Lyla slowed her pace as they reached the fourth floor, cautious as they made their way along the corridor, reading the numbers mounted on each door as they walked by. 406. 408. She frowned as they drew closer. 410. 412. "Here."
Someone rather more prone to theatrics might have kicked it in, and Vincent considered it briefly. He settled, though, for pushing with a snap to his wrist, letting the knob clatter loudly against the far wall.
No one hiding.
Well. It was a start.
Ingram looked up as door smacked against the wall, smiling thinly at the pair of them from beneath perpetually-unkempt hair, glasses perched precariously atop his nose as they had been before. He had been sitting at the edge of the bed, waiting, hands clasped between his knees. Past him, a large revolver laid across one of the pillows. A number of suitcases dotted the floor of the room.
"Timely. Just like you to be early," he remarked with some note of admiration, nodding towards the shorter of the pair. "Now then. Who will be coming back with me?"
The gunman said nothing, only narrowed his eyes behind the tangled brush of black hair. There were demands to be made, questions to be asked. Accusations he'd have liked to make. But none of them held water now. None of them mattered. He watched Ingram with suspicious eyes, his calm fabricated but iron clawed.
"No one is going anywhere with you until we see him," Lyla said firmly, her voice dark, the end of her statement clearly forced. There was much more she would have liked to have said. Now was not the time. Getting out safely was more important than getting any jibes in, though even that didn't sound quite right. They wouldn't be getting out safely, not all of them, at least.
Ingram's smile hitched a bit wider. "And so you shall. No need to be hostile. Just a bit of business to be done, really."
Vincent frowned, lowering his head just enough to see the blond's expression better. "What business," he said as though there were some question to it that had not found his tone. So far the scientist had been beyond games, the idea of them now irked the gunman.
"Just what we discussed," Ingram said plainly, reaching to lift the revolver from his pillow with one fluid movement, getting to his feet and taking two steps towards them. It was enough to make Lyla flinch against her better judgment, inching just a touch closer to the man in red. Ingram did not seem to notice. "Surrender any weapons you have before we proceed. If you resist, all I need to do is make a phone call, and the good doctor will make the acquaintance of an uzi."
Vincent grit his teeth behind the cowl, annoyed even as he reached for his gun.
There was a pause. He blinked, removing his hand discreetly to check the other side.
Cerberus was already missing.
Lyla put both hands up to show that she was unarmed, her expression hard and unreadable as she stared ahead, boring holes through Ingram's chest. The scientist tilted his head at the two of them, smirking faintly, gesturing towards them with his gun. "How thoughtful. Forgive me for not taking your word for it. I'm not stupid. Turn around, hands against the wall."
It must have been left on the beach, Vincent realized with a jolt, scowling. He removed his hand with a flourish, turning towards the far wall.
It was stupid, but he had no choice other than to cooperate. Caraway's blood on his hands was more than he cared to deal with. He'd have to rely in the others for now. Hope that they were paying attention to his flippant remarks.
Lyla's mask broke and she sneered, even as she turned her back to her former employer, bracing both hands flat against the wall as instructed. She glanced over to Vincent as he cooperated, expression having turned grim. Ingram frisked Vincent first, movement all quick, sudden jerks as he worked his way down, making a small, noncommittal grunt afterwards as though announcing his satisfaction. He was not quiet so impersonal with the brunette, making an effort to take more time as he searched her, causing her to grit her teeth as she stared at the wall, shoulders tense.
Vincent had to physically restrain himself from lashing out in irritation, one eye narrowing dangerously on the blond scientist.
"Good enough," Ingram surmised, taking a step back once he was finished, gun tucked away, though he pulled his jacket open just enough to show the rear end of it, should either of them forget he was armed. "Into the hallway, both of you. Head towards the docks. We'll finish this transaction there."
The gunman caught Lyla's eye, waiting for her lead this one time. The person in question was hers most to worry over, and he would not overstep her authority.
Wordlessly, she stepped forward, leading both men out into the hallway, Ingram taking up the rear quite deliberately. She made her way towards the stairs without looking back, though she could be seen flexing her fingers a number of times before curling them back into tight fists from behind. They passed the clerk at the front desk without so much as a word or spared glance, much the same for anyone they passed once they had left the hotel. Most bystanders were far too interested in their own business to take notice of the threesome as they continued the short walk to the docks. Lyla slowed to a full stop there, pausing to glance back at Ingram, finally. "Where?" she asked coolly.
