LET ME LIVE.

▶        #BIOVALIANT                                       independent    &    private   writing   blog   for   claire  redfield   of   𝙲𝙰𝙿𝙲𝙾𝙼'𝚂   𝙱𝙸𝙾𝙷𝙰𝚉𝙰𝚁𝙳    /    𝚁𝙴𝚂𝙸𝙳𝙴𝙽𝚃   𝙴𝚅𝙸𝙻   𝚂𝙴𝚁𝙸𝙴𝚂 .     written   by   aimee .        *     intrinsically   associated   with   @bioresilient   &    @biosurvive .     exclusive    &    single - ship   with   @bioresilient​ .

𝚂𝙰𝚅𝙴 𝙵𝙸𝙻𝙴 :      𝙳𝙾𝙲   &   𝙲𝙰𝚁𝚁𝙳     ⁄     𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙴𝚂𝚃 𝚃𝚁𝙰𝙲𝙺𝙴𝚁     ⁄     𝙿𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙴𝚂𝚃

 @biovaliant​ plotted

   Corporate parties; an excruciating agony not wished upon his worst adversaries.  So much bootlicking he’s sure his shoes must be glistening with platinum tier silver saliva.  He’s a long time out of practice, and the delicacies of masquerading social chameleon are slow to return.  Not that they were ever particularly honed to begin with; despite his aptitude for the chase, Daniel Fabron was an extraordinarily blunt thing.  Better built for rending than talking; it’s hard to play the man in a suit.  He makes idle chatter, sliding between groups- memorizing names, neighborhoods, who had a dog and who didn’t.  Who lived alone, and who was to be unfortunate collateral. 

    TerraSave was not Umbrella.  These men in ties are willing to loosen their lips to a stranger, a perceived co worker, over a few glasses of cheap champagne.  Throw in a shitty cheese board welded to a bullshit story about some foreign investor from Paris and he was about golden.  

   Then he sees her.  Holy grail.  His white whale.  Daniel thinks, eyes honed into a fine glare beneath the veil of his glasses- he thinks.  He thinks long, hard.  She brained his Tyrant, and she’s about the farthest from alone.  He’d die, she’d die, the rest would walk.  Sub-fucking-optimal.  The second the man goes for the knife in his boot he knows, here, he’s toast.

    So Daniel settles on the next best thing.

   ❝ Hey hey- !! Bonjour !!  Redfield, right?  Had to see the big shot with my own eyes.  MMMM- ❞ he throws back what’s left of his champagne, slides himself to her left.  ❝ I heard about what happened- island in the Baltics.  Pardon my French, but that’s some real crazy shit, right? ❞

HER  MOUTH’S  FULL  OF  WINE  WHEN  IT  HITS  HER ;     the  searing  pain  that  lights  her  whole  leg  on  fire  from  her  ankle  to  her  hip,     sees  her  swallowing  hard  and  gripping  onto  the  handle  of  her  cane  for  support  so  she  doesn’t   eat shit   in  front  of  all  these  snooty  millionaires.     when  rebecca  had  cleared  her  to  ditch  the  wheelchair,     she  had  expected  some  minor  pains  and  troubles  to  linger      (    her  injuries  had  been  grievous,     she  knew  her  recovery  would  be  a  shitshow    )      but  that  didn’t  prepare  her  for  the  reality  of  it.     nothing  could  have,     she  thinks.

she  sets  her  glass  down  and  stands  up  straighter,     flashing  forced  smiles  at  anyone  who  walks  by  while  she  shifts  uncomfortably,     waiting  for  the  burning  to  subside.     it  does,     eventually,     and  she  takes  advantage  of  the  reprieve  to  abandon  the  refreshments  table  and  find  a  seat  at  one  less  crowded.     but  as  her  luck  would             of  course              have  it,     HER  PRIVACY  DOESN’T  LAST.

“     please,     ”          go  away,     she  wants  to  say,     but  she  bites  it  back  and  smiles  instead.     appearances  and  all  that.          “     just  call  me  claire.     ”

she’s  wearing  a  suit  instead  of  her  usual  dress  because  the  scars  on  her  legs  are  still  fresh,     still  raw,     and  she’d  rather  not  spend  the  night  rehashing  her  time  on   HELL  ISLAND  #2   to  every  nosy  millionaire  who  asks  about  them.     she  didn’t  account  for  the  few  who  might  already  know.

