boundless & bare.

ㅤturning back to her would - be killer, she musters the courage to make one last appeal. "  i realize you're a hired enforcer. they point, you shoot. but i do not deserve this. those experiments... "  for a moment, she looks as though she'll be sick. "  they're inhumane. "  she'd been promised a newer, more advanced lab at the american facility, access to better equipment, more assistants, expedited grants for her research... and when she arrived and saw the kinds of experiments they intended for said research, she realized she'd been lied to. bamboozled, as it were. fellow amputees, injected with some kind of altered version of the biotech she'd been developing, that subsequently grew horrific, mutated limbs and, more often than not, either died from the strain or were put down. her research was important, essentially her life's work, but this... of course she'd reported it.

ㅤshe groans quietly, visibly wincing, and presses her hand against her midriff. blood flows from between her fingers, and it's obvious that remaining upright, even seated against the wall, is a struggle.

pale hand covering her embarrassment, she now measured her prey in a new light. pleading and weeping were the customary reactions o-ren had come to expect. hell, even exorbitant bribes were sometimes thrown about before the inevitable conclusion. these science and medicine marks were especially prone to the blubbering fits of begging. tedious, boring, futile.

but not this one . . . this one is made of something else.

" i must commend you for your defiance, if nothing else. i wouldn't call it wise, but it certainly is honorable. " the smattering of freckles across her face danced as she allowed herself a bright smile.

" most others wouldn't have made it this far; they would have most likely bled to death before even challenging me, as you do, " she said slowly; a soothing touch to her voice . . before placing cold steel beneath the other's chin.

" a shame that you'll die in this squalid place, doctor. i see you're more than a pretty face to --- "

years of training had sharpened her senses to pluck out their distant approach. frantic scuttering, claws raking metal, ravenous growls -- two, no, three? the hunter had become the hunted.

doctor renard forgotten, o-ren whirled around a fraction of a moment in time to intersect the abomination's whip-like tongue. the slick appendage (easily over eight feet long) wrapped itself around the first thing it could meet -- her katana. a flick of her wrist, and the tongue was cleaved away in a mist of red.

following the creature's agonizing yowls, she saw its upper body was now beginning to burst from the air ducts above. metallic tearing and scratching signaled the arrival of others.

ㅤand then he speaks again. and her heart skips a beat.

ㅤ "  kill? "   she repeats in a shocked whisper, glancing furtively around at their surroundings before looking to bill incredulously. " < what on earth are you talking about? > " of course she didn't want him dead. that would be wrong, and if nothing else, philippe had instilled her with a strong sense of what was right. no... death was no punishment, she thinks, and people ought to be punished for their crimes. which is why, in a small voice — and after a long pause, expression conflicted — she finally says, with clear conviction : " i only do not want him... touching things that are not his. "

one last explosion from above, and suddenly they were bathed in a pale, gray-blue light. the grass snake watching over them, locked in her eternal struggle to kill and feed, became pure snow in the new light.

then, and only then, did bill's smile begin to slowly bloom. it was the gentle and comforting smile which came before the bite.

" < of course, my dear sofie; only a joke amongst good friends. > his french was unmarred of deception. his fifth language now, which he'd taught himself in thirteen months of preparation. a mute assassin is like a plucked chicken: ugly, useless, and only fit for butchering.

" < but how does one punish the nonpunishable? what will stop him from destroying your things -- your dignity, any further? he looks down on your father, that's why he disrespects you without a care. his only goal is the ruin of house renard, though he'd never admit it publicly. > "

ㅤ "  h- he— he wh- what? " her voice shakes at a higher pitch now, dark eyes wide and nearly bulging, a prey animal caught in headlights mere milliseconds before impact. fear paints her face, all color draining from her skin, and beneath the clear shock and anxiety — the idea that her favorite possession, bar none, could be ruined — is anger. somewhere within those alarmingly dark depths are hints of matchbook sparks — conjured briefly, somehow both beautiful and shocking to witness, but never quite strong enough to become a proper flame. always deprived of just enough oxygen to grow.

