TARGET : WESKER, ALBERT / urobouris.
HIS DOGMATIC JURISPRUDENCE EXTENDS TO THOSE HE allows into his personal employ, regardless of the added intimate layer to their relation. His look upon her pierces once, twice, the haunting and hollow nature of his gaze flaring to life, eyes lit aflame the longer he watches. It’s something paralleling fondness, though the disparity between his gelid facial expression and the turbulence of human feeling remains apparent. What does the dead man say to the revenant woman without enduring an iota of sentiment? Her affections are, in itself, proof of vivacity beyond the dying of her heart ( she is both a walled fortress before him, and yet reveals aperture in the defenses — he should like to peel her layers away, leave her bared and gasping within his shadow, but he does not. )
He’s not wasting his breath, nor his time. And in a world where time is of the essence, where time is money, he offers it to her as a gift. Whether she is an extension of him or not is an intention kept concealed, neatly packaged beneath layers of flesh and bone and blackened ichor, that which he calls by the cyclical nature of the serpent eating its tail. A pathogen, mirrored by the object around her arm, a silver circlet that flashes, winks beneath the incandescence of light hanging above them both. Her role is not subservient to his, rather, it is powerful — even when she is reverent in her need — as famed conquerors throughout history have inclined their heads before the seductive power of a beautiful woman, so he is no exception. The weapon that is Elektra, she who incites fear in the stars themselves, is utilized best when at the disposal of brilliance, adhering to the the maneuvers of stratagem. She has killed for him, and she will kill again. But she will return where he awaits, to be welcomed back within his embrace. Bloody, belonging.
“ Hardly looking the part of a ghoul, are we? ” The leather of his gloves crackle, and his movement is one fluid motion, a ripple following her fingers’ rise along the length of his forearm. His hand rises to her jaw, gripping it, the faintest hint of pressure applied to her skin. “ You’ll have to forgive me, I find it rather soothing to speak to the dead. ” A twitch to his lips, an almost smile. It abates, fades as quickly as it appeared. As all things do return to the dust whence they came, with one lifetime, or several, he finds they may endure.
there are a hundred selves buried deep within her. half-rotten corpses, occasionally one will outstretch a hand and beg to come out, inspirations for variation over the pattern of her blood-soaked wandering. she’ll be enamored with thoughts of reincarnation and redemption —— let ancient echoes of people who once loved her ( a version of her ) tempt her into believing she too could be good, and righteous, heroic for a great cause. the scars across her abdomen seem to burn the hardest then, an alarm towards the past, to remind her: the day she died was the day she was freed. the day she let go of a naive belief in a center-stage version of fate was the day she became not weapon but threat —— not villain but an agent of entropy and bad luck, an emissary to the great grim reaper himself.
now albert wesker stands before her, his glory so unlike that of other men who’d once been called heroes —— black hole stealing light from his surroundings and she too enjoys the pull. can’t count on one hand’s fingers the number of people who have tried to tame her, to conquer her, turn red silk into leashes to keep her at their back and call —— some with rituals and tricks, some by sheer persuasion, and not their brainwashing nor the rearranging of her organs to turn her puppet-like would ever have her the way she is now: standing metaphorically bare, belonging, neck slightly tilted as if to welcome the leash: knowing full well she would be willing and able to snap it and break her bones in the process, yet somehow ignoring her power.
or perhaps welcoming it in its full —— a beast, after all, also has the power of choice. to put itself to rest, for now. let the hunger placate just long enough for her stomach to grow ravenous again.
“ ever the wisest of men ”. where his smiles are unperceivable, passing glimmers through the shadows, hers is the sharp gash of a wound cutting through her face —— a crimson line, irony and taunt, as if her atoms, not her conscience, begged to ask: do you dare ask for more ? “ then again —— you’re not quite man, are you ? ”, her other hand is raised, rests gently on his neck —— fingernails graze the skin, their purpose much like her smile is equal parts invitation and threat. “ a little more godlike ”, voice nears a whisper as her lips get closer to his ear. “ the blood of ares and athena, some would say… you have a bloodlust too. ”
