If she had truly been honest with herself, she would say that this was probably not the smartest thing in the world to be doing.
Primarily because:
A.) Marriage was kind of a concrete, serious business, and if things went sour there wasn't an easy escape plan. This she countered with her own knowledge of herself, and her need to prioritize a safe departure. That was obviously residual from being on survival mode for so long. Who had time to plan roots and debate the merits of domesticity when you weren't sure if the world was going to suffer some sort of bio-terrorism?
B.)Both Chris and herself had joked about being more spontaneous, i.e. having vigorous sex in public and/or private facilities without the slightest concern for anyone else. Apparently, this translated in to seeking the holy vows of matrimony in the sleaziest town the world. Cliché or not, it was still met this goal.
C.) Claire apparently liked to multi-task while driving… that meant driving a stick, eating an apple, with diet coke nestled on her lap, and her other hand fiddling with the radio. She could see her life ending fairly soon.
D.)But speaking of the younger Redfield, like as not, this whole Vegas scheme is going to be the catalyst for some issues… yes, the obvious man and wife issues, but also about the extent of how in the loop they would keep Claire. So far, she had been maintaining the student life successfully… and had miraculously withstood the psychological trauma that went hand in hand with dealing Umbrella. For the most part, Claire had shown the resilience to be able to reacquaint herself with real life once more.
Yet, her ignorance of certain… issues provoked occasional mediation sessions between her, Chris, and even Leon. Certainly, it couldn't go on forever, but it had been Chris's adamant demand that their actions not involve Claire further. So far, they had acquiesced.
There was a hand on her knee. It belonged to this lout of a man who seemed to sense the kind of erratic thoughts wracking through her skull. Being the in the back seat certainly had its perks… one of them was having the offer of a warm and solid body to pillow her thoughts and involuntarily beckon her eyes to close…
Carlos Oliviera was not having a good day.
Never mind the steadfast burning of his calf from a puncture wound. It was embarrassing enough that he hadn't successfully hopped over the barb wire fence as effortlessly as he once had. That was novice work. I must be getting old. Though he was more than qualified in instructing new recruits in the arts of military training, this group seemed particularly devoid of common sense. The medic had to treat four of them for blunders that most middle school kids could easily avoid.
No. He could handle the frustrations, ill-conceived actions, and ego-diminishing wounds.
What was currently pouring his rage into a thick, brimming seethe was the fact that someone had eaten his patented, beautiful turkey bagel sandwich. Someone had deliberately removed the note that had blatantly threatened disfigurement to the poor soul who removed its contents. And this was something he had fantasized about for the last hour… the carefully toasted bagel, the Dijon mustard, the generous helping of turkey and cheese… this would have been something to soothe his frayed mindset, and compensated for his low blood sugar. What remained was a sad looking crumpled bag, with the remaining butcher paper intact with perhaps a few delectable crumbs.
Alas, with his thoughts still contemplating disembowelment, his cell phone took the opportunity to ring. Without thinking, he greeted it with a snarl.
"What?"
There was momentary silence. Then a hesitant "Carlos?"
He took a breath, consciously unclenching the fist he had made of his grip. After a long exhalation, he felt a small measure of calm return. "Rebecca… Hi."
Anyone walking into the communal kitchen at this point would have been puzzled by the one-sided conversation taking place.
"Yeah, it's going fairly well…"
"Nah, that's secondary at this point…the resources are insufficient for that sort of maneuver."
"…Really? Will there be cheesecake?"
"I certainly hope it isn't a toaster."
"Yeah, that kid is a recruiter's wet dream."
"Well shit… let's do it. I'll be off at 6, so pack it in around that time. Let's see what Vegas yields."
The eventual arrival in Las Vegas had been delayed in multiple ways. As Leon eyed the right taillight, or rather, the shattered remnants of what once had been a taillight, he was reminded why the law discouraged road rage.
In this aforementioned example, Jill had been driving, and had been a consistent force of constant grace and accountability. That is until she was met by an accelerator-happy teenaged terror, who seemed to delight in riding ass for a good chunk of the road. Jill, not one to back down, took her foot off the accelerator in order to slowly decrease their speed… and to delight in the deranged look of irritation the driver behind her exuded.
This continued for all of two minutes… until their vehicle drifted below fifty. That was when they felt the gentle, but undeniable tap of another bumper behind them.
"Holy shit… are they prodding us?" Jill shrieked, looking remarkably less collected. The three passengers seemed to have their own ideas for how to deal with the situation. Chris wanted something to the effect of pulling up beside them and to make idle threats with his gun. Leon suggested pulling over and getting their license plate; as a police officer, he could certainly attend to the official sanctions that followed this type of behavior. Claire continued to verbally disparage the car, flipping them off, and occasionally yelling deprecating comments.
It was settled when they felt yet another tap on their bumper; this time much more pronounced.
"That's it." Without another word, Jill slammed on her breaks, delighting in the accompanying squeal of tires. They felt an obvious hit, and a cringe-worthy crunch. That was when they finally pulled over; the car behind them following appropriately.
San Francisco had yielded many things: marinated Bok Choy, acquiring assorted boxes of nag champa incense, and a chance for Chris to make a few much needed phone calls. The left Leon and Claire to fend for themselves. Their activities consisted of perusing the aisles of the City of Lights bookstore, drinking bubble tea, and buying enough Ghirardelli chocolate to put an adolescent to shame.
Finally settling on one of the piers, they took turns breaking off mammoth sections of chocolate, making acute observations of the passing tourists. Claire was immediately drawn to a frumpy, middle-aged woman dressed in a muumuu the color of raw fish.
"Her name is Mildred. She was once paid ten dollars to suck on the end of the exhaust pipe of her mother's '57 beetle. She enjoys national geographic, banana milkshakes, and midget mud wrestling." Claire took a sip of her bubble tea, deciding that she could live without the tapioca.
Leon looked thoughtfully at the potential tourists, settling his gaze on a seventeen year old kid with intricate sleeve tattoos and a labret piercing.
"This is Leopold. He spends the majority of his existence indoors, playing RPG and looking at European sodomy magazines. He is outside today to acquire his weekly allowance of weed, and his hobbies include arm wrestling toddlers." Claire chuckled, helping herself to another helping of chocolate.
They continued this activity for a good half an hour when their chuckles were interrupted by the shrill sound of Leon's cell phone. He apologized, then promptly stood up to walk a distance away. Claire wondered if the kid had a vast assortment of women admirers that made it their business to call him at all hours of the day. Embarrassed at her the new development of her thoughts, she promptly squelched the rest of that lineup.
