Episode Two Point Three: And Now Your Life Drains On The Floor
Present day, present time...
The facilities that Wesker had spoken of were indeed adequate, more so than Shakahnna had expected in fact, as although the décor remained as the same, bland white that she had long since grown bored of from the previous room, there were numerous fittings to cater to her needs. Realised in white plastic were a lavatory, wash basin and shower unit, as well as a mirror set over the small sink. The enclosure that separated the shower from the remainder of the chamber was lined with various hygiene products, most of which were cherry-scented and had been chosen with a kind of indiscriminate apathy that suggested her paramour had simply acquired as many as possible to suit her tastes. In spite of his apparent disinterest, she noticed that there were several bottles that she recognised and had used often, though she set the familiar products aside in favour of the unknown alternatives, reasoning that it was always nice to try something new. That she could lock the door to the bathroom made her feel somewhat more comfortable with the concept of showering there, though she was in no doubt that her gargantuan host would not be deterred by a simple locked door if he wanted to retrieve her from within. Once she had performed her ablutions and was feeling suitably more human she made her way back into the cell's main chamber.
The sight of the black-clad individual in the other room was enough to cause her to start wildly, unprepared as she was for another visitation, though she quickly regained her composure. His face was a miserable sight. Having chipped away the worst of the seared flesh, what remained was a mask of withered ochre skin, damage too severe to regenerate as quickly as the rest of his injuries. His right eye was uncovered, but was coated in a milky glaze and obviously blind to the world, staring directly ahead in a manner that might have been quite tragic had he not deserved it and tenfold more. He had elected not to retrieve a new pair of sunglasses, and as such the entirety of the damage that she had dealt to him could be seen. She derived a degree of satisfaction from that.
"Do you think maybe you could not be a weirdo for just a little while?" she asked, annoyed at having to see him again so soon after their last meeting, which had admittedly not ended well, at least for him.
"I merely wished to ensure that you were satisfied with your accommodation," he informed her, to which she scoffed, "I notice that you are not wearing the attire that was provided for you."
The gamine shot a look down at the navy blue S.T.A.R.S fatigues that she was still wearing in spite of how grimy and blood-stained those garments still were. Her skin, at least, was clean, and that much felt good regardless of what she was clad in. It was most certainly better than the alternative. "Fuck that, those clothes be'd having the Umbrella logo on them," she said dismissively, referring to the pile of what had seemed to be white surgical scrubs on the floor of the bathroom.
"Appropriate, don't you think?" he asked, and likely would have raised an eyebrow if he had still had any. Shakahnna's reaction was a cross between annoyance at his snide comment and amusement at the concept of having taken away the mannerisms that comprised the more subtle aspects of his behaviour. It almost seemed as though she had removed a part of him, and that much gave her a warm feeling of well-being.
"Get bent," she insisted. In truth, she was wearing the clothing that had been laid out for her, or at least, little pieces of it. She was using a strip of the material to tie her hair back from her face, which had been towelled off in the absence of a dryer, while another was wrapped around her right hand, masking the burn that he had given her during their last meeting. Her attempts to scrub that particular mark off her body had only led to the reverse of her palm becoming exceptionally sore, and so she had elected to cover it instead, which worked just as well at the end of the day. Either way she didn't have to look at the Umbrella logo anymore. "So what now?" she queried, crouching down beside the door and placing her back to the wall, watching him warily.
"I beg your pardon?" he enquired in response.
"What comes next? What are going to do to me you mental case?" she explained, gesticulating her hands in a display of agitation, "I assume you had something else in mind, like, that's not the end, is it?"
The blond male let out a sinister chuckle, the sound of it all the more frightening when you took into account the ravaged face that it issued forth from. "We have not begun, my dear," he informed her, that statement provoking both fear and intrigue in her. She had a good mind to locate the part of her brain that was producing the latter reaction and cut it out so that it would stop giving him the satisfaction; the former was easily masked by her flippancy.
"I still don't know why you're doing this anyway," she pointed out, once again coupling her words with the aggravated motions of her arms, her speech becoming all the more animated now that she was beginning to grow tired of his rather ambiguous way of speaking. As much as Shakahnna was fond of games, she didn't like riddles; she considered them to be boring and the preserve of pseudo-intellectuals at the same time. That he seemed to talk in them all the time grated on her immensely and she wanted a straight answer for once.
"Surely that much should be obvious," her antagonist said, to which she shot him a look that non-verbally threatened a kick in the nuts if he didn't explain and stop being such a wise arse, "you are a member of an organisation that threatens my interests, Miss Morgan, and as such I wish to interrogate you. I am assuming that you at least know the whereabouts and identity of your direct superior, and that much will suffice. If you can tell me no more than that then I will simply have that individual enlighten me instead."
