A. WONG.

WHO ARE YOU, REALLY?

[opherative]

don't think about the past, an independent, private, friends-focused and low-activity portrayal of ada wong from the resident evil / biohazard franchise. 21+ and mutuals only. written by jules. it's always there, anyway.

i. carrd. ii. prompts. iii. pinterest.

[opherative]

happy pride from the two wlwers on this blog!! wishing everyone a wonderful and joyous month from here on out<3

[opherative]

ooc. i am going to take a small break from the dash and writing for a few days. i’ve been having a lot of insecurity about my writing and characterization, and every time i look at what i’ve got down in my drafts i wanna start crying sjdjsjf. i’m hoping that some time away will be a good reset for me. i’ll be around on discord/ims still if anyone would like to plot or chat. i’m sorry for my shaky activity lately, but i appreciate your guys’ patience. ♥️

[opherative]

you know something you shouldn’t.     this is not news to you. being on umbrella's payroll this long has made you a bit of an expert on the difference between patient and science experiment, and the answer? it’s not fucking much. but corruption is a business as old as the mountains you deliver to, and it's one that pays the bills– even if spencer and his merry band of bigwigs could stand to fork over a couple million more to the little guys. it only struck you recently that maybe you've got information worth selling. you're the only person who knows how many people you're bringing out to that lab, after all, and you know exactly how many you're bringing back. it’s as we’ve said— corruption is a business, and by the way those researchers talk when they think you're not listening, they've got plenty of competitors who'd be willing to buy. understandably, this idea has made you something of a paranoiac. when a man's gaze lingers on you a little too long from across the bar, you can't stop yourself from dipping back into the crowd, the heavy scent of sweat and alcohol bogging you down. you don't look over your shoulder, or bother excusing yourself as you push around bodies– you barely even breathe until you're safely out the door, gulping back mouthfuls of air. thankfully, the cool spring breeze offers the welcome reprieve your heart needed to steady itself. the sun has just about sunk underneath the horizon, washing the last of the day in warm, nebulous hues. you start feeling a little silly in all this light. it's one thing to go to pieces in the recesses of the local dive, but it's another to face the burgeoning evening with what is most certainly delusion. your fear shrinks to the back of your mind, tucking itself behind greed and her many pockets. you've got information worth selling. what can you say? money is money, and you don't even have enough of it to buy a goddamn pack of smokes. that's when you see her. the woman looks very much like she doesn't mind you not noticing her until now, which is funny, considering she's without a doubt worth noticing. she's leaned back against the brick, a leather heel crossed over the other, hands tucked in the pockets of her blue jeans. what you first mistake for an unassuming frame underneath her red blazer is quickly revealed to be pure muscle when she rolls the sleeves up– so she's a gymnast, maybe, or a dancer. whatever it is is undeniably cool, which means she's not from around here; you've met just about everyone this corner of the state, and she's miles away from the roster. her dark hair falls past her chin to her neck, blocking the sun enough so that her face is only lit by the amber end of a cigarette. your mouth starts watering. for what, you can't tell. she glances over. if eyes truly are windows to the soul, then hers are curtained and slammed shut, revealing nothing of their tenant. sly and alluring, her ruby mouth refracts so brightly you can’t tell whether she's smiling, grimacing, or something else entirely. there's something unnerving about the way she looks at you, though– like she's reading you. like she's got you cracked open and is flipping through the pages of your ribs, finding all your dirty little footnotes. to her credit, she's got you figured out. she pulls a pack of cigarettes from her pocket, tugging one past the lip before holding it between you two. parliament. big money. she's definitely not from around here. you hesitantly take it from her, as if breaching the distance will shatter the illusion. instead, you get the heady mix of premium tobacco and what must be her perfume, elusively floral. it's as frustrating as it is fascinating– everything about her fades through your fingers like the smoke curling around them. you meet the woman's gaze again. her expression is different than before– it's understanding, plain and simple in a way it shouldn't be. she knows something she shouldn't, and it'll be exactly what you're looking for.   “need a light?”

