#unhalloweds

[leafpool-fire]

What is ur last post at tumblr about?

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Voting ended onAug 5

[crucialelement]

@unhalloweds

Planning for the unexpected is a necessary part of the job. Most of the time, that means things like larger-than-projected enemy density, inclement weather, operators having to deal with the question marks and ambiguity of warfare. Occasionally, it means getting third-partied by a group that isn't supposed to be there in the first place, and if that weren't bad enough, it's a third party Emily knows.

These contractors aren't Guild, which means they're a little less reliable than the coworkers she's used to. Fortunately they're still well on track to do what they came here for, with a minimum of diversions... though, that might well be about to change.

As Chris approaches the fallen merc, clearly torn to shreds by something - a Licker, maybe? - the radio on the body's chest crackles with a familiar voice. "Hatchet 1-3, still with us? Hatchet 1-3..."

A few seconds of silence.

"Looks like 1-3 is down. Hatchet, regroup and button up, we've still got some game left to play. I have Nighthawk on standby, keep checking those corners and notify me if anything in the AO changes."

[voicestold]

the fool ALREADY GOT GOOD FOOD. HE STOLE MY CHEESE DIP.

[tormentedties]

A freshly stamped letter delivered @unhalloweds

“Why does everything have to be a fight with you?” HAH from chris to leon c: confrontational dialogue accepting!

Chris wasn’t supposed to be here.

And yet the man stood within arms distance, as Leon cradled the glass of spirits he long forgot what it contained. Drowning at the bottom of a bottle would always be a habit he couldn’t quite kick, especially with the ghosts that crawled along his skin, and the charcoal marks that stained his arms. The search for anything relating to the mystery was hopeless, more people who survived Raccoon city turning up dead, all with the same distinct patterns. 

Some days, he’d cope with quick quips, filling silence with words so he would no longer have to sit with everything that gnawed at him. Others, when he was supposed to be alone, would be hosted with boozes, replacing the mental torment with the burn of liquor. God knows what the state of his liver had left in him, but as far as he was concerned he dying anyway. Yes, he wanted to find a cure, to stop the tracks in motion, but everything seemed so…. Bleak.

“It’ll stop being a fight when you stop treating me like I’m fucking fragile and incapable.” The hovering drove him insane, the watchful eyes as his body broke itself down, stole more time from him. Of course he knew that wasn’t the case, the checking in, making sure he was okay, hovering around in case he needed anything… all pieces that Chris layered his own care in. But knowledge did nothing to contain the irritation layered in his own guilt and heavy heart at the context.

Leon brought the glass to his mouth, taking a long sip of the whiskey that collected in it. “Go away, Redfield.”

[pressedpetalsinpages]

@unhalloweds (gabe/reaper)

Ealauver had left for an important trip early that morning, which meant she was going to have three days of blessed calm. It was rare that he would leave for an extended period time without dragging her along, but with how severe her flare ups had been in the past week, he finally conceded that she should stay home. It was a rare moment of understanding from him. As hollow as it felt, she would take it.

Evening came and she finally climbed out of bed to make herself a cup of tea. She wheeled her chair into the kitchen, filled up the kettle, and popped it on. The staff - the chef and the maid - had been dismissed early by her. She wanted quiet. She wanted time alone, without feeling as if she was being watched.

Except, well. She still felt like she was being watched.

There were a few security cameras in the house, by the front, back, and side doors. The security system was active. Ealauver liked his privacy and very much wanted to protect his property - but thankfully he didn't have cameras in every single nook and cranny.

So, really, there was no reason to feel like she was being watched in the kitchen. There was no camera.

The kettle whistled. She turned her chair to grab a mug from the opposite counter and...there was a man in the doorway. A man holding two gigantic guns who looked just as confused as she was.

She stared at him for a long moment.

"...I'm assuming that you haven't stopped by for tea?"

[megalomanist]

plotted starter for @unhalloweds [ CHRIS REDFIELD ]

Gentle pattering noises of rain echoing through the hallways of the police station created an underlying murmur to the daily goings-on in the place, busy steps walking and running up and down, aggravated noises of criminals being taken into custody, the faint laughter of colleagues exchanging good-natured jokes at coffee machine.

It was no rare sight to see members of the police traipse about the corridor leading to the S.T.A.R.S. office, curiosity getting the better of them. Many dreamed of one day being able to join the Police Department's special force, others simply wanted to get a glimpse of the mysterious Captain or one of the carefully recruited specialists. And sometimes, one of the latter would even agree to spare some time and offer a training on the shooting range.

Rainy days seemingly always brought the visitors around, when no one felt much inclined to spend their lunch break outside or head into the city, everyone cooped up waiting for the weather to clear up — which it finally had in the late hours of the day, the spring sun allowing some final rays to filter through the windows, bringing with them a little warmth of soon-to-be-summer.

By now, the hours had moved on and evening had settled over the station, the steady buzz slowly dying down as people made their way home, a sense of calm and relaxation spreading through the S.T.A.R.S. Captain's office which he privately enjoyed.