"Okies, first of all you be's absolute Umbrella scum alpha, so I'm not telling you anything," she replied, still crouched against the wall, though abandoning her erratic movements now that he had given her something of an explanation for his behaviour and desire to hold her imprisoned, though naturally she was suspicious of his motives, "second, do you think I'd be stupid enough to ask to know stuff? All I need to know is where the people to make dead are and where the stuff to blow up is; anything else be's too much information because people like you always wanna know and there's no way I can tell you if I don't have any clue myself now, can I?"
"You expect me to believe that you know nothing pertinent relating to S.T.A.R.S?" he questioned, her response to which was simply to shrug.
"I expect you to fuck off, believe me or not," she told him, lacing her fingers in front of her and sighing. She noticed that Wesker's eye had come to rest upon an area of the wall a couple of feet above her head, and turned to look at what it was that he was staring at. On the vertical surface behind her was what appeared to be half a handprint realised in a thick, crimson fluid, which had not been there during their previous liaison.
The formally-dressed sadist advanced across the room towards the curious mark and examined it as it was directly in front of him, coming to stand directly over the young woman. It seemed that the stain was in fact complete, consisting of a sanguine palm on the wall of the cell and a set of digits that curled onto the inner frame of the doorway, something that he seemed to find quite curious. "And what, may I ask, is this?" he asked, glancing down at her for a moment before turning his attention back to the mark.
"So I can be finding the bathroom again if you shut the door," she said casually, before smiling to herself, "and it be's pretty. It's so fucking boring in here."
"Quite," he responded, evidently uninterested in her opinion of the decorating, "might I enquire as to where this blood originated from?"
That he seemed to feel it necessary to ask whether he could question her was, to Shakahnna, nothing short of a colossal display of faggotry on his part, and she was not impressed. "My arm," she said flatly and honestly. The truth of the matter was that Albert Wesker was not the only one capable of secreting things away so that they were easily missed, and while a network of cells lined with various invisible fittings was that much more impressive, the redhead was still more than capable of the odd surprise. Ironically, it had been the blond himself who had provided her with the perfect method for things of that nature. Having a right cheek composed entirely of scar tissue wasn't just good for bragging rights and making her look that much more gorgeous, though it certainly did that. There was a pocket of ruined flesh on the inside of her mouth that was a supposed side effect of the surgery she had undergone. It was ideal for hiding small objects such as keys or razor blades, like the sliver of sharpened metal that she was currently clutching in her right hand that she had utilised in order to let the blood for her handprint, and which she was now going to use to fuck her scarred captor up.
Of all of the major arteries in the body, the jugular was by far the gamine's favourite; however, there was another at the top of the inner thigh that had the delightful effect of sending someone into shock and causing them to bleed so quickly that they could rarely recover in time to prevent their demise when it was cut. Though she was not expecting the male to go into shock, she was pleased when slashing through his femoral artery caused his leg to buckle, which in tandem with the sudden full force of her shoulder in his stomach sent him tumbling onto his back with her sitting neatly atop his bloodied thighs. Surprised as he was, and disadvantaged by the blindness in his right eye, he could not react quickly enough to prevent the redhead from quickly gaining the upper hand over him. Seizing the initiative, she moved forwards towards his head, positioning herself on his muscular abdomen before slamming her left palm into his jaw and holding him so that his chin was forced away from his throat. With that, she whipped the razor forward and stabbed it downwards into the skin of his neck, drawing a deep, crimson gouge in the flesh and tearing open his windpipe at the same time as she severed the veins clustered around it. His life bubbled out of the wound as the muscles beneath his damaged face contorted in a mixture of intense agony and acute arousal, all the more so as she dropped the weapon in her hand and thrust her fingers into the slit, vermilion staining her palm as the increasingly thick fluid covered her skin.
He gripped the back of her head by a fistful of flame-coloured hair roughly and pulled her forwards, their lips meeting as his mouth cracked open and blood spilled from within them, the kiss tasting only of that as it filled the passages of his skull and ran into his lungs, drowning and choking him at the same time. In this situation, not needing to breathe was immensely convenient. For her part, she permitted the kiss, allowing herself a moment of abandon in lieu of the fact that she had just killed him for a second time, and admittedly because he was quite good at it even if he was dying. And then his other hand pressed on her stomach from below, this motion heralding a swift forward roll that sent her crashing heavily onto her back, moments before she was dragged upwards by the fingers tangled in her tresses as he returned to a standing position and pulled her along for the ride. She glanced up at him from her knees as she did her best to rise at the same pace as the hand clutching her scalp, watching as a torrent of scarlet cascaded from the gaping chasm in his neck and blood ran in lines from his mouth and nostrils giving him an exceptionally morbid countenance. Without a word, he pushed her in the direction of the wall as she rose to her feet, before his body came to rest against hers, pressing her to the white surface behind her and pinning her there.
