SILVER WOLF

Have you ever seen anything so incredible? The data on this would be worth millions! But, you know how it is—city’s about to explode... and you can’t put a price on life. Good luck!

there’s  a  certain  adrenaline  rush  that  comes  with  premieres,  and  every  time  jordan  feels  her  energy  coming  down  for  the  evening,  something  else  happens  to  resurge  it.  case  in  point:  a  crowd  gathered  outside  the  village  theatre,  camera  lights  flashing  and  voices  screaming  whenever  someone  who  could  be  somebody  sets  foot  outside.  as  much  as  she’s  looking  forward  to  kicking  off  her  impossibly  steep  six-inch  heels  and  trading  in  a  custom  couture  gown  for  her  old,  almost  ratty  rothfield  alumni  t-shirt  and  sweats,  nothing  can  replace  the  interactions  she  gets  to  have  with  fans  face-to-face,  even  if  it’s  as  simple  as  signing  a  poster  or  taking  a  photo  with  them.

she’s  mid-conversation  with  a  young  fan  who’s  gushing  about  how  much  he  enjoyed  the  first  chokehold  movie  and  how  excited  he  is  to  see  the  sequel  in  a  few  days’  time,  when  killjoy  numero  uno  intervenes  to  effectively  kill  the  moment  with  a  death  stare,  a  death  grip  and  a  few  choice  words  that  could  easily  spell  out  L-A-W-S-U-I-T.

❛   nikolai!   ❜          she  doesn’t  take  the  split-second  in  which  she  reacts  to  consider  that  she  has  at  least  a  dozen  cameras  on  her,  potentially  more      —      jaw  is  clenched  tightly  as  the  three  syllables  leave  her,  gaze  glaring  at  him.  it’s  all  drowned  out  by  the  crowd  anyway  and  she  recovers  fast,  shooting  the  fan  in  question  and  the  rest  around  him  an  apologetic  look  and  saying  a  few  quick  thank-yous  as  she’s  being  ushered  toward  the  open  car  door.  

composure  begins  to  melt  away  as  she  settles  into  the  backseat  and  they  drive  off  moments  later,  that  post-premiere  adrenaline  rush  ebbing  as  quickly  as  it  came.          ❛   I  realize  you’re  just  doing  your  job,   ❜          and  that’s  the  truth;    patience  is  fleeting  at  best  but  she  tries  to  cling  to  the  pieces  of  it  that  remain.  for  her  sake  or  his?  maybe  the  driver’s.  who’s  to  say?          ❛   but  do  you  think  that  maybe      —      just  maybe,  one  time,  as  a  fun  little  experiment      —      you  could  do  it  without  traumatizing  someone?   ❜          fingers  are  plucking  at  the  pins  in  her  hair  as  she  speaks,  eager  to  bring  her  scalp  some  relief  now  that  the  night  is  over  and  she’s  not  planning  to  hit  the  after-party  given  the  early  morning  flight  to  new  york.          ❛   I  mean,  I  have  a  reputation  to  maintain  here,  and  you’re  doing  an  incredible  job  at  making  that  more  difficult  than  it  needs  to  be.   ❜

He can see it coming a mile away, the moment he separates her from her adoring fan. That expression of shock says it all—he’s crossed a line, and she’s going to give him hell for it. (She clearly hasn’t figured out how little regard he has for lines that aren’t meant to be crossed.) She’s roiling as they climb into the back of the car, but her wrath doesn’t concern him. He’s accustomed to working for the sort of people who, in the face of failure, can make sure he never works again. Hell, who would put a bullet in his back for bad performance. By comparison, an uptight little actress is of no particular concern.

Stretching out in his seat, his long legs take up a surprising amount of floor space. He rolls his shoulders—cracks his neck—then slouches a bit, visibly relieved to be out from under the scrutiny of the crowd. She’s talking, but he doesn’t really care—her words practically roll off of him. Only when she pauses, waiting for an answer, does he even bother to look at her. 

“Do you want a good reputation, or do you want to be safe?”  He gestures at her. “Simple question. It is your choice.”