‘     yeah,     ’          she  thinks  dryly,          ‘     some  real  crazy  shit.     ’

@biovaliant​ . 

                    “       𝐖𝐄𝐒𝐊𝐄𝐑𝐒   𝐀𝐍𝐃   𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐃𝐒 .       𝐈𝐅   𝐈𝐓’𝐒   𝐍𝐎𝐓   𝐀   𝐂𝐎𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 ,       𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐍   𝐓𝐇𝐄   𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄   𝐇𝐀𝐒   𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄   𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘   𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐄𝐋   𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐒   𝐅𝐎𝐑   𝐀   𝐉𝐎𝐊𝐄 .       ”             jake   says   with   a   scoff   and   a   smirk ,       humorless   and   dry ,       which   went   just   as   fast   as   it   came .       “       so ,       what   was   she   like ?       the   other   wesker ?       ”

*     𝙸𝙽𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙼𝙴𝚂𝚂𝙰𝙶𝙴      ⁽  ·  ·  ·  ⁾ [     @biomend​​     ] 　 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝚃  :      ❝   we’re not old enough to drink yet !  what if we get in trouble ?   ❞

[   INT.   CHRIS’S  APARTMENT   ─   DUSK   ].     

rebecca’s  harsh  whisper  is  barely  audible  over  the  ice   rattling  violently   inside  the  metal  shaker,     claire  putting  her  bartending  expertise  to  work  in  her  brother’s  kitchen  while  he’s  out   with  god  knows  who  doing  god  knows  what.     she  rolls  her  eyes  in  playful  aggravation,     a  mischievous  smirk  dancing  across  lips  lightly  painted  with  cherry  chapstick.     claire  clocked  that  little  goody two  shoes  act  right  from  the  the  start     ─     NOW  SHE’S  DETERMINED  TO  SEE  IT  CRUMBLE.

“    relax,    ”          she  says,     drawing  the  word  out  as  she  sets  the  shaker  on  the  counter  and  snatches  up  the  two  rocks - style  old - fashioned  whiskey  glasses  she  had  pilfered  from  the  bar  before  she’d  left  chicago.          “     chris  is  gonna  be  gone  all  night ;     so  unless  you’re  planning  to  snitch  on  us,     how’s  anyone  gonna  know?     ”

‘     he’s  used  to  this  from  me  anyway,     he  won’t  even  be  surprised     ’        sits  on  her  tongue  like  a  black  cherry  warhead  and  she  forces  herself  to  swallow  it  before  she  spits  it  out.     there’s  no  need  for  all  that  drama.

the  youngest  of  the  redfields  drops  a  small  handful  of  ice  into  each  glass  and  twists  off  the  shaker  top  to  pour  the  pale  yellow  liquid  in  on  top  of  them.     while  the  ice  pops  and  cracks  in  a  noisy  but  futile  protest,    she  tops  each  drink  off  with  the  last  of  the  club  soda     [     ELZA  OWES  HER  FOR  WASTING  IT  AT  THAT  STUPID  FRAT  PARTY  LAST  WEEK     ].

she  slides  one  glass  across  the  counter  to  the  younger  girl,     a  little  twinkle  in  her  sharp  blue  eyes.           “     try  it.     you’ll  like  it,     i  promise.     ”

          The potential crime scene just keeps growing. From the torn and stained swatch in the tree, Jill’s eyes go the scrub and those unnatural splatters on the leaves Claire discerns, “You would have made a good detective.” The note’s appreciative, if imbued with an undercurrent apprehension, Jill crouching closer to brush a hand through the shrubbery and to rub a pinch of dirt between her fingers, the particles dry and intractable, yielding nothing. First the camera, then the new evidence; her wife is two for three. A cautious sniff of the air divines no four; no sickly sweet smell of rot, no body. Not that she’d really been expecting to find one that easily. The question is whether they should be searching for one at all. Their mission is time sensitive, imperiling the lives of the entire town they’re beholden to —— could a possible homicide have anything to do with it? If it even is a homicide……

          Jill jolts violently in place before her mind even registers the sound, instinct materializing her handgun in her grip and her finger on the trigger guard, her body between Claire’s and the source, intuitively located. It’s an abrupt, militant maneuver, a hasty snap of limbs evinced by the scuff of material on material and the jingle and clack of buckles and zips, which galvanizes rather than falters when her senses comprehend what she’s hearing —— static, like a radio tuned between stations… and the crackling, maniacal laugh of a C-movie villain. 