She opened her mouth to speak, only for him to lift a finger to her lips and silence her. In turn, she raised her right arm and pressed the stained flesh of her hand to his face, leaving a decoration similar to the one that remained on the wall by the portal that led to the bathroom. His face remained neutral, though when he tried to speak he only succeeded in gurgling, the wound in his throat gaping widely as he did so. After a moment of silence, she shot him a frown and pout from behind the digit that was still held to the lower part of her face, deliberating biting the end of it off so that she could speak up.
"I had not expected that," Wesker eventually informed her, his usual purr now a throaty growl due to the rapidly-healing damage to his windpipe and the abundance of viscous, red fluid lining his trachea, "I underestimated your resourcefulness; it will not happen again."
"I'm not even started with you, fuck-shit-whore," she announced, parodying his own previous statement of a similar kind. His lips peeled back into a vicious sneer, revealing pearl white teeth that were slick with gore, before he rocked backwards and drew her away from the wall by her throat. Still leering intently, he quickly pushed her away, slamming her forcibly into the stone. Her head struck and swam instantaneously, making it impossible for her to brace for the second impact, let alone the third and fourth. Each time her body struck the vertical surface, her brains rattled in her skull, and it was likely that she had developed concussion from the first blow alone. She felt herself falling as the relentless pounding ended, leaving her to topple onto her face and slip into unconsciousness yet again.
-
Albert Wesker was not a man whose behaviour was governed by his emotions. He was a practical individual who favoured logic and lateral thinking, and thought passion to be as unreliable as it was dangerous to indulge in due to the adverse affects it had on one's ability to remain objective. There was no pride to be taken in this method of achieving his goals; it was simply the most effective way of doing so, and the results of his labours provided him with the necessary satisfaction. However, his habit of indifference made the unsettling irritation that he felt in the company of the imprisoned Miss Morgan incredibly vexing. Merely setting eyes on her made his jaw clench that much tighter and his brow furrow all the more, though admittedly these small changes in his expression were almost impossible for all but the most observant of people to notice. When he thought of how she defied him and refused to be manipulated, in spite of how he had imprisoned her and how easily he could end her life, that aggravation became aggression, which would rapidly descend into unrestrained violence when she looked at him with her head cocked and casually insulted him, almost as though she barely considered him worthy of the effort to do so. She had found a way to burrow under his skin and delighted in stabbing him from inside, before blatantly refusing to indulge his lust, torturing him and driving him gradually insane. He hated her and wanted her more than anything else in the world, though of course this was not something that he would ever communicate aloud.
It had been several weeks since her initial capture, and he had been gradually acclimatising her to his hospitality. Due to the damage that she had wrought to his features, he had found it necessary to conduct the majority of his business through the telephone and appropriate couriers, which had upset several of his more self-important clients and cost him a degree of respect among his contemporaries, though this was not of particular concern. The advantage of orchestrating his various schemes from his estate was that he could visit the captive redhead regularly, and though she was not particularly keen to suffer his presence, it appeared that she was resigning herself to the thought that she was not going to escape. He maintained the pretence of interrogating her by systematically alternating between questioning her and punishing her for her silence. Occasionally he would dislocate one or more of her fingers, though she was naturally stoic in the face of such petty injuries. During one of their sessions, he had convinced her to indulge him in a degree of sadism and had taken one of her fetishised razor blades to her forearms, an experience that she had not been loath to suffer through in spite of her verbal objections, though her chamber had begun to exhibit decoration in the form of scarlet handprints once again, and he suspected that she had managed to secrete another of the metal fragments on her person once again, though this was of little consequence as it posed no threat to her life. She had earned access to a dumbwaiter for her cooperation and she was fed twice a day in reasonable portions; though she never displayed any gratitude, she was courteous enough to return the various utensils to the serving window once she had finished.
Unfortunately, the blond's injuries had finally regenerated completely, and it was likely that professional obligations would keep him from her for much of the time to come. He had arranged a suitable parting gift for her, however, one that he was certain she would appreciate. From the observation lounge where he monitored her during his unscheduled hours, his hidden eyes studied the monitors that depicted the young woman from various angles, watching her as she lay curled into a foetal ball on the floor of her cell. His head rotated slightly to fix upon another screen that displayed the corridor outside of the chamber in which she dwelt, where a group of thirteen men clad in the anonymous black outfits of an Umbrella Special Forces unit were gathered, all wearing the customary gas mask to disguise their identities. They moved with agitation, all struck with a mixture of fear and anticipation that always came before one stepped out into the unknown.
He allowed his right index finger to depress a small, red button on the intercom placed before him and leaned toward it. "Proceed," he commanded, the group of men nodding in unison as they heard the order. His hand moved to activate a second device, this one activating the mechanism that opened the thick, steel bulkhead that separated their current position from that of his beloved.
The black-clad sadist was familiar enough with the female that he coveted to know the majority of her behavioural norms relatively well. He had neglected to inform his subordinates prior to despatching them to the basement area that at this time she was unlikely to be asleep, and would not take kindly to unfriendly visitors.
