Resident Evil - Voracious
FIRST INTERMISSION
Author's Note: Regarding the mention of Trent in here, I'm assuming you've all read at least one of the books. I will tell you flat outright that Trent himself will not make an appearance in this story. I do, however, have respect for S.D. Perry's novelisation attempts, and so I've made a few attempts to tie the books AND the games in.
Eyeing herself critically in front of the mirror, Jill Valentine twisted her head from side to side, the eyeliner still held in one hand. She thought it might be a sufficient enough transformation to allow her to go out without attracting undue attention; she had applied the eyeliner with a deliberately heavy hand, sweeping it up subtly at the corner to imply a different shape than her eyes normally held, been severe in the pale blush to create the illusion of sharply angled cheekbones. Just last night she had sat patiently on a chair in the middle of the small hotel room while Rebecca Chambers had cut her hair, changing it into a delicate pixie-cut. For Jill, who rarely applied makeup beyond a few subtle basics, it felt uncomfortable if not downright bizarre to have layers of the stuff all over her face. Still, it was worth it for how different she looked . . . even if it wasn't exactly a positive change from her point of view.
"I look like a kid who broke into her mother's makeup box." she complained aloud.
Sitting up against the headboard of her bed with a book propped open on her knees and a handgun lying on the pillow beside her, Rebecca looked over. The Bravo -- no, you couldn't really call her that anymore, could you? Rebecca herself had gone through a makeover of her own, although a less drastic one; her hair had been dyed a dark strawberry blonde and allowed to grow somewhat shaggy, a pair of blue-tinted sunglasses propped up on her forehead. "No, you don't."
"Really?"
"You look like a deranged lolita." the young woman assured her, and grinned.
"Well, thank you for that." Jill tried for an expression of hurt, but found herself chuckling anyway.
It felt good to laugh, even as little as that. Ever since the Spencer Estate, Jill had acquired a new appreciation for comedy, and found herself filling her spare time with cheap, harmless fluff novels and silly comedy movies. Anything to drive back the shade of depression that kept trying to creep over her whenever she stopped moving long enough to listen to her thoughts. Chris and David had been indulgent for the most part, but when Jill had mentioned going out to see an amateur stand-up night at a comedy club she'd noticed as they'd driven into the city, both men had become mysteriously "exhausted". Only Rebecca had been willing to join her. Ah well. Let them cope in their own way.
Even if, judging from the dark circles Jill had seen around David's eyes just this morning, their nightmares were just as bad as hers.
It was never the same one in Jill's case. Her imagination was far too active to allow her a single repetitive dream. When she finally managed to fall asleep each night, her dreams, when her sleep wasn't blissfully absent of them, were full of long, dark corridors, distant cries for help, shadows glimpsed just out of the corner of her eye, and cold, dead hands grasping at her throat.
If she was lucky.
Other times, she found herself dreaming of fleeing through darkened streets from a towering monolith neither dead nor truly alive, made by man to kill man, stomping the remains of children underfoot. And then there were the explosions, bright births of red and orange and yellow flowers behind her eyes, silencing all that screaming and pain in an instant, which was somehow even more horrible than the cries themselves.
She'd never mentioned these to the others, therapeutic as it might have been to discuss them with someone else. The last thing she needed was to feel Chris's eyes on her dark with worry, for David to think she was losing it, and for Rebecca to feel less than safe with her. Besides, she was sure they had their own demons to deal with.
Jill retrieved a faded brown leather jacket from off of the other bed in the room and shrugged into it, making sure it lay naturally over the pistol she carried in a pancake holster at her side. In a pinch, she could shoot through the jacket itself if she didn't have time to fully draw, but she would have hated to; the jacket had belonged to her father. "Ready?"
Slamming her book shut, Rebecca eeled off the bed. At the door, Jill paused once to sweep the room with her gaze and make sure she'd locked all the windows, and that nothing would look odd if one of the cleaning women happened by in their absence; apart from the weapons she and Rebecca carried, there was a suitcase, locked, in the back of the narrow closet that held a few other choice pieces under a false cover of folded shirts and feminine hygeine products. It wasn't much of a room in any case; dingy paisley patterned wallpaper, and barely enough room to turn around between the dresser, a battered narrow desk, and the two sagging beds. At least it was clean, which was more than she could say for some of the other places they'd been forced to hide out in. It hadn't been easy to stay under Umbrella's radar, but she thought they'd managed it for the time being.
In the hallway, Jill paused to knock on the door opposite the room she shared with Rebecca. She heard quiet footsteps approach the door, a pause while she was scruitinised through the peephole, and then the sound of a lock being turned. The door swung open and Chris Redfield smiled wearily at her. "Hey. Heading out? You look great."
"Really? Because you look like hell."
He laughed, and she laughed with him, but it was basically true. Chris was a good looking guy -- a fact that she'd maybe begun to pay too much attention to -- but these past few months had stamped their mark on him. There were dark bags under his eyes, his hair longer than it had ever been and untidy. As they'd done most of their work at night, his skin had acquired a slightly unhealthy pale tint to it. Jill would have liked to think that this was part of Chris's own personal disguise, but she knew better. He was worried.