sī yǔ took up smoking a couple months before her twentieth birthday. there wasn't a defining moment that kickstarted the habit– one day an associate from one of the connections' subsidiaries offered her one just as they always did, and she realized she didn't care enough to keep saying no. it ended up being a good cover story to loiter where you normally wouldn't, and a surprisingly easy way to get people to talk. whether it was on a balcony, at a restaurant, or even outside a dingy bar, both marks and future clientele alike were more than happy to spill their guts to a pretty stranger.

the habit persisted even when her name didn't. ada wong, umbrella research coordinator, took her smoke breaks either alone, or with john and the rest of the team when he cajoled her enough. the research facility was even more guarded than the nest, making trips back to the city rare; the scientists began rolling their own cigarettes to make up for it, though the blend of the mountains’ herbs only curbed the craving for so long. 

the vice tapered off after the raccoon city incident. she never considered it an addiction in the conventional sense, anyways, and she wasn't looking to make it one in the aftermath. she had plenty of favorite brands depending on where she was, but she smokes so rarely nowadays she'll take whatever's offered to her.

[opherative]

happy six month blogaversary to ada! i was going through a rough time back in december and could barely tell up from down. it took a much bigger toll on my creative writing than i thought it would, which has always been a safe space for me. but then jesse roped me back into the rpc, and i've been surviving the horrors with y'all ever since. you are all so talented, kind, and patient when i'm at my slowest, and even when we're not writing i'm excited to see what you toss on my dash. i love ada so, SO much, and i love her more knowing i have such an amazing group of people who love her, too. thank you for being you. here's to many more fun times hehe!

[riphalos]

the scarlet of her dress draws the follow of his eyes, the catch of focus naturally inclined to notice what bleeds red in a room. he'd much rather be on route to where the crimson spills freely, thickens a coppery tang in the senses that thrive off spilt gore much more than spilt champagne. but the connections like sending him to these when they can — have to use his presence sparingly and precisely, the queen on a chessboard that slides with deadly purpose beneath the hands that play him. which he practically feels at the back of his neck now, cupping it fondly and yet insistent, cold, demanding, ruthless. they send him to galas like this when they want to make an impression, when they want necks to swivel and wallets to open. and heads to roll, if need be.

so of course they sent him ada. sleek and deadly, she'll play the room alongside him with the feline grace expected of her. they'll disarm with presence alone, both tailored to attractive perfection to make so much stuffy opulence swoon. it's all by design, all calculated with the sharpness of the knives he knows his escort has tucked away so impossibly discreet. and all the more reason to bristle a subtle sense of ire within his angular slope of jaw. it can get old, after all, feeling the role of prized show pony rather than what is dangerous, what cannot be fathomed by mortal minds he'd rather feel crushed within the slow flex of his fingers.

but zeno knows to curb his tongue, bite down bitterness in its jagged shrapnel forced through his throat. his time will come. his time will be the change of all and everything.

for now, he seeks what soothes his prickled temper in the taste of his cigarette. watches ada unimpressed through tinted lenses before he considers the view outside the car; blurs of trees his enhanced vision can still pick apart in detail, can catch the shimmer of a crow preening or the face of a hungry owl. still feels a needling resentment that he couldn't be trusted to handle this alone. perhaps because they've sensed his unrest, noticed his pacing between meetings. wouldn't do to let the restless tiger out into a room of old money when he's had little to sink his teeth into and even less to stalk, to chase. so he has a handler to keep him in check, ada wong with her smirks and her snark. the last person he wants to share the car with right now, but…

he inhales another drag, exhales more lazy wisps of smoke that unfurl from his lips in pale blooms. he cannot allow himself to rise to her bait nor to disappoint what is directed of him. because he will get this done and he will do so perfectly. if she would like to contribute, he will allow it. as long as he's the one calling the shots and as long as she knows her place. that is what curls his lip into the start of a sneer, narrows what could be a glacial glare behind his shades.

