#rivalinfect

[deadaim-a]

INCOMING TRANSMISSION ⇋ @rivalinfect " I'm here to help. "

"Is that so?" Not so quick to trust given the circumstances of his being here. Blue hues narrowed in contemplation as he studies the stranger closely. All but staring daggers into every inch of his as his gaze swept over him. The man was about as tall and mysterious as they come. Leon elects to not extend a greeting hand nor one accepting of the other's help. Not just yet. Suspicious of the happenstances of their paths crossing in this war zone in the middle of this torn country.

"And just who are you working with here?" The chase is cut short. The tall stranger didn't look like an agent he knew. Didn't look like BSAA either. A mercenary, maybe? No use in trying to ease his way about in uncovering more about the man. The agent didn't have time to play those kinds of games. One must either show their honesty front and center or it would be forced out. He tossed up his bribed, "Answer me that and I might be a bit more willing to cooperate."

[captainredfields]

𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞   𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡   𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬   𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝   𝐬𝐞𝐞   that   chris   redfield   needs   help   .   he’s   grown   cold   and   closed   off,      at   least   to   the   wrong   people   .   even   those   he   does   trust   and   care   about   have   mentioned   how   distant   he’s   been   .   why   wouldn’t   he   be   though   ?      in   so   many   instances   ,   he’s   tried   and   tried   to   achieve   the   victory   on   missions   with   the   least   amount   of   life   lost   .   what   chris   redfield   won’t   do   is   admit   anyone   is   right   about   him   .      stubborn   as   he   is   ,   chris   will   never   admit   to   needing   any   kind   of   assistance   and   he’ll   keep   going   until   he   can’t   go   anymore   .   the   captain   turns   his   head   towards   @rivalinfect  when   a   near   scowl   on      his   face   as   a   reaction   to   the   statement   .   ❝   what   makes   you   think   that   i   need   help.   quite   a   BOLD   statement   .      ❞

angsty starters. 

[separateways]

"Have you considered retiring?"

MILK & HONEY + THE SUN & HER FLOWERS  «  𝘈𝘊𝘊𝘌𝘗𝘛𝘐𝘕𝘎 .

his office was a dimly lit affair,  the quintessence of noir,  all shadow & secrecy for a man whose power requires his visage lay hidden so that his hands may pull on the strings of the world,  watching as it spins in a dance of his own design,  every pawn unknowingly moving of his accord,  trapped in a fantasy of independence .  she was led by such romantic notions once,  that if her motions mimic that of a mere pawn she will one day please enough to sit in the same room as the man on the throne & usurp him━  but standing here,  her face illuminated only by the orange glow of a lit cigarette from which she draws momentary respite,  she realises these shadows are not her style .

he lives through a view that clouds this earth in a colourless fog,  the smoke she exhales from her lips .  black & white not in the duality of moral outcome,  just in the absence of colour itself & she  (striking reds that wound themselves in memory)  is unwelcome in this world .  to her,  these shadows are her tool & she will watch the dance unfold from the front row,  up close observing the prism of decay & denoting how it consumes all in its path .  a dichotomy in perspective,  in conduct that makes her worthy to sit across from him,  back rested against the wall & smoking so very casually .

the question he asks of her merely serves to prove her right .  it was rhetorical,  an ironic notion,  a chosen profession that would offer neither reprieve & any pause,  any break from this chaos is an illusion,  a temporary indulgence necessary so that may be continued to be eroded by a never-ending flow of information .  even this meeting,  the business between a commander & one of their agents,  is betraying calmness,  a deceit neither would fall for & she musters a pithy laugh,

“  kicking me out already ?  ”

[reidmode]

👩‍⚕️

👩‍⚕️ put pressure on my muse’s wound

layers of translucent gauze wrapped skin tight by experienced fingers. like an armband, to the point the layers became milky white together. it did not last; blood soaking through like beads of sangria paint descending into water. a canvas of it wove through the fabric as damage became controlled with pressure.

sharp & tangy. the odor well-nigh melted on her tongue ( it was that strong of an aroma, that herb essence & oil. ) the bandage reeked of it. yet, weird enough, the stench of death did not cause hunk to cringe as hard as this stuff did. ( one got used to the shit BOW’s smelt like on a daily fuckin’ basis. not even nemesis smelled that awful. not to diss her pal. )

“watch it, not all us regrow limbs!” 

rubbish was an underestimate to how the mission went. it had become ' SNAFU ' real fast, yet there was no space to complain about it now. a wrong twist and- fuck! alike lighting, pain coiled her arm and made her grit all thirty-two through a tense jaw. that was completely on her for trying to move up and about ASAP.