with Chris.

"Rose, don't. We can't—"

"He's my father!" Rose shrieked; head thrown forth like her arms. "He's not a monster! You can't quarantine him! Please, Chris!"

Things were a lot simpler when she was a non-verbal infant, only gurgling and whining to never mourn but to demand food. His heart ached at such a sight and fit, almost collapsing himself for he no longer wanted to pull and yank at her. Chris, defeated, beckoned a teammate or two over and they manhandled her from her knees in the snow, growing red from her wound.

Goodbye, Ethan Winters.

Ethan raised a hand to signal farewell, having to quickly turn away and yet again fell from one life to the other, this time without a chance of going home.

Chapter Forty-Eight; Grievance on his skin

The ichor and his steel reunited come the later evening hours. Ethan staggered in, the factory's clasp holding a significant difference in temperature than the outside but something sullen lingered in the air. Heisenberg was found in the guest quarters, sulking where Rose once slept. Within his moping was wrathfulness, leering over Donna's restive body. Ethan came forward and touched his shoulder, assuring him all will be fine, and the metal man twisted around without leaving his seat and embraced Ethan's waist, wallowing in the silence that had never before befell the land for so long.

They cleansed themselves of their violence and war ridden hands and both perched on the edge of seats in the living quarters, separated by those final moments in the clutches of Mother Miranda's bane. Heisenberg refused to speak of such an experience and all he dully informed was, "she's dead. Ethan. Mother Miranda is very dead until she is not."

His words inspired Ethan to lament of how much he missed Rose, his regret and horrendous, gut-wrenching hurt spurring him to pace and shout.

"Then why didn't you go with her?" Heisenberg yelled, afflicted with the deep discomforts of an impending argument. "You could've been with her—"

"I'm just like you; I can never be her normal father!" he caterwauled, hands raised, and fingers clenched. "You are no monster, Heisenberg, but I am; I am what inspired the BSAA to hunt you…I am made of mold and can never leave this place…"

silence

"…but maybe, that's a good thing."

"How?" Heisenberg asked in a restrained wail, a haunted look stealing all the beautiful colour in his skin. "How is that a good thing, Ethan?"

Ethan smiled wildly and threw his head around. "Can't you read a face…a room, a—a—an action?" His voice settled and with a remorseful guilt—as he didn't want to admit such heavy passion in the dreary wake of war—confessed, "I love you."

Heisenberg's posture straightened, his shoulders extending his height and Ethan's head bowed.

"That's what I thought," he sneered into the quiet.

"But you didn't make a mistake, Ethan!" the metal man said too late and approached and gripped for the blonde's listless arms. "You will never be the monster I am because you are made of beautiful things…I—I love you too, and I am sorry that you do…you feel that…" He sighed and his head swung away, defeated.

"We need to sleep, Kar," Ethan whispered gently, stroking the man's hand.

They dispersed but met again in bed. Akin to their first meeting, a boundary erected between, nothing touched another until the warming, waver of sunlight glittered through the windows and pierced the private of the room. Outlined by the gracious breath of sun, something compelled them to roll and face the other, thumbs caressed hands held deep in chests, and an exchange of listless mutterings led their lips in soft pecks and enveloping in a long-drawn kiss. Heisenberg moved his body atop of Ethan's, a shining waterfall of silver falling across their faces, his hand intervening to hold the wonderful shape of the blonde's face; a soulmate's hand fit their lover's chin, it all just felt right and forgiving.

Bodies touched in fierce grinds, contrasted to their supple bites and kisses, lips licking and grazing delicate flesh so tender and excited for temperedness. Only parting to shed clothes to allow hot skin against all the colder unscathed parts; dipped faces together and apart, inhaling and exhaling scents and wishing to stain their tongues with lustrous tastes; and the morning sun stroking upon their starkness, detailing orbs of sweat roiling down Heisenberg's back and dripping onto Ethan's quivering legs, hung in a faint squeeze of the metal man's shoulders.

ah—ah

The moan evoked from the tongue on lower, sensitive flesh shivering by the extra, sharp touch of a piercing, Ethan holding a satisfying grip in Heisenberg's loose hair, other preoccupied grasping the pillow and writhed his body to further the touch. Holding the blonde's hips, he withdrew and wiped his mouth, admiring Ethan with a gape and kissed to soothe his unhinged jaw, swallowing the smoothing sounds. Hips coiled in perfect sync, the steel digging within the ichor to rub the nicest of spots and his teeth cinched flesh and lips whilst Ethan ran his fingers roguishly down his neck and into the brawn of Heisenberg's back, flexing like his palms and fingers, bracing for the release.

Alas, in the moments afore, they lingered in each other's faces and noses brushed and nuzzled, smiling and whimpering laughs for at last a bliss dawned like the day upon them and, for now, their woes subsided.

Chapter Forty-Nine; Becoming guardians

Beneath an overcast sky with sunlight piercing sharp and bright, poking melted holes in the snowy scape, the doll-maker, a sloppy footed fish, metal man and his blondie made of mold met beneath a withering twisted elm at the westmost plains of the village. The harsh light of day and a considerably brighter sky scarred artefacts into their eyes, wide and grinning. Safety encapsulated them warmly, prosing an auspicious conclusion to the finale of their old lives within evil.

Laid and nearing peaceful siestas, remained the couple for many woefully wistful days, overcoming grievances with the helpful indulgence of each other's arms. The weather wavered from winter brisk to spring heat, and upon the day where gentle flora sprung from winter's clasp, Heisenberg wove a ring of green stem and fixed it to Ethan's finger.