"we mingle until we find an access point that won't cause a disturbance. we'll be considered guests of honor, so it'll be easy to work the crowd. security is tighter than average, but nothing of note. easy to break." he taps ash into a tray at his armrest. his gaze returns out the window as their car starts to drive into the mountains. something in him stirs, leans the pull of familiarity he cannot claim as his entirely. "once we locate the restricted section of the household, we infiltrate. the study is on the east wing, second story. collect the data, wipe the back-ups. i'll handle any resistance."

which is why he half-hopes they'll meet some. perhaps this night won't be a waste if he can feel… something. anything besides this gnawing numbness, this dull ache of inaction that makes his shoulder-blades itch and his vision tighten on the jugulars of whatever happens to linger. right now, that's her — and he sees it, the calmness with which her pulse makes it flutter unbothered. zeno forces his eyes up, though, to her face again. his voice is low and stern, iced in the unyielding sense of imperious superiority that comes so naturally to him. "this will go much faster if you stay out of my way."

[opherative]

his hunger is a palpable thing.     it’s a jaw unhinged, it’s saliva pooling along pale gums. a dying animal will limp to the darkest corner of the woods to lose its appetite, but not zeno— his eyes, as cloaked and ringed as they are, still glisten with the instinctual urge to chase, pin, and tear into a vulnerable underbelly. 

in spite of the gentle hands she's come to know since that fateful city, ada knows she's no different— she’s spent too many years playing prey to believe otherwise. she can feign the tremble of any quarry, even tell when it's best to use it. some days, it's for the white knight looking for a pliant damsel to save; most, it's the sham of a hunter mistaking her for the hunted. zeno is neither of those things, but it doesn't stop the impulse to pretend, anyways, if only to interrupt his barking. she can feel his gaze target the bare slope of her neck, its teeth grazing her jugular and ghosting down, down, to settle over the steady beat of her pulse. his pupils dilate— his breath hitches— and she is acutely aware of the ravenous need humming in the gap between them. game has a double meaning: ada tilts her head just the slightest, exposing her throat to his waiting maw. here is the space your mouth could fill, the move says, here is the meat, the blood, the red and red.

it is a short-lived invitation. no sooner is the mockery made that her own hackles rise, snapping her face towards him in a bid for territory, the car a cage around them.   “well. sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.”   she smiles coolly, narrowing her eyes. ever the tyrant, zeno had clearly mapped out all the best corners to stalk, intent on gorging himself. still, it’s not a bad plan, all things considered— if she remotely trusted him, she might even call it good.

but that’s the thing with wild animals, isn’t it? you never know when they might bite.

ada lets loose a long sigh, rolling her eyes to face forward again.   “you’re impatient,”   which is another way of telling him to chew his food,   “we’re not the only hands in the pot tonight. a few of our competitors will be in the audience, primarily members of saurian's brazilian branch, who, as you remember, never got their cut of the e-series. we might as well kiss that data goodbye if the other operatives catch on— not to mention smoothing over any conflict on bailey’s behalf."

another irritating aspect of this affair. ada's more than familiar with schmoozing, but juggling politics with an already complicated mission is enough to set her flared nerves on edge. a byproduct of the illness’ progression, she supposes, though she doesn't linger on that too long.   "my portuguese is rusty, but it'll do."   she tucks her chin to her shoulder as she glances over again, grinning just to bare teeth.   “unless you’d still like me 'out of your way'?”

[classicfilmsource]

— I'm such a fool. I should have been with a girl like you, Dora. — Don't feel so bad. I'm a funny kind of girl. Quai des Orfèvres (Jenny Lamour) 1947 | Henri-Georges Clouzot

[opherative]

FIVE SONGS THAT INSPIRE YOU TO WRITE FOR YOUR MUSE.

01. SILICONE BY MONO.

if i didn't know you like i do / i'd let you into the secret in me / just because i'm good at fooling you / when no one's around, i walk in your shoes / i'm smiling while lying to you

02. ABBEY BY MITSKI.

i am hungry / i have been hungry / i was born hungry / what do i need? / i am something / i have been something / i was born something / what could i be? / [ ... ] there is a dream, and it sleeps in me / to awake in the night, crying, "set me free" / and i wake every night, crying, "set me free"

03. LOUD BARK BY MANNEQUIN PUSSY.

i want to be a danger, i want to be adored / i want to walk around at night while being ignored / i'm such a romantic, i'm such a fucking tease / i keep you in my sugar and you eat it on your knees / i am a loud bark, deep bite / a loud bark, deep bite / i got a loud bark, deep bite

04. WHO ARE YOU, REALLY? BY MIKKY EKKO.

you are a stranger here, why have you come? / who, who are you, really? / and where are you going ? / i've got nothing left to prove / 'cause i've got nothing left to lose / see me bare my teeth for you / who, who are you?