ㅤshe stands abruptly and begins to pace, present company apparently forgotten. one hand rises to her mouth, where her front teeth begin to bite restlessly at her thumb's already short nail. " < s- stupid... stupid f- fat bastard... > " sofie is not prone to visible bouts of anger, far too conscious of her manners and outside perception. but that piano is her lifeline, her sole connection and outlet for working through emotions she might not otherwise know how to convey. the mere thought of some drunken businessman getting his filthy hands, let alone his drink, all over its beautiful keys...

ㅤher chest seizes and twists painfully, and she briefly bends ever so slightly at the waist in response. it isn't like her to get worked up, and when she does, her body does not approve. her first episode had been when she was considerably younger, and her parents, fearing she'd had some kind of respiratory attack, had summoned a doctor to their estate to check on little sofie, whom he'd shortly thereafter said had anxiety problems. she's been learning to keep it in check ever since.

ㅤwhich is why bill now finds her with her eyes closed, one hand pressed to her chest to monitor her heart rate, whispering near - inaudibly to herself as she breathes. " < in... out. i- in... out. > " soon enough, she appears to have calmed down, and slowly, sheepishly, returns to take her seat next to the older gentleman again. her thumb is bleeding from where she'd bit the nail down to nothing.

confidence ---

budd was nearly twelve years old the day he ran to his older brother -- his only protector in life -- bloodied and crying his eyes out. budd had always been an insecure and withdrawn shadow behind bill's wildfire; the world awaiting them would surely ravage his weak little brother. one of his ruffian friends -- a child not much older -- had called their mother a whore. worse than a whore -- a junkie, a lowlife, a cheap streetwalker who barely cared for her sons and was only in mexico to escape the law. a 'mother' who was better off dead.

truth, bill knew, would always cut deeper than the sharpest blade.

budd's nemesis was taller, faster, and stronger than him. so, when the day of their rematch came, bill had simply handed his brother a loaded pistol. a second cardical truth: life is not fair to the meek. that had been the first time his little brother took a life. the confidence of unleashing justice at the pull of a trigger had turned a crying child into a hardened man.

the third and final truth: anyone too weak to take their revenge deserved their fate. death.

" there is nothing to forgive, miss renard. don't ever apologize to me or anyone for your anger, most especially when it's a righteous one. anger is the greatest motivator there is. " his voice was low now; solemn. almost fatherly.

ㅤreprieve is only earned once philippe is satisfied, certain that everyone has met his pride and joy, and he saunters off to grease palms with other partygoers and finally, mercifully, leaves sofie to her own devices. and those devices, for all intents and purposes, were the books she'd snuck out to the garden before the party began, tucked away in her satchel and hidden behind a bush. her mother didn't approve of her tendency to sneak away from the lavish parties they hosted, but so too did she know that sofie was not a particularly social creature and did not much enjoy the lengthy company of others, particularly people she did not know.

ㅤsmart as she may be, her social skills were... stunted, at best, and she preferred the comforting silence of books instead of the raucous noise inside their estate. one night, when she was much younger, she'd witnessed a guest sitting and prodding at the family's grand piano — her piano — and she had become so upset and inconsolable that philippe had to escort her outside. it was the one and only outburst ever permitted within their household, and it became yet another lesson for sofie in learning to compartmentalize her emotions, crush them into the dirt with her heel.

ㅤshe very nearly sighs when she hears the man address her on approach ( she recalls meeting him earlier, introduced as an old friend of her father's ) but bites it back with a small frown instead. dark eyes glance up from behind her glasses long enough to take in his choice of mask — her own, a pristine white dove, long since set aside without a second thought. the motif of the caged bird is not lost on her. "  < good evening, sir. i trust you're having a pleasant time? > " the choice to respond in french when he does not comprehend is, perhaps, a bit petty. childish, even. but she is in no mood for company, and it shows on her face, how the polite tone to her words does not match her expression. he has never seen quite such a lonely, somber - looking child. but manners are too deeply engrained into her personality, her behavior, and she reluctantly decides it would be rude not to entertain one of her father's guests.