-
The group filed into the cell as Wesker's instruction sounded over the public address system that had been installed in the estate's basement level, walking in pairs with the commanding officer at the rear. They had all given up their firearms in order to prevent the young woman from graining easy access to a ranged weapon, and due to their knowledge of her propensity for bladed weapons they were equipped only with telescopic metal batons. As they came to stand in a rough semi-circle around the redhead it was clear that there was a great degree of anxiety amongst the assembled unit, which was only further exacerbated when the door covering the only exit hissed shut behind them with a whir of hydraulics.
"Relax," Sergeant Rhodes said flatly, withdrawing the retractable implement he had been issued with and flicking it out, which prompted his subordinates to do the same, "it's just to stop her from making a break for it."
Unfortunately, what the individual in charge of the group was unaware of was that, while the entrance had indeed been sealed to prevent escape, it was not her attempts that had been foreseen. The eyes of the assembled company were immediately drawn to the spoiled white décor, which had been stained with splotches, streaks and even the occasional handprint formed from bright crimson. Stepping into the cell was akin to landing in the middle of a nightmare. Had they not been fitted with their organisation's trademark breathing apparatus then it was likely that they would have been further perturbed by the stench of decay that permeated the air from the long-since congealed blood.
"I never took Wesker for the type who didn't do his own dirty work," Corporal Roland commented, his own calm demeanour combining with the authoritative manner of his superior to bring a sense of decorum to the proceedings.
"He's doing us a favour," Private Straw insisted, his agitated tone a permanent fixture in the team's unified voice, "giving us a chance to settle the score after she killed our brothers and sisters like that."
"He specifically ordered us not to kill her," the Corporal responded passively, "my guess is that she still knows something of some use, so we're essentially just helping in the interrogation process."
Straw jeered from behind his mask, the filter giving the noise a hollow and metallic sound. "If I'd known what a murdering bitch she was then I probably would have slit her throat while she was sleeping when we brought her in," he said, gesturing towards her with the weapon clutched in his right hand, "but since we only found out today what she was really capable of, I'm taking any chance I can get. That kind of brutality can't go unpunished; we'll show her what happens when you fuck with the U.S.F."
"Dangerous or not, I don't much like the idea of striking anyone while they're unconscious, particularly when we have more than enough manpower to handle her," the leader spoke up again, before pointing towards his outspoken subordinate with his off-hand, "Straw, wake her up."
The soldier nodded and advanced ahead of the group towards the prone young woman in front of them, coming to stand over her with half a mind to put his baton to use on her right there and then. A gasp of surprise issued from his hidden lips, however, when the captive suddenly rolled over towards him, her left arm circling around his legs moments before the feeling of a razor biting though his calf muscle caused him to scream out loud. The noise was abruptly halted when she slammed a fist into his crotch, reducing his shouts to laboured croaks as she drove the air out his lungs. She mounted him quickly, raising her balled hands as though to punch him in the face, only for him to raise the metal rod in front of his head defensively. Without a moment's hesitation, she gripped the implement in one hand and rammed the other into his stomach repeatedly, causing his grip to loosen and likely rupturing several of his internal organs. She brought the stolen weapon up and around in her fingers before swinging it straight down into his head, the blow fracturing his skull and knocking him unconscious, if not killing him outright. Blood began to seep from under the edge of the mask. It was a testament to her speed that the now-deceased male's team mates were only now acting upon her sudden attack and she was ready for their advance.
Three of the remaining troopers came at her, possibly the other members of the first victim's fire team, and grabbed at her, two of them seizing each of her arms and dragging her away from the corpse beneath her, while the other took up her legs. She pulled her limbs into her body as tightly as she could, before thrusting her feet out and kicking them free of the last man's hands, striking him a blow on the underside of his jaw with her curled toes that left them bruised and knocked him onto his back. As soon as she had planted her feet upon the floor, however, she rammed her right elbow into the abdomen of the assailant holding that arm, permitting herself to use that appendage to lock around the head of the individual to her left, deliver several stiff knees into his torso in quick succession to loosen his hold on her other arm and snap backwards, dragging his full weight with her and sending him sprawling head over heels into his partner, who caught the man's boot in the face and crumpled to the floor. The soldier who had previously taken up her feet righted himself as she stood up, only to be swiftly beaten to death by the baton that she was still clutching in her right hand, having been denied the opportunity to get his bearings.
The next fire team to approach her was wary, maintaining a distance in a bid to surround her and strike at her vulnerable side. The last of the four-man groups approached their two downed colleagues and helped them aside; the other two were beyond help. Unwilling to become the next victim, the men who had approached her were currently keeping their distance and remaining out of reach of the young woman's weapon. She was grinning as they circled her, the expression unnerving them all the more in their current situation. The Sergeant slammed his fist on the metal bulkhead that was blocking the path of their retreat angrily.