05. COP CAR BY MITSKI.

i get mean when i'm nervous like a bad dog / [ ... ] and i miss riding horses, i miss running fast / [ ... ] i was meant for running fast / [ ... ] i am cruel, i am gentle, i can make you laugh / [ ... ] i've loved many boys, i've loved many girls / i don't think about the past, it's always there, anyway

tagged by: stolen from @stviolentine<3 tagging: you! ( and tag me so i can read! )

[opherative]

she spent all morning scrubbing his blood out of her bathroom sink.

ada and @red9 are on their third day of quarantine together, and what a week it’s been. their haphazard stumble off the helicopter earned them an overnight stay at the connections’ finest facility, their stretchers side-by-side as they raced down the hall.

“so much for room service,” ada had jested in place of her nerves. luis made a sound that was more death rattle than laugh.

after much poking and prodding, their care team tentatively sent her home while they worked whatever magic they could on luis. truth be told, when ada collapsed into bed that night she had no idea whether or not he’d pull through; the organization had never been particularly forthcoming, and given she’d compromised the sample behind their backs, she wasn’t in a position to push just yet. she could only hope that whatever small good she did was enough to keep him alive.

and lo and behold, there luis stood like some half-beaten lazarus on her doorstep the following morning, the two researchers behind him nudging him in. they explained it in the clipped medical terms they always use— while luis succeeded in ridding himself of his previous infection, the metabolic waste las plagas left behind over time had spun a thick web of fibrin throughout his veins, resulting in a strange mix of regeneration and hypercoagulability. in any other case this would’ve meant an eventual end ( and probable resurrection ) for the parasite’s host; in his, it buoyed him long enough for ada to drag him to shore.

which led to her part in this story. while ada had gotten rid of her own specimen before it could fully attach, her bloodwork showed slightly decreased protein c and s markers. it wasn’t as bad as luis’, of course, but given he’d gotten rid of the parasite with much more finality than she had, there was, in their opinion, reason to worry.

“... and luis?” she’d asked, side-eyeing the ashen man leaning on her counter.

one of the researchers— a tall blonde woman— looked just as hesitant as her. “he knows las plagas better than anyone. quarantining you two together allows for mutual monitoring of symptoms.” she turned fully to ada then, her dark green gaze threatening to sever her in two. “we trust you know what to do if it progresses, 1301.”

and so it began, two goldfish swimming lamely around one other in their small, barren bowl. this apartment is her least favorite by far, tucked in some distant neighborhood of munich ada can’t remember the name of. she doesn’t come to this city unless she has to, but if last night was any indication, they were lucky they did. the blood thinner they’d given luis apparently did a number on him— he’d fallen over trying to change his dressings, leading to a mess of bloodied gauze across her floor, bathtub, and yes, her sink. ada was already awake, just as she’d been every night since she got home. her chest throbbed with each breath she drew in, and though the visions had long since passed, it hadn’t lessened the migraine they left behind. nevertheless, when he dropped to the floor, she was close enough to stagger into the scene.

they stared at each other for one long, heavy moment— ada's hand on the doorknob, luis’ fingers splayed over his stitches— as if the both of them were waiting for her to turn. but then she silently kneeled at his side, ripping open a clean pack of dressings. “hold still.” she commanded, and he listened. ( she’d come to learn he always did. )

now the morning, however draining it's been so far, is young, and ada stands at luis' doorway to watch him slowly come to. she leans against the frame to hold herself up, quietly studying him as he wheezes through the wound. “hey. how’re you feeling?”

[adawong]

[funeral]

Funeral Parade of Roses (1969) dir. Toshio Matsumoto

[coffinshared]

@opherative liked for a starter from Josefina!