"Until I can find more jewels, this is my little mark," he said, smiling against the blonde's forehead now clean of hair cut by Donna's steady, sewing hands. "Or—he took the wooden hand, the first act of affection he ever expressed—I could bedazzle this?"

"Bedazzle, hm? You and your fancy words, metal man," Ethan jested, pinching his chin before dropping his hand and rubbing the course fingers together. Ethan lay propped against Heisenberg's chest but this morning, nothing funny would occur; they just wished to love simply and ever-lastingly whilst trapped beneath the dome of quarantine.

"I'll adorn you with gold and silver, my love!" Heisenberg cawed poetically, wrapping his arms tight around Ethan's chest and leaning them both forward. Lips to his ear, he spoke nice and lovely deep, "anything I'd do to keep you with me."

"But I have to stay!" he cruelly joked and gestured to the sky which every-so-often rippled with an electric spasm. "Luckily though—he twisted around and embraced Heisenberg's face with his hands, warming up the cold skin taking a beating from the breeze—I love you."

A kiss ignited a sting of passion between, broken by the question which occasionally tumbled from Heisenberg's lips unrestrained for he feared one day the answer would be yes. Alas, today, it stood the same as it would always remain.

"Do you miss her?"

"Yes. But there is a divide between her and I, a line that no daring attitude could cross for fear it will inspire further chaos." Ethan held out his wooden ring-finger, clasped in the confines of an approaching courtship, and his head tilted back, nose against Heisenberg's chin, snubbed with soot from the factory which he would flick away. "I just know in heart she might feel the same; as long as that emotion is there, I think I will always feel close to her. I just thank you for being here, right now, Kar."

Heisenberg would smile and glance to the horizon, decisively content he alongside his blondie could defend this little land of evil. After all, they had not only embraced an engagement bound to endure ceaseless love but also a guardianship until Redfield returned, army at side, and a solution to the core of their universe. Fortunately, for now, Heisenberg and Ethan found a comforting answer within each other.

Epilogue; Hello again, Rosie

Rosemary Winters disburdened the flowers from Ethan Winters' grave, but an unsureness convinced her otherwise, trapping her within a loop, placing, picking up, and repeat.

Was this the right thing to do even if dad isn't really dead?

"Your choice," Chris said behind his cigarette, poised coolly against the grey willow-tree crying soft petals onto her parents' graves. Their forgiveness was still within a sullen reach, not yet there but not at square-one. She expressed this then by acknowledging his words with a smile and treaded the slippery slope to the car, but Chris told her to wait. "There's someone I'd like you to meet…again."

"Again?" She asked, her voice quieter than the slick rain becoming heavier, and the stench of petrichor thickened.

"I heard he brings you a gift," he smirked, smothering his light beneath the heel of his big boots, forever the military man. Something coy as Rose had never seen before bought pink and red heat to his skin and he nodded behind Rose. Approaching from an illegally parked car came a man with a horrible limp but one that had come far with healing and maybe soon they wouldn't need their silver cane, stabbing into mud and rubble. Chris brushed past Rose to assist with a tenderly touch, the two men bickering quietly and quickly simmering into giggling shudders.

"Hello again, Rosie," this man of just blonde hair spoke, confident in his familiarity with the teenager. He was broad but his body retained a particular thinness and voice aged differently from his stubble ridden jaw; however, his gentle eyes prevailed all, Rose once picturing them as something fierce and hard, like Chris's. Speaking of Chris's, his went round and mushy, so sickeningly affectionate beside this stranger Rose oddly knew.

"Was it you?" She vaguely inquired before hearing her abstractness. "All those years ago, I mean?"

Akin to how Heisenberg and Ethan glanced to each other, these foolish, struck idiots leered into their faces and the new man promised, "and for a few more to come."

Chris scoffed before wrestling a parcel humorously from the man's hand and allowed Rose to unwrap it. Emerged from the thick rustle of paper packaging was a boxy cap, black and firm like the ones military friends of Chris wore. She touched her fingers in a long trace from brim to the soft top and fitted it on her head, smiling out a gentle thank you.

"Heard you lost it in one of your chases," the man enlightened, flexing a sort of insight of Rose which intrigued her about his identity. "Chris told me you wanted to join the police and thought you can't get in without one of these hats."

She bit her lower lip, blushing and nodded. "Yeah…um…but Chris—"

The man laughed loudly over her words, deeming whatever Chris said is just an excuse to protect her. "You can protect yourself, you've defiantly proven that," he agreed with her internal sense, nudging Chris. "After all, you seemed to handle my gun pretty well out there. However, I think I have a few tips for you, kid."

Rose stifled her excitement and gave a respectful gesture, like a low salute as this man deserved. He flicked his head to the car and cheekily asked Chris, "need a ride, Redfield?"

"Shut up," he gruffed, elbowing him aside. He stalked ahead, blinding them to a beaming, bright smile, and this stranger offered Rose a hand as he had done when she was merely five but now in the more mature sense.

"Don't think I ever told you my name," he pursed his lips, "Leon—"

"Kennedy," Rose finished before shyly adding, "I know, big fan."

Leon Kennedy, verging on his greyer years but still well-prepared to face what encroached, ruffled her hair and patted her forward, descending the graveyard toward the dark storm clouds shrouded upon a crowded horizon.