He looks out the window, letting a wry smile tug at his lips as he recalls the shocked expression of the teenager. There’s no way the teenager was really a danger—Nikolai got between them because he was irritable and felt like being an ass. She knows that, and he knows she knows that. But that doesn’t mean he’s going to give up the façade. He never backs down from his own decisions—even bad ones. And pressing the point will annoy her, which is fast becoming one of his new favorite past times.

Some of them may be somewhat incomplete.

A low, throaty laugh. "It's true, you know? I ask you—where would the UBCS be without my winning personality?”

Screams ring out through the monitor, a grainy image showing bodies torn asunder by the horde of zombies that shouldn’t have been able to gain access to the UBCS encampment. That wouldn’t have, were a certain door not left open.

Fabron knows what’s really going on here. It’s all just valuable data for the company.

It’s been a long night.

Nikolai Zinoviev has twice the stamina of a man half his age. He’s hiked the Carpathians, survived enemy assault for days on end with no sleep, endured torture. He wrestles bears for fun.

All of that he would gladly take over one day playing bodyguard to a major Hollywood actress.

But—it turns out Hollywood money is almost as good as morally ambiguous megacorporation money. And at the moment, few others have need of his talents. So here he is, facing down a horde of paparazzi and adoring fans, looming like the specter of death over the shoulder of the beloved Jordan Riley.

It would be easy to lose focus in the glare of the lights and the scream of the crowds. But his is a practiced mind, parsing the onslaught of sensory information in the blink of an eye. Like the young man eagerly chatting with Miss Riley as she autographs a photo, making it difficult for her to pull away. Nikolai counts the seconds. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5...

Too long. So what if he couldn’t be more than fifteen years old? He’s a plausible threat, and Nikolai is feeling particularly irritable.

He stalks forward, grabs the boy’s wrist in a grip that will leave bruises. “That’s it, time is up, dawdle longer and I will break your hand.” He pushes the boy away without a second thought, his attention already on Jordan.

“It is time to go. Your car is here.” He gestures toward the curb, holding out a hand to shepherd her in the direction of escape.

Oh, yes, of course.

just a couple points of business:

I’m coming from Ye Olde Era of blog links for rules and about pages. Those are up for Nikolai, but I’ll work on translating them to a Carrd in the next few days when I get some time to poke at it.

I’m simultaneously setting up a Heisenberg over at @macabremachinations . Go follow trash uncle? His blog is p much in working order but I’ll share a proper promo when he’s got a Carrd and a pinned post up.

yes hello I heard there's a cash reward for jill valentine's blood ?

the  weeks  that  had  followed  the  eradication  of  raccoon  city  were  the  most  bleak  she  had  endured  in  her  memory,  filled  with  shady  motel  after  shady  motel,  front  desk  clerks  not  pressing  about  the  various  bruises  and  lacerations  on  her  skin  but  clearly  making  up  pieces  of  the  story  in  their  mind.  it  was  both  enraging  and  kind  of  funny,  the  fact  that  no  one  in  their  right  mind  would  ever  believe  the  truth  if  she  told  them      —      though  if  the  situation  were  reversed,  she  knows  she  wouldn’t  believe  it,  either.

recovery  had  been  a  rollercoaster  in  its  own  right,  with  jill  having  to  admit  to  herself  that  field  first  aid  practices  that  were  practical  in  war  zones  weren’t  sensible  when  she  had  access  to  emergency  room  medical  care,  devoid  of  any  undead  like  spencer  memorial  had  provided  in  spades.  truly,  making  the  venture  to  get  a  proper  examination,  diagnosis,  and  recovery  plan  had  been  full  of  jill  looking  over  her  shoulder  and  feeding  a  falsified  narrative  of  an  abusive  boyfriend  she  was  leaving  to  the  nurse  practitioner.  the  truth  was  too  much  of  a  risk,  she  knew  it,  but  it  still  frustrated  her  to  no  end.

would  she  ever  be  able  to  talk  about  it?  would  anyone  believe  her?  would  umbrella  finally  end  up  paying  for  all  the  destruction  they  caused?

