#egoiudico

[metmydeadline]

July 7th, 1998, in the later hours of the night

The R.P.D.'s backdrop of it being a museum never seemed to save it when it came to the concoction of smells that permeated the space. There was always something off about the wax they used on the floors, or the walls would be dripping from a bad paint job that separated the binder and pigments. Or the sugars from boxes of donuts at the office would be permeating the air while equally powerful congealing smells would be trying to take that over.

The smell of formaldehyde wasn't foreign to Alyssa Ashcroft, dredging up plenty of memories that were stuffed in now abandoned darkrooms. Each specimen in the chief's office and adjacent corridor boasted a thorough interest in big game hunting... but not one in appropriate taxidermy management. The specimens were... off. Just like the entire presentation of the Police Chief himself. Brian Irons was a big guy. Heavy in the shoulders and legs from easy money, and packing muscle on top of that. His hair had grown oily and grey, a mustache clinging to his nose more than his lips. His eyes bulged slightly out of his head, and every time she'd seen them, they were hard and bloodshot.

Then again. He fucking hated her.

The chief wasn't seated when she had been brought here, he was standing over the table in front of his desk, looking at some documents. His face was already red with some kind of exertion she hadn't been privvy to. As usual, she began the conversation frustratingly by the book, and it devolved almost immediately.

He'd always yelled at her the "bitch reporter" and it was water off a duck's back, but this time he didn't have anywhere to escape to with his nasty attitude. It was premeditated that she cornered him when nobody else was around for him to run to.

"Listen here, you fucking asshole! You have none of your people on this shit! What the fuck have your people been doing about this- Cannibal Killers?!"

"Well, if your people would stop PRINTING THAT GARBAGE, maybe I could DO MY JOB! HUH?"

He wandered away from the table, breathing heavily like he was one step shy of swinging on her. God she wished he would.

"NONE of you people seem to realize that your constant investigations hold all of my people back!"

He was growling. Alyssa followed him to his desk. She'd tied her hair back, tightly into a bun for this conversation. She'd came in straight from work with a copy in her hand.

"Fuck you," she snapped, slamming both hands down with the paper. "CANNIBAL KILLERS KILL AGAIN!" The headline was still warm from printing.

"What the fuck do you actually know, huh?! Why the hell has the R.P.D. been dicking around?! There's two kids dead in the suburbs and your people have done jack shit! No, you know what I fucking found?! You've been assigning every other fucking case but this one!"

"Shut the fuck up you nosy bitch. You don't know what you're talking about."

The growl faded from his voice as he moved around his desk, to the small hall behind it, creating space between them, again. He physically moved away from her. Alyssa set her jaw, and left the copy behind to whirl in after him.

A big, yellow glass eye stopped her dead in her tracks. A stuffed tiger was posed, open mouthed, facing the entry to a hall she'd never been in. Heads and posed bodies of taxidermy animals lined the entire hallway, and Irons was walking down it.

The back of her neck prickled. She'd never seen this hall before. And he was still moving.

"You gonna fucking run from this Irons?!" she shouted, looking eye to eye with the dead tiger while something in her begged her to stay put. She swallowed, and her feet hit the carpet to follow.

"Didn't you fucking hear me?! Kids are fucking dead you cunt! You can't just not investigate this!"

@egoiudico

[priceforeverything]

Give me your organs. Don’t be so selfish.

“Don’t worry I’m not. I’m financially motivated.” It’s discussed with the same way he wagers with any employer who wants his services.

“Which organs and I need to see proof of funds before we discuss more than one. The going rate for my blood is fifty million so I’m thinking… seventy five million for my appendix. Price rises from there.”

[harperhydra]

//Arma im gonna die these looks so fucking good ;A;

[replicae]

God, dude you are such a DELIGHT to have on the dash. I adore all the funny, thoughtful, and interesting ideas you have been coming up with for Zeno. I'm perpetually awk about following people but I'm glad I crawled out of my enclosure because I loved scrolling your blog and reading your ideas.

I know it's hard to know where to get started when you have a character with little to no information revealed about them, but you have been doing such an awesome job with him, it is sincerely so much fun to observe and comment on, as another writer.