He smiled in reply, splaying one hand against her back to steer her rather unkindly towards what looked to be a storage shed. "Ladies first," he said simply.
Vincent looked up into the belly of the storm that raged on, closing his eyes for a moment when the cool kiss of water slid across his pale face. He was still here, then, the gunman surmised. Somewhere too close.
Pushing it aside he followed, biding his time.
Ingram paused to yank the door to the storage area open, gesturing for Lyla to enter before him. For Vincent, he gestured with the barrel of his gun, indicating he should follow. Lyla's fists had gone white-knuckled as she surveyed the room. It was dimly lit, the only source of light a lone bulb swinging overhead, but as it had been at the lab earlier that week, it did not effect her ability to see. There, in the far corner, bound to a chair, gagged and bleeding from a shallow wound just beneath his hairline. She lurched forward, quickly closing the distance between them and yanking the gag from his mouth, throwing her arms around his shoulders.
"How touching," Ingram remarked without the barest trace of emotion. "Before we go any further, the question still remains. Which of you will be staying here?" A smile tugged at his lips. "Do you play the part of martyr or traitor, my dear?"
"They're leaving, Ingram." Vincent's voice took on a certain edge, though it remained cool. "Or do you need to get in another jibe before you're satisfied."
Ingram raised a pale brow at the darkhaired man in reply. "Unexpected," he mused. "But acceptable. Go, then, the both of you," he went on, watching the doctor and his daughter expectantly. Lyla glowered darkly even as she loosened her father's bonds, causing him to let out a sharp cry of pain as the rope that had been cutting into his wrists finally fell away.
"Thank you," he murmured, his eyes on the darkhaired gunman as he spoke. The words didn't feel like enough, but he didn't think there was much else that could be said in Ingram's presence. Lyla helped him to his feet, hoisting his arm around her shoulders as they made their way back towards the door, with him limping as he leaned on her. She paused beside Vincent on the way out, reaching to lightly squeeze his human wrist as a substitute for words, an unspoken promise to return with the others as soon as she was able.
He nodded, not turning to watch them leave. He had to give them time. Enough to make it back to the inn, make it back to the rest of the group. Then they could fight. Gun or no gun, he was far from unarmed.
The door swung closed after them, Ingram crossing the dimly lit room to lock it afterwards. "How noble of you," he remarked even as he did so. "Sacrificing yourself for an old man. Certainly not the outcome I expected, though I have no complaints. I wonder if you appreciate what a wonderful creature you are, Mr. Valentine."
"It has its advantages." he said simply, shifting now to watch the scientist over one shoulder.
"There is no detailed documentation of what precisely was done to you," the scientist informed him, smiling rather congenially as he turned to face the gunman. "Or there wasn't, until now. No one has ever replicated Hojo's work with you, not even in thirty-six years."
Vincent arched a brow. "But you want to."
"There is nothing so exciting as achieving the previously unachievable."
"You think taking me apart will teach you how." The note of amusement in the gunman's voice was dry and morbid.
"I'm not that naive," Ingram corrected him. "But it's a start. I'm also not so foolish as to think that you're going to come quietly now that they're gone. Or that Miss Caraway isn't going to come running back here with the President's dogs to save you. Thankfully, I planned ahead."
"Not surprised." Vincent turned to face him more fully, body tense but waiting.
The doctor raised one hand to snap his fingers, causing a loud thud to sound behind Vincent - the distinct sound of a body dropping to hit the floor, landing on its feet. "Eve," he said calmly, "Take care of him while I call the pilot."
The gunman jerked around, dropping low into a stance of attack, searching the small room for whatever Ingram had addressed.
The woman standing before him was a perfect mirror of the one who had just left, eyes distinctly glazed over, distant, as though their owner were somewhere else entirely. "Yes," she responded as Ingram withdrew his phone from his jacket pocket, her voice as hollow as her expression.
"One wouldn't do you, Ingram?" Vincent asked, eyes on the strange woman as she moved. Spoke. Her voice was the same as Lyla's. But different, too. It was amazing the difference inflection could make.
"One sample is never enough for a study, not if you want accurate results," Ingram explained even as he took several steps back, gaining a bit of distance between himself and the gunman. "Besides, this one is not quite the same. The sequel is never as good as the original. Though I'm sure to your eye she appears a near-perfect copy, doesn't she?"