Fingerless gloves cast aside on the mahogany table top, Albert Wesker sat in his chair, leaned back with one elbow propped up on his armrest, chin in hand, as he studied a piece of paper neatly clipped to a board, held in his other. The past days had been rather busy for him and his team as they had been assigned to help the regular forces with a specifically tricky series of crimes committed in the south of the city.

Nothing his S.T.A.R.S. couldn't handle, naturally.

Regardless, Wesker had utilized their time in the field to carefully observe each and every team member's skills and assets, carefully noting where improvements were in order. As such, a training course for a hand full of his team was filled out in the form he held now, his pen — neatly engraved with his name because his old ones would always mysteriously vanish — swiftly flying over the form, neat penmanship only slightly suffering from the pose he held.

Only when he was done, the board placed on his table and his body stretching, did he truly take in his surroundings again.

His own office was almost swallowed in darkness, except for his desk lamp, but from the room outside the light still came pouring in. Not remembering whether he left it on or not, Wesker rolled to his feet and moved to the door of his office, rounding the corner to let his gaze wander over the tables in the room.

Not everyone had been assigned a desk as the team was always on rotation, only those that spent nearly every day at the police station anyway had been granted a seat — and the go-ahead to decorate the place. While Wesker was not a man of sentimentalities, he well understood how to motivate people. And motivation rarely worked by not letting people express themselves. As such, not only were the walls lined with prizes won at various competitions, but also pictures lined some of the desks, and a darts game was hung on one of the nearby walls.

And of course there was the decked out place of one Christopher Redfield, not only sporting his favorite jacket, but also a guitar which sometimes filled the air with tunes the captain admittedly had found quite pleasing so far.

Seeing the man in question still hunched over his paperwork, Wesker crossed his arms over his chest as he canted his head, an ever-so-slight motion preceding his words.

"Chief Irons is not wont to pay overtime, Christopher."

He had not expected to see anyone else still around at this time, especially since the other man had a reputation of spending his hours off work downtown with Speyer and Vickers.

[misaki-chii-muses]

@unhalloweds for Chris

It was a stormy night and the waters were rocky but underneath those waters deep down in the depths was a man who had half of his body crushed due to certain debris but his infected half was keeping him alive. He was unconscious but alive and little did he know that he was being searched for.

Above the waters helicopters hovered as if they were searching for something or someone. Umbrella had gotten Intel that an infected BSAA member was lost and presumed dead and they found it as an advantage to find him and use him as a weapon. After a bit of experimenting he would have been perfect. There were divers jumping into the water from the helicopters and searching the area where the previous explosion happened. They had been looking constantly but found nothing until one diver saw someone underneath a pile of heavy debris.

"Over here!" The diver shouted. Several other divers followed and they all lifted the debris together before grabbing Piers and swimming back up to the helicopter that hovered above. Two men lifted Piers into the helicopter and placed a certain type of device on him that would weaken him before one of the men stayed there next to Piers and watched him in order to protect the helicopter and people if anything had happened.

-------

Although after that two days had passed and Piers would slowly gain consciousness in a white room but he was restrained and didn't fully remember what happened but he still remembered who he was and what he was. Although the explosion was a mystery to him.

He glanced around the room to see tools on a silver tray next to him and he then looked towards his arm along with the other half of his body which was somehow regenerated and his arm was in human form again. He wanted to question it but he didn't at least not now. He started to piece together what was going on and he had to get out of here. He looked towards the door once he heard a few people talking and then walking in. The men and one woman were wearing white lab coats and they surrounded him.

"Where am I? Let me go or else." Piers said with anger in his voice. The man in the lab coat just grinned. "It's nice to see you progressing, Mr. Nivans." Piers glared. "What do you want with me?" He shouted. "Oh is that any way to talk to the people who saved you?" The man asked. Piers went silent as another man began to pick up a shot from the table. Piers growled as he struggled but was too weak at the time. Although a few moments later his screams filled the room and he suffered.

[warwaited]

@unhalloweds

"You may not expect a call for temperance to come from this source, paleman, but I urge you consider carefully the options available to us."

One probably wouldn't expect Rakatak to be arguing in favour of the reason her armour is spattered with acid, either, but for some reason this is where she's chosen to stake her claim. The hobgoblin stalks around to the other side of Ethel, having weathered a torrent of mockery about her chosen method of waging war and come out far ahead. Now, with the crone well and truly beaten, that impressive nose has apparently smelled something other than blood.

"She is correct in one thing: her value is more to us alive than dead, not least because she has powerful magics. The tenets of the oath dictate that opposition must be crushed, and does this not strike you as a foe who will never again raise her hand to us?"

Rakatak gently jabs the Tooth in Ethel's general direction to underscore the point. The hag hisses. The paladin chuckles. "It would be tactically pointless to execute her when she is presenting such a... spread of tithes to preserve herself."