And mad as hell at Umbrella.
Jill leaned by him into the room. "Hi, David. Just wanted to let you guys know we're leaving."
Seated on the opposite side of the room, his back to them at the desk that was identical to the one in Jill's own room, David Trapp didn't look around at the sound of her voice. His frame was illuminated in the steady glow of the laptop computer set up in front of him, giving him almost a messiac appearance. His long hands sped across the keys, typing in some command, before the screen went black and he twisted around in the chair to face her. Even as irritated as she was with his dismissive behaviour, Jill felt a twinge of embarassment as she always did whenever he looked at her. She couldn't help it. David looked like a lot of the professors she had known back in high school, somehow too refined, too . . . sculpted to really look as though he belonged as part of their little vigilante troupe. It didn't help that to change his appearance he'd grown a small, immaculately trimmed goatee, dyed his hair a somehow scholarly salt-and-pepper colour. He looked at her, and Jill felt herself straightening under his gaze.
David smiled wanly. "I suppose you still have amateur comedy in mind."
"Well . . . yes. I wasn't going to try any of my own though."
"I might." Rebecca said, surprising them all. "What?" she asked, brows rising. Ever since they had been drawn closer together, Rebecca seemed to be trying to come into herself more, making more of an effort to seperate herself from the shy, murmuring girl whose innocence had been cast aside like a flimsy curtain after the Spencer Estate.
"I didn't know biochemists had senses of humour." Chris said. "What, are you going to get up there and go, 'What's the difference between a subatomic pathogen and a neutral atomic mass? The latter has only four functioning diodes!'" He feigned uproarious laughter and slapped his knee.
Rebecca regarded him dryly. "Hardly any of what you just said made sense. And what did, you got wrong."
Slipping between the two of them, Jill sat on the edge of the bed next to David. "Rooting out bad guys or buying bad pottery off of Ebay?" she asked, gesturing at the computer screen. Smiling slightly, David swivelled the computer towards her with one hand.
The now familiar image of the message board they'd been using to keep tabs on one another filled the screen. It wasn't one of their own making; that would have been too obvious. Instead, they'd chosen a preexisting message board, one fairly active one where teens across the US posted to ask about everything from sex to trouble at home. David had been reading a message, posted just that afternoon, from Claire -- or, as she'd chosen to be her handle, LivelyGrrl19. (Jill had to grin whenever she saw the slight cringe that crossed David's features whenever he had to type in something like that.)
Hey everybody. Just thought I'd let you know that I haven't heard from Cybill lately. I don't think there's any need to go knocking on her door just yet. I'll keep an eye on her, and hopefully her brother will let us know if she's in any real trouble. :)
Simple and unobtrusive, unlike the elaborate, headache-inducing plans they'd originally come up with before Claire had suggested it. Cybill referred to Umbrella, after the deranged woman with multiple personalities in the old movie. According to Claire, there was nothing new to report on her end, but she was keeping an eye out from Cybill's brother.
Namely, Trent.
Truth be told, none of them had heard from the man in quite some time. Certainly they had no way to contact him. For her part, Jill was a little relieved. Even if thus far Trent had been helpful to them, there was no guarantee it would continue. It was like a carrot being dangled in front of their noses; desperate for a lead, for a friendly face, they would follow it because they had no choice, at least until they got wind of something happening. But when next they followed Trent, who was to say they wouldn't wind up staring eternity in the eye down the barrel of a gun?
Jill felt a brief pang of envy for Barry, so comfortable and surrounded by his family now.
"How are you?" David asked quietly, as Chris and Rebecca continued to pick on one another affectionately.
"Tired." Jill replied honestly, looking him straight in the eyes. "Nervous."
He nodded. "I know what you mean. I almost wish something would happen. Do you suppose that's perverse?"
Jill had to smile. "No. I want it over with too." No matter what we have to climb over to get there, she added mentally.
By the door, Rebecca giggled and shoved Chris at something he'd said, grinning over at Jill. "Hey, are we going or what?"
"Sure you don't want to come?" Jill asked David.
He shook his head. "We agreed. Two people stay together at all times, and someone has to monitor the site."
"Yeah. And besides, Pretty in Pink is on hotel cable tonight. I can't miss that." Chris affected an expression of such great torment that Jill laughed, partly from relief. However he looked, he seemed to be holding up well, and it was important to her that he did.
Maybe as important as Chris is becoming . . . ?
Smiling, Jill stood up, ignoring the thought. Chris was a friend, sure, but this wasn't some slumber party. "You'll get your turn tomorrow night." she said, and the sarcasm faded from his own smile when his eyes met hers.
When Jill and Rebecca were out on the street, Jill glanced up at what she knew was Chris and David's hotel room window. The curtain twitched slightly and she raised a hand in salute. They were getting by, she thought. They all were.
Still, part of her was soundly in David's court. She wished something would happen.
At least Barry was having fun.