The woman took two steps towards the man in red, unarmed, but carried herself in such a way that somehow, it didn't seem like that would matter much. Her eyes were empty, drowning pools of blue, the spark behind them dim, if it was there at all.
Vincent made a low sound, circling around her a step as she moved. "Not really."
"Then it would appear you deserve more credit than most," Ingram replied, dialing something on his phone, holding it to his ear as he watched the pair across the room begin to circle each other. "Prepare for lift-off. I'll be there shortly. Yes. Immediately."
She paused in their slow and cautious dance, still for another moment before lunging forward, aiming for the gunman's chin with her elbow, ducking her head to thrust her other fist into his abdomen, using more force than her small frame should have allowed.
The gunman's clawed arm shot up, moving to protect his face, though the blow to the gut sent him stumbling a step. He grunted as he leapt to the side, taking a moment to get himself breathing again before spreading his metal plated fingers, narrowing one eye at the woman.
Was she all there? Was it wrong to hurt her?
Well. If she was built at all like her predecessor, she would live. Vincent shifted his weight, readying himself for her next attack. This time her speed wouldn't catch him off guard.
She launched herself towards him a second time, reaching to strike his chest before following up with a wide blow to the face. It wasn't a particularly stylish way to fight, but she was solid, steady in her every movement.
Vincent dodged out of the way, her blow catching his side, sending him into a sprawling duck to catch himself again. He whirled on his heel, lunging back with claws extended, and when he was close enough, aiming a punch with his human hand at the ball of her throat.
She stumbled back as the punch connected, windmilling slightly before righting herself, snarling as she began to barrel forward, keeping low as she darted towards him, slamming herself against his middle. Ingram had closed his phone and tucked it away, and now watched the brawl with a clinical expression, edging closer as his left hand began to shift beneath his coat.
He let her hit full force, giving with the sudden weight to lessen the blow. For as much as it helped. He latched onto her arms, riding the momentum to turn their tumble in his favor, kicking her off in Ingram's direction.
She slid across the floor on her side, stopping only when she collided with the doctor's feet. He looked down at her in turn, frowning with disappointment as he nudged her rear with his foot, pushing her to roll over onto her front and prop herself up with both hands. "Get up," he demanded, raising one deformed, razor-clawed hand as he stepped over her, advancing on the gunman. She sprung to her feet behind him after another moment, moving to close in on Vincent from the other side.
"Don't worry. The aim is not to damage you," Ingram assured him with a broad smirk, curling his clawed fingers until something indiscernible rose from the palm of his hand; a small, dark cloud of something almost too thick to see through. Another flick of his wrist sent it flying towards the gunman's face.
And here they were again. Vincent jerked to dodge, wondering how he had waited so long. How many times he had to stand, useless, while the world came apart around him. How many times he had to figure out he'd played the wrong card just a little too late.
The doctor only smiled as the poison hit despite the man's attempts to dodge it. He snapped his fingers once, drawing his companion's attention. "Carry him," he instructed her, and with a single nod, she moved forward to put an unkind arm around Vincent's shoulders, sharply tugging him upwards when he began to sag.
"Don't worry, your friends will find out where we've gone sooner rather than later, I'd wager," Ingram promised as he opened the door that would lead them back out to the docks, as well as the adjacent helicopter pad. "Thankfully, I can always count on Lyla to be the bleeding heart sort. When they come rushing in, then I'll have the both of you. Eve can take care of the rest."
Vincent struggled against his already failing body, trying to force it into movement despite it's ever growing heaviness. He grit his teeth, even as the clout to do so waned, his muscles growing traitorously dull and stiff.
At least once more, hissed the chorus of his thoughts. At least once more.
"You'll only hurt yourself if you struggle," the doctor all but barked as he stepped out into the evening air, Eve dragging Vincent's form along behind him, pausing to put an arm beneath his legs and hoist him upwards.
"Stop," she hissed at the gunman.
He ignored them, for whatever that was worth, forcing the banshee howls at the back of his mind to still themselves. To just shut up. It hadn't been so long that he'd forgotten their smiling faces. Whose they mirrored from a life no longer his. They didn't do him much good now, if they had ever.
Vincent closed his eyes, searching the dark recess for the prickle of dark power. It was sleeping through their screaming. Long since summoned, curled beneath the cold waves of humanity he had forced to seal it over. He had called something else by its name, before now. But like his other miserable truths it had not left him. It was safe for now. There was a chance to recover what Ingram had taken. It was in him. He would wait.