" i would care to sit, thank you, " he responded. " finding interesting company in this place has proven to be a real pain in the ass -- forgive the crude language; my hopeless american nature. "

bill drained what remained of the drink and, with a heavy sigh, took his place next to the french girl. shedding his own wolf skin proved to be a greater struggle than he imagined; dark chestnut hair (well streaked with iron these days) cascading to one side as he bared his face. a sudden, distant whistling, then another pop of fireworks illuminated their faces in ruddy, golden light. the little heir had certainly inherited all of her mother's austere, porcelain beauty.

monsieur philippe renard was, to the world, a highly respected, amiable, and wealthy lawyer as well as businessman. no one built an empire resplendent with topiaries and galas solely through acts of kindness, however; bill's very presence here the proof. he had seen what truly lurked behind philippe's mask and the two men became 'business partners' thereafter. the renard name had proven to be a valuable port from which bill could launch his ever-growing enterprise into new european markets.

" i needed some fresh air. think i would've disemboweled myself had i stayed inside a minute longer. that greasy bavarian sausage -- the finance minister, what's-his-name, is now singing on top of playing the piano. "

the man's full name, of course, bill knew perfectly . . as well as address, family names, hobbies, vices, and expiration date.

ㅤaccording to the flyers they'd left behind, they all had one thing in common: the murkoff corporation. it was ironic, in a way, to have sent someone so desperately in need of actual therapy into the very mouth of madness. the ride there had been more akin to a kidnapping than anything else — dragged into the back of a car, a bag shoved over her head. upon arrival, she'd been stripped, prodded, poked. drilled into. and when they were satisfied, they'd sedated her, and she'd woken with a start in a strange bedroom.

ㅤand shortly thereafter, she was thrust into hell itself.

ㅤshe and three other newcomers — reagents, the doctor had called them — were ushered onto a shuttle through metallic pod - like doors, strapped down and forcibly gassed with hallucinogens to unnerve them before the trial proper, made to witness gruesome images of mangled bodies pulling at their own intestines like spaghetti, prime assets abusing the corpses of dead reagents.

ㅤthe trial had been a visceral ordeal. she'd encouraged cooperation throughout, tried to help her fellow reagents in any way she could... but in the end, it was not enough. she'd clocked one's bloody demise only by their screams of terror from a far - off room. the other had died crying and pleading for help, trying futilely to reach for her hand. the ride back to the sleep room was silent, neither of the remaining women able to speak.

ㅤsince then, she's grown fairly apt at avoiding the pushers in trials, metal braces creaking amidst the puff puff of their gas nozzles, their psychotic rambling, coaxing, about therapy and fixing the reagents through full psychosis, cured only by the mercy of finding antidotes… or managing to outlast the skinner man's pursuit. she'd seen firsthand what happened to those who failed: tied down and wheeled off on gurneys, their minds irreparably damaged and making them now ineligible for the program. the therapy.

ㅤshe was not sent into this trial with help, and some strange part of her can't decide whether that's a relief. the doors open, and she steps out, immediately eyeing an empty bottle that she has to wrench from a corpse's rigor - set hand. soon enough, she's found this trial's main attraction, and steps into the sea of awaiting onlookers, corpses and mannequins alike focusing what remaining eyes they had on her as she approached.

" i voted to send all of my sons to war! a small price to pay for our freedoms, " cried one of them. " i voted for a chicken in every pot, and a knife in every commie, " said the plaster facsimile of a man. " fuck me, senator kress! fuck me! " yelled another.

otto kress walked over one of the transparent, glass squares beneath his feet and doffed his large top hat in greeting their guest. the new hat, he thought, was so exaggerated that even 'honest abe' would've blushed in envy. ' honest abe' was overcompensating with his. you've no need for such props, my virile stallion of a cock, arora had quipped upon seeing it.

he held the microphone stand, and his booming voice began to rattle the iron scaffolding above. " no democracy may flourish without the violent ideals of its misinformed electorate. your voice -- your vote -- is the sacred blood pumping through the veins of the beast protecting your cage. step on up, valued voter; your nation needs you! "

arora liked seeing her brother this animated and confident, even if the circumstances were as false as the crowd below. otto was most alive when he commanded the full authority which god had so cruelly denied them. for these fleeting moments of his joy, she would swallow her anguish with a smile.

