Its been awhile, but here we goes.

Chapter 23. "Shut Up and Dance."

Grease sizzled and a pleasant aroma emanated into the room. Claire glumly lifted her head from her pillow to get a whiff of breakfast. The survivor opened her eyes and slowly stretched her arms and legs, for she felt a knot in her back. Sleeping on a couch is not always the best, and muscle aches is the main reason.

On the other side of the room, a hunched figure had his back toward Claire. He held a frying pan in his hand, and he was moving it over the fire.

Upon closer look, she recognized the swept-back raven hair. It's Hunk, his bandages were stained all over like last time, and she wondered if he was bleeding again or maybe he needed assistance to clean the wounds. The aroma of food definitely replaced the dull dust and cardboard musk.

It would appear that Hunk or Mike searched storage boxes for cooking supplies and other small things. It seemed that Hunk found the cooking utensils.

On another box, there was a pile of pamphlets of several occupations, one of them was becoming a security guard at an island resort and disaster relief. The second pamphlet had large circles in permanent black marker. A phone number was underlined as well. The fresh marks and smell were masked by breakfast.

Cooking was supposedly Mike's job, but Claire felt like she had to contribute. There must be something….

The survivor felt her cheek flush at the thought then hugged a pillow. 'Come on, Claire, don't be a pervert.'

Still, the idea that she was even thinking like that was super strange. After dealing with these problems, it does feel like she forgot that she was a woman with her own needs at the end of the day.

Needs she ignored and nearly forgotten. Or maybe did not know what those needs were, to begin with.

She pushed herself off the couch and stared at the bed. The blanket was folded, the bed was organized.

'Did he really recover?'

Still, she could recall some of what happened last night. How could she forget?

...

"Um... good morning." Claire cleared her throat.

"Hey, Redfield." Hunk answered without looking back. The scrambled eggs were done, and he left a portion at the counter. After a moment of silence, the merc noticed Claire stare at him like an inquisitive cat.

"What's with the weird look?" He asked, his voice was still quiet.

Claire winced slightly and diverted her eyes. "S-sorry." His lips moved to form a slight smile that was barely visible in his cheeks, to her surprise.

"Ah, I get it. You were bedazzled by my appearance. Who knew Mister Death can make his own food, am I right?"

This left Claire befuddled. Who was this person talking to her? Was it really Hunk or someone else that looked like him?

The mercenary shrugged, picked up bread and salt, and went to sit beside Mike resting in a bed. When Hunk had his back to Claire, she glanced at the pilot. Mike reminded Claire of a coma patient. Pale and statuesque.

"You shouldn't be up. You were at the brink of death," Claire commented then nearly chuckled at the poorly time pun. At first, there was silence, to the point she imagined perhaps he was sleeping while setting up.

Awkward . . .

"Okay." She whispered and went for the bathroom to wash up.

Hunk focused on Mike for a moment, the way his chest moved with every breath. He placed his hand over Mike's forehead, and he felt a slightly warm sneak to his fingers. Once again, his mind went to another time, another place. Where everything changed.

...

A set of eyes were frantically scanning the darkness. A woman shivered nonstop as painful moans ripped through her. Blood started to bore from her eyes, staining her pale cheeks red.

"James . . ." She whimpered. "James."

The mercenary stood still, in utter disbelieve. His own tears moved involuntarily as he cried silently... watching his love fade away.

James did not know what to do. He hurried forward and closed the door.

"Sorry, baby." He whispered.

Kristen froze for a moment, her eyes focused on him. A great deal of pain and betrayal was evident in her face.

"James . . . don't leave me." She reached with her hand through the bars. The mercenary backtracked several steps.

James bit his lips as he raised his pistol toward her.

...

The sound of the bathroom door opening brought him back. He saw Claire walk out and stretch her arms slightly. The mercenary shook his head to blur the memory.

"How are you feeling?" she asked once her eyes were on his.

Hunk sighed and stared back at his brother again.

At a loss of what she could do, Claire sat back on the couch, tired.

"May I call you . . . by your real name?" Claire broke the silence.

"Sure," Hunk murmured.