"For God's sake, Wesker, we've got wounded in here," he barked, receiving nothing in response but the cold silence of the executive's indifference, "we have to get them clear."
One of the agitated U.S.F members made the mistake of shooting a nervous glance at his commanding officer, and was caught completely off-guard by the manic redhead who bounded towards him and casually gripped the baton in his hand as he attempted to defend himself with it. Her fist crunched into his throat, crushing his windpipe and causing him to topple to the floor, coughing and spluttering as his crippled airways closed up and he died. Twisting the second weapon that she had acquired around in her hand, Shakahnna was rushed by the three men whom she had not attacked, who dealt her a stinging blow to the back of the thigh that forced her to one knee, before she managed to catch a second strike that was aimed at her head on the underside of her right arm, both injuries becoming swollen with bruising immediately. The third male's attempt came late, and she lifted her rods in a slanted cross to block the swipe aimed at the top of her head. She pushed him back, swatting his own blunt instrument aside as she rose to her bare feet yet again, before ramming the tip of the item in her right hand through the lens of his goggles and into his ocular cavity. He fell limp as she twisted it for good measure, and then crashed to the floor in a crumpled heap when she casually allowed him to drop.
The soldier who had hit her in the leg made to swing for the back of her head, only for her to sidestep and take his arm around the wrist, twisting it to breaking point in order to force his hand open and the weapon he was holding to clatter to the floor. Her foot slammed upwards into his groin, before her knee continued the motion and broke his nose through his mask. Spinning him around, she wrapped her muscular upper limbs around his head and twisted it in a direction that was contrary to his body, a visceral crunch causing her blood to warm as he too slumped dead to the ground at her feet. The final member of the fire team balked at the knowledge that she had just killed three of his team mates without even breaking stride. He still seemed to be in shock when the playful girl pounced on him, brought him to the floor beneath her knees so that his arms were pinned and gleefully began to punch him repeatedly in the head, smashing his filter, goggles and most likely his face also. Once he had stopped struggling, she placed both hands on his chest and pressed herself up into a standing position, bringing his fallen metal rod with her.
The remaining small unit were standing to the side of the cell, watching as she stood up from their dead comrade. They were guarding the two injured men while another, evidently the team's designated field medic, checked the vitals on the only two soldiers who had survived her onslaught thus far, though admittedly it seemed likely that their prolongation would be short-lived. The men exchanged nervous glances, having been caught in a situation that they likely did not even have a fighting chance of living through; even the Sergeant was reluctant to break the silent stalemate between the female prisoner and the doomed Special Forces members. The only exception to the rule was Corporal Roland, the group's second-in-command, who simply tightened the straps on the fingerless gloves covering his hands.
She leered at him broadly as he stepped away from his subordinates, placing himself between her and the men under his direct command, a symbolic movement that she respected, particularly in light of his own superior's apparent hesitance. That he was Umbrella scum somewhat detracted from any positive recognition she could afford him, however. His stance became defensive as she began to size him up, the broad grin on her face completely static and absolutely terrifying. Swinging his baton from side to side, he eventually plucked up the courage to lunge for her, their weapons clattering against one another as she parried his attempted strike easily, before pirouetting in a rare display of grace and slamming the implement clutched in her right hand into his face, the blow shattering one of the lenses in his goggles. He grunted, stumbling to the side and flailing blindly as she stepped casually out of his reach. Blood was seeping from the cracked eye of his mask from where the glass had cut into his face, and his impaired vision made the exceedingly difficult task of fighting the redhead practically impossible. When she made to deliver the killing stroke, however, he swung wildly and swatted her weapon out of her grasp, the force of the movement sending both items flying across the room.
The partly-blinded soldier lunged for her, his hands encircling her throat as his boot sank into her stomach and knocked her backwards, forcing her onto her back so that he possessed the advantage in position. Roland was no small man, indeed, he was taller than Shakahnna and considerably muscular in his own right, a fact that was evidenced by the death grip he had around the young woman's neck. His foot was still pressed into her gut as he held her down and did his best to strangle her, though he was surprised when she gripped him around the knee before suddenly sinking her fingernails into the reverse of the joint. His leg buckled and her own was pulled into her body before it slammed stiffly into his sternum over and over again, causing his body to sag even as he continued to cling to her and apply his choke hold desperately. Red droplets were spilling over the lip of the broken lens onto the redhead's face and his breathing came in laboured rasps through his filter, the female sympathising as she was also finding it difficult to draw air into her lungs. She lifted her hands to his throat, mimicking the motions of his own fingers but for the fact that she was not interested in attempting to crush his windpipe. Her talons again found purchase in his flesh, piercing and rending the skin at the sides of his neck and causing a crimson spray as she tore open his jugular. His body convulsed as the pressure applied to her airways slackened and then ended completely as he slumped to the floor, dead.