Josefina drums her fingers against the table, her brown eyes flickering to the door as she watches some boring presenter drone on and on about the monetary detriments of Blue Umbrella's existence. Ada, who's been sitting next to her, looks like she'd rather die than listen to his spiel. and, if she's being entirely honest? she doesn't blame her for thinking so. Had Josefina and Apolo been presenting, they'd be able to make things interesting, but they're only supposed to be listening tonight.

on the notepad she's been provided -- the logo of her corporation embossed near the bottom -- she's been doodling random drawings while they present. now, though, she nods to Ada, taking the chance to communicate with her. Josefina feels like she's back in high school, passing notes with her 'friends' (not that she had many of those to begin with). she quickly scrawls a note: 'struggling to stay awake right now', tears the paper off the pad, and passes it to Ada under the table. all the while, Josefina's smile remains placid.

[opherative]

blue umbrella: the proverbial albatross around her neck.     you help destroy one company only to watch another rise from its ashes, their sulfur-fired wings wrapping around the world. it coos gently under the guise of making amends, a tall story no matter how prettily they try to sing it. the man up front is just one voice in its throat, warbling the same old money-hungry tune it always does— the woman beside her is another, though josefina, in all her glitz and glamour, captivates the audience more than any other speaker ada's had the displeasure of sitting through. still, there's only so many ways you can try to weed out intel from lyrics without the songs sounding the same; at some point, it all turns into one long, boring note.

she's partway through a sip of champagne when josefina’s easy smile slips into her peripheral. ada arches a brow curiously, watching the other jot down a short note before covertly sliding it beneath the table. 

the insignia catches her eye before the message does. wedges of dark blue attempt to wash away the blood of its predecessor, filling in the logo she’d sported nearly a decade ago. the spy forgoes the temptation to gouge it out with her pen, instead writing her first response.   welcome to the club. now we're a party of two.

next to josefina’s red-carpet cursive, ada’s handwriting is far from alluring; it slants no matter which hand she uses, short and cramped from a lifetime of scribbling notes down in dark corners. she pauses, giving a cursory glance to the other’s glittering cream gown. shaking her head with a chuckle, she finishes the reply off with,   i’m surprised they’ve kept you in the audience tonight. especially in that.   before slipping the paper beneath a cocktail napkin, passing it back.

[bookmatter]

Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

[opherative]

CONTINUED FROM...

the car shudders to a halt along the dimly lit sidewalk, turning a silence already taut with irritation into an even tenser one.

this mission, like most of them, was hardly by choice. ada could deal with being uncomfortably wedged into s.t.a.r.s.— she could box its officers’ unyielding kindness into the cellar of her chest, leaving it to mold over in the darkest shadow of the darkest corner.

what she couldn’t handle was the team’s insufferable captain, and the thorn he was quickly becoming in her side.

the connections kept the two of them closer than either of them preferred now that @auserwahlt was finding his footing within the hcf. but while they’ve shared plenty of terse meetings ( and even more snide looks across the rpd ), they’ve somehow managed to avoid a mission alone. ada figured— hoped— that it meant their time together was drawing to an end, that whatever disastrous thing that would press down on the team and the soft spot they were leaving on her heart was just on the horizon.

she should’ve known it was too good to be true.

wesker’s crystalline gaze is as inhuman as the specimen they deal with, and though ada can hardly make it out in the dark, it pins her to the door all the same. her sharp smile digs into her cheek when she takes the notes from him. “careful. that almost sounded like a compliment.”

she flips open the first folder, carding through a couple of his documents under the shoddy ceiling light. a brief moment later and her brow furrows just so, enough that she’d deny her puzzlement if he pointed it out.

“adam marlowe,” she taps a manicured nail over the name, “he was a data analyst for tricell’s resource branch.” not just any data analyst, either; the only reason ada knows him by name is because he ducked out from the company with files of his own, erasing his digital footprint so cleanly that he became a household name across the connections. they’d crossed paths only once before she got shunted over to s.t.a.r.s., presumably leaving the job in the hands of a mercenary far less capable. call it kismet, then, that he landed here of all places. call it a massive pain in the ass, too, because if adam touched down in raccoon city, it means those files are likely on umbrella’s radar… a fact wesker’s well-aware of, if his infuriatingly detailed notes are anything to go by. perks of a triple agent, ada supposes.

she pushes a long breath through her nose as she closes the folder. “marlowe’s… slippery. unpredictable. worse, he’s a bad shot, but he’ll try to run before he has to.” and he certainly had to, the last time she saw him; the only reason ada hadn’t taken him down herself is because the bullet meant for her broke open a steam pipe instead, obscuring his escape route. he’d been lost to the mist ever since.

until now, that is.