Hi there, Arma! First of all, thank you so, so much for taking the time to reach out with such a lovely message when you mention being perpertually awkward about following people?? (Hello relatable issues, how do you do?) But for real though, in all seriousness as this is genuinely so thoughtful of you to say when you yourself are an incredible writer and inspirational as hell with the sheer amount of thought and dedication you put into your portrayal?? It's actually been one of those things I've been following obsessively, you and the threads @hopewrought have together and how beautifully you've shaped your characters. It is hard coming up with stuff for a new character, true! But I'd wager it's just as hard coming up with the solid kind of portrayal you've got in your Albert? Because man, Arma. The sheer about of detail you've poured into him, going back through his lore and translated files, decoding a lot of the way he speaks and sees the world. That is some stellar stuff and I've been so damn shy about replying to anything (as well as this message!) because what do you mean, I'm just rolling downhill at this point grasping at straws but if you like what you see, I'm super happy you and others have been enjoying it!! So yeah. Big apologies for taking so long to reply because again, relatable awkward and shyness in general like hello, why is somebody as awesome as Arma (and Dara) eyeing us up, haaaaalp! 🥺👉👈

[hopewrought]

anyway @golgothac @egoiudico

[the4thsurvivor]

“Tsk, what are you doing here? The island is under attack!” He shakes his head, arms on his hips, and a crooked smirk on his lips. “It’s me, by the way. I am the attacker.”

"No you aren't. The attacker is Claire Redfield." He cocks his gun, holstering it at his side. "Now get out of the way, Albert."

[thxgrxmrexpxr]

and so, they were both tops

"...

...

Gimme a second. I think whatever was left of my soul just tried to crawl its way out of my body."

[vicarispa]

He recalled tugging at a rich velvet fabric of a vivid blue tone. The voluminous skirt of the dress was decorated with crushed brilliant stones that made the dark fabric gleam like the night sky. He had been fascinated by the shimmering colours and the mix of textures, tugging at the fabric and seeing some of the glittering pieces come off it and stick to his small palm.

A younger maid that had been assisting the lady of the house, gasped in concern, but the tall, voluptuous woman that was wearing the gown, seemed amused by his ministrations, picking him up off the floor and into her arms.

He couldn’t remember her face, no matter how much he tried. Something was obscuring it and hiding it from him. His eyes felt heavy and bleary when he tried to look at her face in his dream.

But her embrace was warm and tender, and although he couldn’t recall the words she had spoken to him, he felt a soft kiss against his cheek and playful fingers through his hair, before he was returned back onto the floor, free to play with the dress and waddle about as he pleased.

It was a dream he had long forgotten, despite dreaming it countless times when he had been younger. He would always forget what the room looked like and would fail to recall the woman’s words or her face, but that brilliant blue fabric he had been so fascinated by as a small child, always stuck in his memory.

Now, decades after he had last had that dream, he was standing in front of a portrait of a woman that he could finally see.

She had light grey eyes, wheat blonde hair that was neatly brushed and tied behind her head, and dark, striking makeup enhanced her pale features. She was wearing a blue gown, luxurious, velvet, and glimmering under candlelight.

It was a beautiful piece of artwork, hidden away in a dusty old room left in disuse in the castle, with dark mournful sheets draped over the furniture.

She was smiling serenely at the painter. It churned his stomach in a way that he could not quite explain. Something about the portrait was familiar; not just the woman and the dress, but the way it was painted. The technique, the strokes, the colours - it all reminded him of something, or someone.

A gloved hand instinctively reached for the portrait, stopping shortly of touching it. He could turn it over. See, if there was a signature on the other side. But something in him didn’t want to.

If he expected the painting to provide him answers, he would be sorely disappointed. The portrait was never signed, it had never been finished. Where Wesker sees the visage of a dream woman now come to life, there are issues in the brushstrokes, some smears on the paint, the collar of the dress is still rough, and not painted intricately as it should be.

The painting was never finished, and thanks to Wesker's actions, it never could be. The artist was gone. He did not sign his art unless it was done, so it remained as it was, unfinished, but close to completion.

A collaborative effort. The painting was done by one man, and the dress itself was of an Italian brand. Vicari.

He never captured her right. Not the lopsided smile. Not the dimple that was deeper on the right side than the left. Her double chin is noticeably missing. She looks more misshapen than heavy, even if the face looked correct.

He never captured her sharp and unsettling gaze.

Her son had her eyes in that way.

The painting was being done at her house. Such is why it was able to be kept, as when she eloped, it was very likely that the artist would have slashed the canvas undone, and it would be lost to time, a collection of ribbons in a trash bin. She rolled it up when she took it with her. Maybe she hoped to ask him to finish, maybe she hoped too much.

"Enjoying yourself?"

The voice calls out to Wesker in the lonesome and dusty dark.

Vin is somehow at the top of the steps of the attic, despite his limp and his cane, he made no sound ascending the steps, not even with Wesker's more hypersensitive hearing.

"You'll have to excuse the mess..." Vin remarks, and runs his hand along the dust upon an old desk.

He hasn't been up here in a while.

Not since...

Not since he was a different person.

Not that it mattered, it's not like she was here, but the idea of her not recognizing him had entered his head, and he a had not shaken it.

Vin stands in silence.

He wants to ask Wesker if he wants to know.

But he can't imagine what he must be thinking.

He just says nothing for a while, and looks to her painting.

"She's beautiful, isn't she?"

He doesn't seem to be looking for an answer.