The general sentiment from his companions was one of dismay as she lifted his corpse from where it was lying atop her and dropped it to the linoleum, standing up and stretching before gently caressing her neck to ward away the ache in that area. Seeing what he believed to be an opening, one of the remaining subordinate soldiers made to strike at her head with his baton, only for her to take control of his arm, place her back to his chest and throw him unceremoniously over her shoulder. She placed one bare foot against the side of his head and jerked on his captured appendage, dislocating the limb at the shoulder and causing his neck to twist in a manner that made it crack loudly before he went limp. Taking up his weapon before it fell from his grasp, she rounded on the remaining two members of the unit who were nearby. The medic shrank away, evidently not accustomed to combat of this variety and possessing no desire to face his own mortality. Fortunately, his remaining team mate stepped forward instead.
The soldier struck low at first, finding his strike easily parried, before adjusting his aim to swing for her head, their respective metal rods slamming together again. This time, however, he placed one hand over hers, holding it locked around her weapon and away from her body. Instinctively she moved her own free hand to his in a bid to remove it, the struggle causing him to adjust his footing in a manner that brought his boot down heavily on her uncovered, and already bruised, toes. She cried out, rearing her head back and then thrusting it forward through the arch created by their raised limbs, her forehead thudding into the bridge of his nose. Unsettled by the impact, he released her baton, which she promptly brought around in an arc and struck him in the knee, shattering the cartilage therein. It was at this point that the group's non-combatant chose the ill-advised option of flight, a mistake in the same way that running from a rabid dog is also a mistake. Seeing him fleeing, the bloodthirsty girl pushed her most recent plaything away and gave chase to the individual who was attempting to evade her.
Evidently having no true concept of the layout of the series of chambers that the former S.T.A.R.S member inhabited, the man had no way of knowing that the corridor he had elected to use for his escape was a dead end, in perhaps more ways than one. Once he had reached the bathroom and realised that there was nowhere for him to run other than in the direction that he had just come from he turned around, only for the full weight of the gamine to strike him in the torso and send him plummeting to the floor with the young woman perched atop his chest. He screamed and lifted his hands to cover his face, only for her to grin maliciously and slam the weapon in her right hand down on the front of his head repeatedly until he stopped squirming and shrieking, and simply lay silently still amid a spreading pool of blood and brain matter.
The limping trooper caught up with her and grabbed her by two fistfuls of hair, the sudden upward jerk almost yanking both from her scalp, dragging her away from his murdered colleague, roaring incoherently all the while. She yelped as he wrenched her backwards before stopping herself with her hands and feet placed flat on the floor to discourage further movement. Twisting in his grip, she used her right leg to sweep his own damaged limb out from under him, sending him crumpling to the floor. He grunted as his body bounced stiffly on the plastic covering the concrete and lay winded as she turned to face him, raising the metal implement again and then smashing his head in mercilessly. Once she had finished, she allowed the telescopic rod to roll from her fingers and onto the ground, her pulse thumping in her ears as she waited for the adrenaline rush and bloodlust to subside. Her cheeks were burning and her breath hitched in her chest as she hummed quietly to herself in the aftermath, allowing her body to return to normal. As soon as she was capable, she clambered to her feet, ignoring the bruising on her foot that made every step a painful chore, the sensation of which had previously been masked by the flush of chemicals in her body brought on by her exertion and the thrill of the slaughter. Admittedly, it was a sensation that she had come to miss in recent weeks.
She stepped over the most recent body that had been created and walked back out into the main room of the cell, finding the sole surviving member of the unit, its leader, standing hesitantly by the door. The two unconscious soldiers propped against the wall were of little concern for the time being, at least until they woke up, and so she ignored them in favour of their commanding officer. Her pace became brisk as she strode towards him, advancing in a manner that evidently made the man uncomfortable. He swung for her head as she approached, only for her to duck the strike easily and follow up with a kick to his crotch that would have sent him into a foetal position had she not grabbed him by the front of his tactical vest and held him upright. She could see her own expression mirrored in one of the lenses on his mask, and she did not look happy; her face was a mask of barely concealed, angry disapproval.
"You should have been first," she informed him bluntly, slamming him backwards into the sealed metal bulkhead behind him.
"What?" he choked out, unable to catch his breath after having had his testicles decimated in such a manner.
"You were the leader; you should have been the first to step forward," she continued, bashing him against the steel once again to emphasise that she was not pleased with him, "they were your men; it was your duty to protect them. You should never have someone else do something that you aren't willing to do yourself, and that includes going into a situation that you're unlikely to survive."