Not being tied to the room nor followed at the threat of gunpoint, Claire felt she was hungry, and the food the mercenaries stored were not pleasant to eat.

"Hey, um, James. Is there anywhere I could get something a little fresh, for lunch?"

Hunk looked up at Claire, rose from the chair, and opened a box full of rolled-up paper currency. Claire recognized rubles, euros, and even Brazilian reals. There was no hesitation. Hunk handed Claire a roll of rubles.

There was no malice given by Hunk curiously as he remained close to his brother's side. When Hunk gave her Russian rubles, she'd expected a snide comment about a warning of betrayal or implied form of physical harm. Yet, Hunk blankly stared and turned away from her. A reactive social instinct occurred to the survivor to say a joke to lighten the mood.

The survivor ventured into the other room and found a red winter jacket. It was a size larger than what would be ideal, but it was enough. Taking several steps away from the motel door, Claire turned to face the door then glanced at the money. This is enough rubles to take a taxi and find the nearest airport. A chance to ignore all of this and move on.

Claire sighed to herself. It was cold enough for her to see her breath.

An hour passed as Claire kept a respectful distance from strangers. Claire was fortunate enough to learn the cashier spoke some English to carry out a transaction at the food place. The food was good enough, potentially the first authentic meal where she was in control of her life for once. For the duration of the return to the motel, Claire carried her drink.

Ice rattled within the cup. It was not like she wanted to make noise, but the room was so quiet that the lack of noise made her drink seem like the loudest thing ever. The straw rested on Claire's lips as she approached the entrance to Nighthawk's room.

Stunted, the survivor stopped at the doorway. Like a gargoyle statue, Claire saw Hunk sitting there. The way his shoulders were hunched and the water dripping off his cheeks. Claire knew right away that Hunk shed tears, the reddened eyes, and had recently cleaned himself up. Hunk glanced at her for a moment, then went back to blankly stare at the ground.

Claire knew the feeling of when she was emotionally severed from her brother for months after the Raccoon City incident. During that time, Claire nearly despised Chris. Always risking his life like he has nothing to lose. As a sibling, Claire sensed that deep down. Hunk is still reeling at the fact he's alive and can say his brother is still alive despite what they've endured. It is best to move on from petty disputes and appreciate the family they have at present.

Moving away from the doorway, Claire went into the other room and set her drink down. In the silence, she searched through the equipment crates and found something valuable. Looking over her shoulder, Claire nodded to herself in affirmation.

By the time Claire came back into the bedroom. There low volume of music emanated beside her. As Claire entered, Hunk looked at her with mild bewilderment.

The survivor held her hand out to the mercenary. Understanding the gesture, Hunk took Claire's hand, and she respectfully brought him to stand. There was no resistance from Hunk when Claire gently guided him to one of the room's back doors, which led to a vacant field behind the motel. Both were dressed appropriately for the weather as Claire held the mobile radio in her free hand.

The sky was cloudy, and the weather could change any minute.

Standing at the concrete porch, Claire tilted her head at the sky, Hunk obliged her. There they stood for an unknowable amount of time. The mercenary thought the weather was cold, and his cheeks started to redden. Finally, the survivor's eyes drifted to the field; this place would do nicely.

The music bellowed, and Claire set the radio to the ground, then tugged Hunk to follow. When the two left the porch, several snowflakes drifted past them.

It started snowing.

Now several feet away from the concrete porch. Claire faced Hunk, and he did the same. Then, taking his forearms, Claire positioned his hands at her shoulders, and she moved her hands at his hips. Her left foot rose and went down, then repeated the motion with the left foot. Although the music was low, it was the only thing the two could hear. The movement was slow, but Hunk began to mirror the leg movement.

Seeing that Hunk got the idea, Claire stepped back and tugged at Hunk's arm. She rose it up, and Hunk lightly spun to which his blank stare slowly faded. But the time the mercenary finished the spin, he lifted his arm up for Claire to turn. The movement gradually increased in speed, but they discovered a comfortable pace. Then, understanding the kindness, Hunk slowly opened his hands to which Claire's fingers interlocked with his.