          A jerk of her head commands the redhead stay put and communicates her intent in one. She maneuvers forward slowly, each boot lifted and replaced with the upmost care and attention to their tread, not even the grate of dirt or whisper of grass disclosing her location. Jill creeps closer until she reaches the tree the sound emits from, gauged too skinny to hide a person from view. They hadn’t run, she would have heard…

          She circles the tree, eyes skeptically and methodically probing the trunk, but she needn’t have looked so closely —— the sight is interrupted by a conspicuous wooden board, a thin square of plywood from which camouflaging paint seems to melt, washed down by rain. “What the hell…” Her handgun is holstered to free her hands, fingers jamming beneath the board and pulling until it splinters and cracks away from the screws clumsily affixing it to the tree. It hides a hollow in which a black box has been hidden, the sun glaring incriminatingly from the plastic. ‘SPOOKY’ is printed in white, wobbly letters beneath the still-buzzing speaker.

          A Halloween prop.

          Jill’s breath releases an unimpressed sigh, her prize held out for Claire to view, “We’ve been punked.”

SEVERAL  THINGS  HIT  CLAIRE  AT  ONCE.

or  rather,     they  hit  her  one  after  the  other  with  no  reprieve,     no  moment  to  ponder  one  before  the  next  stacks  on  top  of  it  like  poorly  positioned  tetris  blocks.     each  boils  down  to  one  thing :     they’ve  wasted  so  much  precious  time  meant  to  put  them  ahead  of  a   POTENTIAL  THREAT   to  this  town  investigating  fucking  halloween  props  in  what  has  revealed  itself  to  be     [    quite  obviously,     in  hindsight    ]     the  leftovers  of  a  low-budget  attraction.

“     you’ve  gotta  be  kidding  me,     ”          she  says  on  a  groaning,     exasperated  exhale.     that  jill  is  here  to  help  soak  up  some  of  the  humiliation  eases  her  personal  embarrassment,     but  the  blow  to  her  dignity  still  rattles  loosely  at  her  patience.     it’s  not  their  fault  that  two  anti-bioterrorism  agents  were  fooled  by  their  little  display,     but  claire  finds  herself  cursing  the  ones  behind  it  anyway.          “     you  still  think  i  would’ve  made  a  good  detective?     ”          only  a  hint  of  derisiveness  laces  each  word  at  their  expense.

chris,     inéz,     and  the  rest  of  their  shared  terrasave  and  bsaa  buddies  are  gonna  get  a  real  kick  out  of  this  one,     that’s  for  sure.     with  less  caution  than  she  had  before,     claire  steps  through  the  brush  and  squeezes  through  the  trees  back  out  onto  the  little  footpath  they’d  been  following  prior  to  their  detour.

*     𝙸𝙽𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙼𝙴𝚂𝚂𝙰𝙶𝙴      ⁽  ·  ·  ·  ⁾ 𝙹𝙸𝙻𝙻 　 [     @bioresilient​​​​​​     ] 　 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝚃  :      ❝   can’t sleep ?   ❞

[   INT.   KITCHEN  /  SHITTY  APARTMENT   ─   NIGHT   ].      the  drowsy  husk  of  jill’s  voice  pierces  the  deafening  silence  permeating  their  cramped  living  space  and  claire  laughs.     it’s  hollow  and  humorless,     something  both  foreign  and  uncomfortable  even  to  her  own  ears,     and  elicits  a  brief  grimace  into  her  reflection  on  the  scratched,     aged  chrome  of  the  sink  faucet.     she  turns  just  enough  to  bring  her  roommate  into  view,     exhausted  beyond  the  kind  of  tiredness  abated  by  a  good  night’s  sleep.     [   . . .   ]     yet  she  still  manages  a  playfulness  to  the  smile  she  presents.

          “     what  gave  it  away?    ”          she  asks,     setting  her  glass  of  water  on  the  counter  she  leans  her  hip  against.     the  benadryl  bottle  next  to  it     [   ON  ITS  SIDE,     TOP  OFF  AND  CLEARLY  EMPTY  ]     rolls  closer  to  the  edge  but  stops  short  of  clattering  to  the  floor.          “     these  captivating  bags  under  my  eyes  or  the  frustrated  screaming  into  my  pillow  every  hour  on  the  hour?     ”