" vote for me, the red party, " he continued. " i will rape and pillage countless nations to defend your freedoms at home. i will enslave the meek and burn the brave only for you! " " no, vote for me, the blue party, " said arora in a more gentle and controlled tone. " i will drown all of our destitute and penniless, the ill and lame, just to keep their unsightly stain away from your clean windows. "

two ornate levers stood atop the platform by their side. this would be a more controlled trial . . a more personal trial, according to the project directors. what that easterman fool hoped to get from this remained an incomprehensible mystery; the kress twins had no intentions of beginning to care. any excuse to taste freedom; any excuse to indulge in their most perverse fantasies. any excuse to once more taste the terror in these animals' eyes.

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ㅤ"  miss... miss, slow down. who's after you? "  she puts a gentle hand on the panicked woman's shoulder, meant to comfort and console, dark eyes staring into the woman's own wide ones. "  here... why don't we sit down, and you can catch your breath. "  her professional persona is like a second skin, something with which she can slip into with ease. one hand's placed at the small of the other woman's back as she guides her to the counter, ushers her into a seat while moving to fix her a glass of water from the bar. now seated by the stranger, she crosses her legs and leans one elbow against the counter.

she steadied herself and obliged, taking a seat by the counter. the dust covering its surface was as thick as ash, though not quite as oppressive as the fog which covered all the windows. the town of silent hill had proven to be as desolate as it was hospitable.

" this place is wrong. something was chasing me . . a demon. you're the first person i've seen in days, i-- " hearing her own words aloud, she stopped herself; took a small sip of water, then another. her only anchor to solid ground now, it seemed, was the woman across from her.

I have seen you in my dreams, she wanted to scream. how could one accurately explain what she was feeling without sounding mad? how could she describe the fleeting, ethereal images flooding her shattered memory? ivory fingers above ivory keys. early morning smiles wrapped in silk. her awe and approval dripping red from the tip of my sword. acts so cruel that only the falling snow of her love could smother them.

" < my name is o-ren ishii. > " her native japanese tumbled from her lips instinctively; her voice raw and low.

ㅤ"  i'll have you know, my time is quite valuable, and i do not appreciate having it wasted, "  she snaps irritably, polishing off the remains of her drink before turning to face the door. "  i should hope you have a very good reason for keeping me waiting so l— "  only... the face in the doorway is not who she was anticipating at all, and even in what little illumination the room offers, an embarrassed blush is visible on her cheeks.

ㅤ"  oh. i- i'm so sorry. you're not— please forgive me, i was... expecting someone else. " 

with every bone aching and her mind screaming for a respite from the fog, she had run into the dilapidated store. o-ren had been wandering the desolate streets of silent hill for what had to be days. or had it been weeks? her memory had become a restless fog as thick as the one outside. her very arrival to the town was becoming more and more difficult to remember by the hour.

all she knew -- with the certainty of someone who'd lost a piece of their heart -- was that she'd come here searching for someone. but who?

the soft chuckling coming from the back of the store had snapped her back to survival mode. a man -- no, a demon -- had run towards her then. its body was gray and bloated; devoid of all clothes, its genitals were barely concealed by the swinging intestines which dangled from its open abdomen. only its lower jaw remained; all else above had been cleanly severed. it laughed as it ran towards her. she fled.

without a weapon she was once more that frightened little girl at the mercy of the putrid men who'd abused her. without her, o-ren had no reason to fight . . only run.

but who? who am i trying to find?

her pristine, ivory kimono had become a soot-covered rag by the time she burst into the diner in sheer desperation. she had to hide from him; she had to be as quiet as the grave to survive -- but she was not alone here, either.