The warmth was welcomed in the cold.

Claire could tell that Hunk was terrible at dancing. In fact, this reminded her of the first homecoming dance during high school. No one at her school was good at dancing back then. However, this was not enough to dissuade her from helping Hunk. There was no lashing of emotion or jokes at the misfortune of another human being. Claire knew that feeling all too well from several failed relationships she experienced.

Hunk struggled at first to Claire guiding him in their movement. He stumbled and lightly stepped on her feet several times, but Claire did not shame or berate him. The mercenary could not remember the last time he had ever danced to the music. Helpless to the music and bright light, Hunk was out of his element.

"You don't have to hold back," Claire spoke softly. Then much to her surprise, the survivor saw the mercenary smile.

A natural smile reached his eyes.

Usually, snow is when to accept that everything comes to an end, as the lesson of death. Yet, now amid light foliage and white abyss. The vermilion and sable figures temporarily escaped the worries of the greater world. Claire leaned back, and Hunk supported her and spun for a moment.

When the spin slowed down, Hunk and Claire were partly dizzy. So they stopped to regain their bearings. The music slowed down and approached its end. The silhouette of the motel started to take shape through the light snowfall. Then for a moment, the two stood in silence.

Claire peered into Hunk's eyes and saw her reflection. 'Does he recognize me as a Claire or the girl he lost?'

Hunk blinked. 'When was the last time I felt free and danced to music?' It felt strange to be happy, for a change, to forget about the stress.

After a moment, the snowfall started to fade out. Then the nearby street lights, buildings, and motel became clearer. The two separated as Claire looked to the ground, and Hunk scratched the back of his neck.

"Umm. . .Thank you." Hunk spoke finally.

Claire looked up.

"This…. Helped."

Hunk stared at the snow and Claire had one arm rest on the other. The two did not want to make eye contact.

"Yeah . . ." He replied. "I needed that."

He was about to go back inside when an idea reignited in his mind. He gazed back at her and whispered. "Have you heard of Terrasave?"

While Nighthawk and Claire slept, Hunk over the course of the night searched through the supplies. During the mad dash to grab things before transferring to the safe house, Nighthawk must have grabbed a pile of pamphlets and several magazines.

Among the pile, something intrigued Hunk. It showed a group of men and women eager to provide medical assistance and human rights. He is not the type to drop his occupation but could be an interesting opportunity for Claire. It would at least, keep her away, and hopefully, safer.

A question took her by surprise. She avoided his eyes, a bit shy. "Umm . . . not really, what is that?" She asked.

"It's a group that recently formed for new branches. . ." James broke the silence. "They are a specialized rescue team for Bio-terrorism survivors. This could be the perfect job for you."

Claire allowed his words to sink in for a moment.

TerraSave.

She could be away from fighting but still doing her part to help out. Perhaps this could be what she was looking for.

Her true calling.

"I don't know? I guess I need to think about it a bit." She replied.

James chuckled slightly and continued. "If you ask me, that job has your name written all over it."

Claire felt herself relax, and her expression softened. The statement was welcomed but slightly hurt at the same time.

She crossed her arms and replied. "You don't say? Thanks for the recommendation . . . umm I'll think about it."

Silence once again dominated between them.

"Are you still going to be a . . . mercenary?" She asked, worried that perhaps her question is unnecessary and it's still a fresh wound.

James heaved a sigh. "I'm the Grim Reaper remember? I love my job. I suppose right now, I'm more of an independent Mercenary."

Claire felt something in her heart, a sensation she could not quite understand that started to choke and corrode her.

"You guys are so cute." A familiar voice interrupted. "Would you make out already?"

Startled, she pulled her hands away and gazed at the source of the voice. Mike watched them through the window. A large smirk broke across his face. His hair looked disheveled, and his face reeked of just waking up from a long sleep.

Mike didn't see it coming, a snowball was flung his way, and he staggered back as the cold connected to his face.

"Ouch . . . what was that for?"

James crossed his arms and chuckled. "You're a jerk, it's about time you get some payback."

Thank you for reading.

Thank you The95will