sls-60:
The gala was a time of gratitude and reflection, a chance for TerraSave to host its benefactors and let them know why their money was needed to keep them running, and how effectively they ensured it was utilised to the cent. It was a transparency Claire valued — even if the galas themselves set off a nervous flutter of anticipation within her, both from needing to save face, and from memories of the raid.
Security was much more prominent nowadays thanks to Kirk, even as their event became less of a small function and more of a genuine gala thanks to the expansion of their operations and support. Gone were the days of rocking jeans and leathers, though she did laugh for days after the fact when media reported her as the ‘rebel motorcycle-riding director,’ replaced now with formal attire or uniforms. Claire always felt the need to keep on her toes, and always worked boots or flats of some description dependant on the rest of her attire.
Somehow the flats on her feet felt more constrictive than ever in that very moment. As she warmly thanked one of their newest but largest benefactors, a man by the name of Anton Albright, welcoming him to the stage to accept a humanitarian award, something in her clenched taut.
His face brought back the ghosts that liked to lay in wait in the corner of her eyes, a stark memory of being too cold and how decay still smelt atrocious in the Antarctic.
She passed it off at first. Then he smiled and her face faltered for a moment — enough that one of her back-stage security raised two fingers at the ready to which she signalled subtly in kind to stand down but remain vigilant.
He dressed as formally as the others, possibly more so for his aristocratic background, his stride no longer that of an overconfident boy-soldier-gone-mad, marred by a limp as he supported himself with an ornate cane.
Alive despite the plummet into the depths of the ice all those years ago.
“Anton,” she addressed him with the pseudonym, voice overly warm as she kept as calm as she could — tried to keep the tremor from her hand as she extended it like she had to others throughout the evening. “Your contribution was one of the largest individual donor amounts we’ve ever had.”
Keeping her voice level was hard.
Alfred smiles, nods. Is he supposed to agree? What does one usually say in situations such as this-- so much attention, so many horrible eyes focused upon him when the only one he wanted was standing next to him. He can smell her-- reach out and touch her if he were only able! Alfred’s heart flutters as he takes a limping step forward, lowering himself to the microphone whilst channeling the kinetic enthusiasm of his sister.
It’s a complete change, his face becomes more lively. Animated. He’s channeling what he could only remember his sister as being in her early days speaking to the jealous peons of Umbrella as she announced her latest breakthrough. There’s even a slight, one might even say chillingly familiar, pitch shift, though nothing so radical as what he had once done. “That’s right, miss Redfield! It’s absolutely pertinent that those who have the ability ACT. I can only hope that those with such ability to contribute follow in my stead, in fact, I would challenge my fellow donators to aspire to ever-greater heights! Give, as though the lives of those harmed by bio-terrorism depend on it, for they very well might... Thank you for having me up here. It is an honor.” Ashford smiles to the crowd, and then looks once more to her as he leans away from the microphone.
Does he leave? Does he stay? His father had always attended these functions with Alexia, not him. Galas. Alfred had never held much of a taste for them-- chance to flaunt his status non-withstanding. As Alexia or father spoke, the latter so often droning on about accomplishments far beyond him, he had instead sat and sulked in the audience. It was not his place, at times, to stand next to the queen.
Claire Redfield, however, was no queen, and now here he stood next to her clear as day.