His answer was incomprehensible, cut short as it was by the sudden movements of the woman who was holding him up. She threw him forcibly against the door, his face banging roughly from the closed entryway before she jerked him back, wrapping her arms around his head in a tight embrace. The grip encircling his neck clamped down around his windpipe, denying him the flow of both blood and oxygen, the muscles of her arms flexing around him and pressuring his skull unbearably. His fingers clawed at the surface before him, hiding the path of his escape just as it had done previously, scratching frantically until the nails at their tips were chipped and bleeding. The wheezing issuing from the mask's filter became laboured and heavy, before there was a sharp crunch as both individuals lurched to the side, driven by the redhead's control over her opponent, and his spine snapped at the joint between his cranium and torso. His arms dropped to his sides and he fell limp, having joined the remainder of his unit at long last.
She discarded him carelessly, freeing her hands of a decidedly unworthy opponent. That the man had shirked his duties as a leader was only further proof of how completely despicable those employed by Umbrella were. Stooping, she hefted the fallen baton that he had used in an attempt to hurt her earlier and twirled it through her fingers. Before the events that had led her to join S.T.A.R.S it had been her ambition for as long as she could remember to be a member of a legitimate law enforcement organisation. In fact, the original Special Tactics and Rescue Service had always been a consideration for her future employment. The weapon that she had obtained was symbolic of those agencies and she had long since mastered its usage. When a familiar presence loomed behind her, she spun, swinging the rod with enough force to shatter bones. It merely thudded bluntly on the raised left forearm of Albert Wesker, who was standing immediately in front of her now that she had turned.
He was wearing his usual black formal attire, and the ever-present sunglasses his the monstrous eyes that even now were regarding her with such intensity that she believed she could see them flaring bright red behind the tinted plastic. As usual, his face was a mask of passive neutrality but for the soft upturn of his mouth that showed his approval at her behaviour. "A delightful performance, dear heart," he said, removing the weapon from her hand and casting it aside casually, "however, that much will be quite sufficient."
"How did you get in here?" she asked, raising an eyebrow before turning her head to ensure that the door behind her was still sealed. Her attention was turned back to him when he began to speak again.
"There is much you do not know about these chambers, and much you never will," he informed her, his thin smile becoming a more tangible sneer. He lifted his right arm to display the severed head of one of the two remaining soldiers, this one in possession of a cracked lens in its mask. Blood seeped from the violated flesh at its base as he dangled it before her by the strap that held its breathing apparatus in place, and she could only regard it with some manner of bemusement. "For the lady," he said, proffering it to her as though it were a gift, "a token offering to demonstrate my affection."
"Because he be'd a bad person?" she asked, lifting her hands tentatively to grip the dead man's cranium between her palms and stare at it as he allowed her to remove it from his grasp.
"I have no interest in his moral affiliation, my dear," he explained, to which she tilted her head in incomprehension, "he had attempted to do harm to that which is my property and as such his life was forfeit. Is the sentiment not worthy of commemoration?"
She frowned for a moment, staring at the item clutched in her hands before looking up at him. After several seconds of contemplation, she dropped his morbid offering on the ground, placing her hands on her hips and glaring at him with indignation. "I'm not your property, bitch," she assured him.
He raised his right hand to gently clasp the rounded curve of her jaw and held her gaze parallel to his, the smirk remaining in place upon his features. "That you remain in my hospitality, supposedly against your will, suggests otherwise," he pointed out, prompting her to stick her tongue out at him. From somewhere in the chamber came the beginning strains of orchestral music, violins and other stringed instruments coming together to form the introduction of a classical piece that she was not familiar with and didn't particularly care to be. "Might I have the pleasure of this dance?" the gentleman enquired, stepping back and offering her the hand that had previously lifted her face.
Shakahnna was somewhat unsure as to exactly what was expected of her; however, curiosity eventually got the better of her as it usually did and she placed her hand atop the one that had been extended towards her, crying out in surprise when he pulled her body against his own and placed his other palm to her waist. Still not knowing quite what was happening, the redhead was surprised when he began to take the lead, their movements quickly developing into a fluid, swaying step. It was a far cry from the desperate, ugly struggle that she had been a part of previously while combating his subordinates. He moved with considerably more grace than the Special Forces members, manoeuvring her gently and accommodating her lack of experience in that area with how easily he controlled her motions. Their makeshift ballroom remained littered with corpses, a testament to the very nature of their relationship. Though there was no open enmity between them, and no attempts on either part to harm the other for the time being, the situation felt so much more dangerous than her battle with the soldiers, almost as though she were dancing with death itself.