" p-please . . please, help me. he is after me " she cried, hands trembling uncontrollably until her eyes were able to focus on the other's face. " i'm . . . looking for someone. maybe you can help me find her? "

ㅤthankfully, all they knew was that there'd been a leak ; it was never traced to a particular employee. so when the world went to absolute shit in the middle of the workday, nobody thought twice about quiet dr. renard slipping away in the midst of the chaos. only now she had nowhere else to go, and found herself stuck inside a small storehouse, wounded and tired and terribly exhausted. she's just about to give in to the overwhelming desire to close her eyes for a short nap when the door nearest her is kicked open. a flashlight's beam nearly blinds her, illuminates her figure in the darkness — hair tied in a messy bun, loose strands framing her face ; a slim - fitting labcoat atop professional attire, complete with a skirt, button - down and heels. the only noteworthy descriptor ( aside from the blood at her midriff ) would be the empty space where the lower half of her forearm should be.

ㅤ"  s- stop! don't— don't shoot, please! "  she begs, arms raised, palm forward, to shield herself. from behind her trembling arms, she takes in the woman's facial features, her choice of weapon... not a rifle, slung instead around her back, but a katana. she hesitates before lowering her arms slightly and speaking again, this time in japanese. "  <please... wait. i'm not one of them.> "

bill had been quite clear in his orders to o-ren: their benefactors wanted no loose ends. the advent of umbrella's new world order would rise from the ashes of its very own architects. nearly all of the company's highest brass of scientists and engineers had been marked for elimination; o-ren would follow her master's orders to completion. 'angel of death' was a role she played with the ease and comfort of a broken person born to kill.

mindless hordes of murdering infected, rabid monsters, and the conflagration of half the city had made tracking her prey especially difficult . . . but the doctor's own blood had led o-ren straight to her. it appears doctor renard is calling to me, she mused with a creeping smile. it'd be rude to decline her red calling card.

she kicked open the door to the storehouse, flashlight in one hand, sword in the other at the ready. aside from the cobalt sash used to secure her weapon to her back, the assassin was a shadow in black leather. her onyx hair had somehow become even darker after soaking the blood of her foes.

hearing her native japanese tongue brought her to a halt; seeing the other's missing limb made the halt permanent. she found the sight before her now both sad and strangely beautiful. " doctor renard, i presume? " the question came in plain english. the tone gentle, yet devoid of all emotion.

AND IT ALL ADDS UP. [ x ]

character edits & dynamics

➥ ELLE DRIVER &. SOFIE FATALE

ㅤfinally, finally, he offers forth the bottle of vodka and doesn't immediately yank it away. she's aware she shouldn't drink on the job, let alone something from the very man she's been sent to kill. but when has that ever stopped her? he's in no condition to fight. one celebratory drink won't hurt. not for the first time, and certainly not the last, her growing arrogance takes the reins and ends with her accepting the bottle, pressing her plush lips against its mouth, and taking a hard swig. it... tastes like nothing, much to her surprise. is this really what's been getting this guy wasted?

at the birth of all duels, be they petty or grand, one must look death in the eye and throw the dice. it was the iron-clad mantra all good murderers should know by heart: if you are not prepared to die, then you are not prepared to kill. the sword of damocles hung above them, as it had all of bill's life.

his sword, however, was not above -- but below.

" . . . i'm glad you ask. "

a flash of steel from beneath the table. bill lunged forward with all of the momentum and surprise he'd bought himself. in one motion -- one singular heartbeat -- the blade cut before him in a sweeping arc. it struck its target with perfect precision, and with a sharp whack, her pistol was flung out of reach and sent flying into the pool.

this sword was no true sword, but a genuine tantō -- a short blade no longer than twelve inches used in the art of seppuku. a fond token from his years in japan, and a precious gift from an old friend.

' < go forth and defeat one hundred opponents using this. only then will i entrust you with a blade fit to cleave through heaven and earth' > , he'd said. they had both been contemporaries, yet bill had learned much and more from the japanese man. ' < if you should lose but once, turn this blade upon yourself and fulfill its purpose.' >

his chair was thrown back, and bill stood before his foe now; the sharp and glistening ceremonial blade pointed at her. he'd secured it beneath the table long before she arrived.

" you weren't sent here to kill me; you were sent here to die, my dear." no more acting, no more foolish masks. the edge upon his voice was as sharp as his intentions to end her. and yet . . .

ㅤㅤhoney, can't you see i'm bleeding out?

ㅤㅤㅤㅤsay that i look pretty, crimson on my ivory gown.