the  questions  plagued  her  for  months  and  now,  five  months  after  the  fact,  she’s  finally  able  to  actually  start  making  some  proper  headway  into  the  investigation.  the  facilities  umbrella  had  constructed  in  raccoon  city  were  long  gone  and  with  it,  the  evidence  that  the  t-virus  outbreak  had  occurred  there,  but  it  wasn’t  the  end  of  it  all.  not  even  close.  key  information  she  had  obtained  in  NEST  2  pointed  her  to  europe,  and  further  intel  from  an  anonymous  source  that  ended  up  being  credible  pointed  her  to  the  swiss  alps.  and  what  better  way  to  kick  off  her  twenty-fifth  year  than  some  good,  old-fashioned  breaking  and  entering?

getting  inside  had  been  as  easy  as  promised;  notebook  containing  the  security  codes  she’d  need  are  tucked  inside  her  jacket,  near  the  secondary  pistol  she  had  on  hand  in  case  something  happened  with  her  sidearm.  somehow,  being  in  one  of  umbrella’s  facilities  that  wasn’t  overrun  by  undead  and  bioweapons  alike    ( as  far  as  her  intel  went )    didn’t  provide  much  comfort.  at  the  end  of  the  day,  the  scientists  and  researchers  were  the  worse  threat.

case  in  point:  she  takes  care  to  check  around  the  corner  as  she  makes  her  way  deeper  into  the  facility,  heading  for  the  chief  researcher’s  office,  only  to  stop  short  when  a  chillingly  familiar  voice  cuts  through  the  eerie  stillness.

no  way  it’s  him.  no  fucking  way  can  it  be  him.  the  last  time  she  had  seen  nikolai  zinoviev  was  through  the  window  of  the  helicopter  she  and  carlos  had  commandeered  to  escape  the  city  before  the  missile  got  there      —      wounded,  bleeding,  laughing.  at  what?  she  hadn’t  thought  to  ask,  hadn’t  really  cared,  either.  he’d  be  eradicated  with  the  rest  of  the  city,  another  traitor  to  forget  as  time  wore  on.

clearly,  that’s  not  how  the  story  ended.

❛   nikolai.   ❜          her  hand  is  close  to  her  pistol  strapped  to  her  hip,  but  her  draw  isn’t  quite  what  it  used  to  be,  and  she  can  only  see  so  much  out  of  her  peripheral  as  her  head  turns      —      she  has  to  assume  he’s  already  got  a  weapon  trained  on  a  critical  point  and  ready  to  fire.  anything  less  may  as  well  be  suicide;    imagine  her  surprise,  if  only  brief,  as  she  turns  slowly  to  find  his  hands  empty.  it  does  little    ( practically  nothing )    to  put  her  off  being  on  guard.  expression  is  carefully  composed  to  be  neutral,  subtle  hints  of  her  abject  distaste  slipping  through  in  narrowed  gaze,  careful  not  to  let  her  surprise  slip  through.          ❛   this  shouldn’t  be  surprising.  cockroaches  are  known  to  survive  nuclear  blasts  all  the  time.   ❜

He laughs—thick and rough and anything but friendly. He hadn’t counted Jill as an enemy after Racoon City—a failed assignment, perhaps, and one that could have earned him a good deal of money. But he certainly never expected to see her again. For all her talk of investigation—lofty ambitions of unveiling Umbrella’s secrets—he thought she was smarter than to try dismantling a global superpower of pharmaceutical and technological development.

Then again, noble intention has always been the most pervasive form of delusion.

“And when the mouse flees the fire, it is not usually stupid enough to go back.” He folds his arms across his chest and fixes her with an unyielding stare—that same stare which his comrades find so unsettling. 

He knows it won’t intimidate her, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t fun to try.

“You—” he jabs a stern finger in her direction— “Should not be here.” He tuts, the finger wagging twice before folding back against his chest. “You have put me in a very awkward position, Miss Valentine. Your head is worth a great deal of money. I like money. But, I have no buyers. You should have told me that you were coming! Now, if I kill you, you’ll go to a terrible waste. We should reconvene in two weeks, eh?”

A slow smile infects every corner of his grim face, the expression cruel and teasing. There’s a grain of truth to his words—he’d hate to kill her when she has the potential to make him so much money. 

But at this point, he’s just fucking with her.