Her bare feet skidded on a patch of blood, the sensation of falling causing her to tighten her grip on her monstrous suitor involuntarily, which prompted him to do the same to her. Bright crimson flushed her cheeks as she could feel his fingers pinching into the skin of her lower back, doing her best not to register her embarrassment. More importantly she tried desperately to avoid divulging the plethora of emotions that she was feeling as they danced, as she worried that some were not the revulsion and disgust that that she felt she should show in answer to his actions. The music rose to a crescendo that was dulled by the pounding of her blood flow in her ears, though she was aware that he had ceased their steady, circular stepping. She was surprised when he tipped her backwards so that her upper body was almost horizontal, holding her weight easily with the arm that was still placed to her back. Her head lolled, flame-red hair falling out beneath her in a cascade of spun gold, her eyes coming to rest on the two soldiers whom she had not killed herself. Wesker had done the honours, having neatly decapitated one as she had already seen, and utilising little or no restraint in the brutal evisceration of the other.
Memories of two corpses in an elevator came unbidden into her mind's eye and she broke out into a cold sweat. She felt the hand that was closed around her own unclasp softly and come to support the back of her head, lifting her so that she was no longer confronted with the image of the deceased individuals and the thoughts that they provoked. He held her so that their faces were mere inches apart, the warm breath of each caressing the features of the other, and the pace of her heartbeat quickened as he began to lean towards her. As silence settled around them, he stooped to kiss her, and her lips parted slightly in blissful acceptance as the drumming in her ears began a deafening clamour, drowning out the voice of her free will.
"Fuck off!" she snapped abruptly when they were the merest of fractions from one another, so close that her lips brushed his as she spoke. Her expression had altered in a split second from one of happy willing to another of angry disgust at both him and herself. Though he was most certainly displeased with the interruption, his lips split into a callous sneer regardless.
"As you wish," he responded, lifting her into an upright position and releasing her from his embrace before she backed away from him a considerable distance and began to hug her own torso in a bid to dispel the feeling of his touch from her skin. He ignored her and reached into the confines of his blazer, withdrawing from it a small leather pocketbook, an item that drew the redhead's attention and caused her eyes to widen in disbelief.
"That be's..." she began, trailing off as he lifted his head to look at her. Though she had no desire to betray the importance of the notepad to the black-clad sadist, there was no mistaking that which he held in his right hand as anything other than the League Table that she and her S.T.A.R.S unit had kept until their demise all those months ago. On the day when she had first met Albert Wesker she had searched high and low for the booklet, having wanted to retire it and commit it to earth with the bodies of her deceased team mates. That he was now in possession of it caused an excruciating stab in her stomach as though someone was thrusting a knife there and twisting it into her abdomen.
"I appropriated this item from your former superior following his demise," the blond explained, opening the score-chart at an empty page and beginning to make notations in it with a gilded fountain pen that he had also withdrawn from the recesses of his jacket, "you will no doubt be pleased to know that your own tally has more than doubled since I came into its possession. The same cannot be said for your erstwhile colleagues, however."
A light smirk touched his lips at that comment, though the young woman's own reaction was far less positive, her teeth gritting and her hands balling into fists angrily. He continued to inscribe her updated score into the paper with steady precision as the female whom he coveted grew more and more infuriated until at last it was beyond her control. She lunged for him with murderous eyes, silent and beside herself with rage, plucking the pen nimbly from between his fingers and driving its point into the area of his chest where it would pierce his heart, the nib crumpling on his skin before the rest of the implement tore a ragged hole in his flesh. No sooner had she done so than he spun on his heel, latching his hands around her arm and thrusting her away from him. She came to a sudden halt with her heart in her throat, suspended by his hold on her limb in a position that was inexorably uncomfortable, not least because it felt as though her captured appendage was at its breaking point. She cried out in surprise at the sudden reversal, before twisting her head to look at him through the corners of her narrowed eyes.
"Get your fucking hands off me," she spat indignantly, watching as he continued to sneer humourlessly at her.
"Your lack of gratitude perplexes me, dear heart," he informed her, making her wonder what it was that she had to be grateful for, "perhaps an admonition is in order."
Shakahnna let out a yelp as a sick pop issued from the joint at her shoulder as he dislocated her arm. Pain and a frightening lack of control ran the length of the limb as he released her and allowed her to fall to one knee, her eyes beading with agonised tears as the appendage hung slack at its uppermost point. She clamped the hand that she still maintained usage of over the limp bicep and clutched it close to her body, bowing her head in anguish. If he was finished with her, and she sincerely hoped that this was the case, then she would attempt to fix the damage that he had done, but not before he left her alone. She did not want to risk him interfering in her attempts to mend herself and causing yet more injury to her abused body. Luckily for her, she watched as his feet circled her position and approached the doorway, where he entered the code to finally open the sealed bulkhead.
"Unfortunately, my time here is at an end," he told her, stepping over the body of Sergeant Rhodes without sparing him the slightest mote of his attention, "and I will not be able to return for some time. I trust you will take solace in the fact that you are no longer alone in this chamber. I suspect, however, that you will find their conversation to be somewhat disappointing."
He smirked once more, his hand reaching to the switch that would separate them just as her head lifted so that she could glare at him through narrowed eyes and from behind fiery tresses. "Get bent," she growled, as the entryway hissed shut.