“congratulations, captain,” ada bites, fighting the sudden urge to dump his pristine notes in his lap, “seems you’ve caught yourself a big one. all that’s left is to reel him in.”

[auserwahlt]

𝑻𝑯𝑨𝑻  𝑹𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻  𝑰𝑺  𝑵𝑶𝑾  𝑴𝑰𝑵𝑬. 

☣  ⸻  written  by  pj.  est  2023.

[opherative]

what chess piece are you?

you are a black knight, the black sheep, the underdog. as the only piece that can jump over others, you can easily get yourself in and out of situations, always catching people off-guard with your charisma and cunning. you move in the shadows, trading information with shady people, getting the upper hand through not-always-good methods. how far do you think this road can take you? for all your charisma and cunning, lies can only get you so far. one day, that mask you've put on will slip, and you'll be left defenseless. but until then, oh, black knight, live like there's no tomorrow— because there might not be.

tagged by: @thruteeth! <3 tagging: @veilkyrja, @auserwahlt, @red9, @constellationcursed, @forgotten-retrouvaille, @obfusquer, @ofrequiem, and you! <3

[riphalos]

@opherative asked: ❝ this isn’t what i signed up for. ❞ ➤ zeno

the connections don't humor failure and neither does zeno. crushes it beneath the grind of a finished cigarette, leaves it for ash beneath his boot. which is why they favor his… finesse when it comes to assuring progress as well as discretion. redemption's bullets don't miss, after all; reduce whole skulls to bone-flecked mulch and leave little to any imagination if he so wills it. and while most investments require only a few stern reminders and his stare razing its imperious blaze to nudge them back on track, there are some that demand a firm hand. or complete and utter termination.

which might be the case with tonight's assignment; a hospital's wealthy director whose secret research wing has been for the connection's benefits, but is currently suspected to be hoarding valuable information without disclosing all they'd agreed upon — a rich man's greed getting the better of him and potentially plotting to blackmail them for a fatter cut, a larger chair at a table with only so many seats. zeno's been told he needs to either persuade the asset to see the error of his ways or become the last thing he sees if he refuses to. and during a gala at the man's mansion, too? they'd told zeno it would make more of an impression that way.

his chopper lands, dropping him where both his ride and escort lie in wait. another thing the connections had insisted upon — a body guard, a second set of eyes, an espionage expert who will help obtain hidden files and wipe away any evidence left behind. he'd objected firmly, but their say is final. and has his lips thinning an unimpressed line as he approaches her where she's been waiting with the car and its driver.

"the feeling's mutual." blunt, spoken cold in flippant passing as he waits for the chauffer to open his door, bow him in. ada wong is offered only a harsh, lingering stare behind tinted lenses trying to slice through her, pinpoint weakness or duplicity, before he narrows the glint of gold pinpricks and ducks into their ride. he has no interest in small talk. "we'll be late. get in."

[opherative]

she thought it was a bruise, at first.

the mission beforehand had been a particularly nasty one. a subsidiary’s mercenary had turned on his organization in favor of another outside of the connections’ web, and it was ada’s objective to take him down. that led her to the seedier streets of manhattan, vaulting across rooftops in quick pursuit of a man on the run. but the spy is no longer the spry twenty-something swinging from cliff-sides and flimsy walls— while she gripped her grapple gun with the same surety she always has, the frigid air made her bad hand a little worse, the landings less soft. still, the connections doesn’t pay her as well as they do for nothing, and though the two swapped a few missed bullets, he met the same fate the rest of her marks have.

by the time ada made it back to her flat, the scrapes and bruises she’d earned had painted her skin in mottled hues. she examined them in the fog of her scalding-hot shower, the water easing some of the tension in her shoulders as dried blood raced down her forearm. that one, though… that blotch on her thigh. it stuck in her scar like the sharp point of a fountain pen, spilling ink into the cracks and crevices that’ve lightened over the lifetimes since it’d been drawn. ada’s memories sit idly behind frosted glass, too blurry to make out anything more than shapes and colors, but with distinct clarity she recalls thinking, even then, that something was off. it was only a matter of weeks before the bruise was darkening, then rising, then writhing, its pitch-black tendrils coiling around her leg. it’d been nearly three decades since she’d first seen the birth of a mark like that, and yet, there was no mistaking it once it started: the t-virus she foolishly thought she’d dodged had reared its ugly head, sinking its teeth into a scar that had never quite felt like it healed in the first place.

it’d been a slow enough infection for the connections’ researchers to piece their theory together— ada’s preventative treatments following raccoon city clearly hadn’t worked out like they thought, instead only choking the virus until the right circumstances allowed it to bloom. throughout each new blank, sterile room they shuffled her into, ada stayed cautious in concealing her surprise. she had expected an outcome she’d delivered herself time and time again, had even considered doing the job for them if only to make it quicker than they would.

but then zeno stepped in, the usual splotch of white, the unusual splotch of black, and just like that, it all made sense.

none of them ever stood a chance.

thus began the new regimen: mouthfuls of immunostimulants with varying degrees of success; weekly weight and wound checks to track their fluctuations; infusions that helped until they didn’t; periods where it seemed they were making headway, only for their progress to backslide. over and over, around and around.

it hadn’t helped that they kept her working. ada isn’t stupid— she’s well aware that all good experiments need a test subject of some kind. give the lab rat a job, and see how fast she runs the maze. in the ten months it took for them to find the treatment that only stalled the infection, she often wondered what hypothesis they were running on zeno. they’d only seen each other a handful of times since that first reveal, though whether that was a misalignment of their procedures or curated by their research team had yet to be determined. he was, after-all, the connections' best-kept secret— the shadow of a man long-lost to them, a well of untapped potential, the crown jewel in their bloodied coronet, no matter how synthetic. ada wasn’t sure whether they were making a weapon they could patent, or a cure they could sell out of him.

then again, she wasn’t sure what they were making of her, either.

not that it mattered. neither of them could leave the organization even if they wanted to, especially now that their health lay in the palm of their benefactor's hand. besides, it was more thought than she liked to give him, which, in retrospect, could have contributed to them being paired up tonight. the connections does what it is: it connects. it’s certainly not the first time ada’s been on his detail, but after such a long tunnel of trials, it’d come as a rather unwelcome light. nevermind that they couldn’t despise each other more if they tried— she’d bet ten-to-one bailey even preferred it that way. hell, she’d go all-in that this is just another experiment.

zeno steps off the helicopter with all the pretension of old money, a notion ada couldn’t find funnier given his petri dish origins. then again, her and her own humble beginnings are matching in kind— the spy’s crimson gown falls to her feet, its caped detail draping behind her shoulders to meet her heels. she’s speckled in gold jewelry that glitters under the sinking sun, dressing her in starlight. it’s a look that, paired alongside his own, would give anyone a dreamy impression of old hollywood.

as long as they kept their distance, that is.

the two’s mutual distaste sours the air even as the rotors do their best in breaking it apart. she throws out her quip, he bats one right back— it’s a game they’re well familiar with by now, a tedious, endless love-all. and when zeno nears the car, ada looks upon the perfect mold of albert fucking wesker— save for where it isn’t— and simpers as he passes by. “such a gentleman.”

she follows him into the backseat, where the acrid scent of smoke thickens upon the door closing. it’s been years since her last cigarette, and yet the smell isn’t unpleasant— it simply makes her think of the mountains, a memorial to a man who’s long since rotted by an indirect consequence of zeno’s progenitor.

that, and it has her craving her own.

ada’s gaze follows the treeline as they whiz on by, absentmindedly twisting her bracelet around her wrist; it doesn’t fit her like it used to. she frowns, her voice taking on its usual sardonic tone when she says, “i hope you have a plan,” before shifting her gaze back to the blond, cockily perching a brow, “or were you expecting me to play babysitter all night?”