#*meta.

YOUR FAMILY IS SHATTERED BY WAR — they scrambled and scrounged to keep their lives together. unable to do it alone, they turn to crime; petty, middle-man work to begin with. they worked for men alike to one's you hunt now, and where their intentions were human, their actions turn monstrous at another's whims. in too deep to back out. knee deep in shit runs in the family. they had blood on their hands, and hound named death can smell it on you where your mother had once laid her hand to your cheek, told you that you were her purpose, and you didn't understand then the weight of devotion. you do now. and your father, who once he had learned you were coming, laid it all on the line to move his family to the states in late 1976 — he didn't talk much at home. but sometimes, when your mom was too tired to come along and handle boy more excited to play with toy motorcycles than listen to priest, you'd be left with just him; the low rumblings of your father's confessions stay with you. so far gone as he is now though, you can hardly remember anything but tones and the way he would carry you out the doors afterwards as though he had shed enough weight finally to carry yours.

you remember being happy. you remember that not long after your 9th birthday they weren't; but they still smiled at you. when your mom stayed home more often and your father often came home and stood in the doorway with a long look over his shoulder before shutting it quickly, bolting locks you don't recall seeing them put in. times where you should've been asleep but through the thin walls you'd hear that low rumbling of your father's voice again but the weight so heavy that even in your lack of understanding it put a pit in your stomach. their memory would turn into something more familiar to you as years went on : the sounds of smashing glass, of weight hitting surface, of torn screams. so seamlessly they blend in to your experiences now, you almost can't pick them out in your dreams. but you know what they look like, had thought yourself brave. you wish you didn't have an image of what they looked like bloodied and gouged : too easy to picture them undead with so much for the mind to work off of.

the only thing you gain is the man who would fight to set you on the right path: the one that would approach you while your ears were still ringing after shot fired, after the slumping of man who'd been approaching. you don't remember much after that; there were questions you didn't know the answers to, nobody you recognized except the man who would become half your parental unit in the coming months. he and his wife never asked you to call them 'mom' or 'dad'. just theodore and beverly would do, and they would all move west to moberly, missouri for peace of mind. they raised you well, made you the center of their world, and with theodore to look up to, you walk a different path — in your struggles, morals he instills in you stand strong. rigidity of structure keeps you solid in place. you meet ark thompson, far older than you as he is he becomes your only friend until high school.

at family dinners in your late teens — held at 6pm sharp every weekday — she became a staple, always an extra place set for her. she was sure of herself, bright and she smiles at you. when you expressed to her your want to be like your guardian she'd seemed supportive? or maybe she could just see the guilt in your eyes, the need for CONFESSION and it was all too heavy. when you graduate from training, ark is back in town for it: he snaps a picture of you with theodore and beverly held close and she isn't there. it's not until you go to her with worry that something's happened that she says she just doesn't know about the distance and doesn't think unburying the truth about cannibals in the mountains is a good enough plan for her to commit her life to. it digs a hole in your heart and it won't be the last time you use alcohol to fill it up again.

you don't talk to theodore or beverly these days. you don't talk about your parents. they're part of a mans history who died in the sterilization of raccoon city and digging up the dead has never done anybody any good. when you come home to a photograph and a letter years after you'd selfishly led him to horrors of his own, you don't bother calling ark to tell him off. you get the feeling he knows already — all in an investigators work — and this is simply akin to him visiting a grave to mourn. a collection of graves here, all people you would call family ; fucked up, but yours, and worth every ounce of strength you can give them. you have sherry who all of this started for. you have claire who's right next to you in the shit. everybody who you've ever met has a permanent place set at your table.

> ATTACHMENT:

KITCHEN / DINING.

when he walks in, the first thing he does after dropping bag from his shoulder is take a left into his kitchen. he doesn't flip on the light there, only makes his way to stand in what the fridge puts off when he pulls it open. inside, an astounding selection: a variety of brown bottles, a spattering of white styrofoam boxes, and in the bottom drawers some produce that — though brought to him with good intent before mission had whisked him away — is starting to look a bit foul. he's lived here a good while, and his neighbor who leon thinks has lived here twice as long shows such kindness. tolerance. he takes a bottle from the fridge, it's clink against others an echoing sound for the next bit of time. she must be able to hear it these late nights: the sound of dead bottles being cleared off small round table and tossed into the trash. he brings her stuff in return sometimes. or really, he leaves it outside her door. one time he'd brought her something from russia. he thinks she'd said her husband was from there. leon doesn't recall ever seeing him. maybe he'd ask next time he saw her before she had a chance to ask if he had a good night with eyes that readily told everything her ears caught in the dark.

LIVING ROOM / STORAGE SPACE.

when he's refilled the table with bottles and only then does he move to living area and there he does flip on the overheads. there by the switch is a hanger where, with bones that he notes are tighter than they should be for his age, he shrugs off his jacket to add to others there; one black leather with white details, one a simple blue hoodie he tosses on for runs in the colder months. and when he sits on his couch, eyes scanning corners like they always do he's greeted with the fact that he still has to clean up the corner of room light doesn't entirely touch — things he'd said he would find a better place for. a fold out cot that gathers dust leaned up against the wall, empty luggage that had seen better days. shoes that had more than run their course. and when he decides that tonight definitely isn't the time for that, his eyes drag back towards the entertainment center.

there's a photo there, notably the only one in the entire space: a young, bright-eyed rookie, and a couple who look nothing like him. he's between them, arm thrown over their shoulders, and the man's own tightly around him, the woman's hand over his chest where now he lurches if anybody touches. leon's just graduated, and they look proud, and he's smiling in a way that, were he not made a ghost, he might be able to pull off again. he remembers the day he received the photo in the mail. the letter lives elsewhere. he remembers the guilt but doesn't regret it: they're safer out of touch.

the couch creaks as he leans for the remote, ancient thing. he'd never felt a need to replace it — not broken, not it's fault that when he wakes up on it after nights where he doesn't make it to his bedroom that he feels so stiff. when he bores of the television, of the same movies he's put on for years and years, he gets up to make sure the curtains behind it are pulled fully shut. they have no reason not to be. he's not usually here when the sun is up to bask in it.

OFFICE.

to be thorough, he peeks behind another door to find nothing amiss. there are still the cardboard boxes stacked against the far wall. his laptop is still closed atop his desk, and the chair is turned towards the wall rather than it from where he'd last gotten pulled away. there's the safe tucked away beneath it with papers stacked on top. the handful of books he keeps are still in their place on the shelf and the curtains haven't moved an inch. he does catch the mug pushed way off to the side of everything and makes a mental note to grab it in the morning; whether or not he actually will is between the mug and a far more sober man, one who doesn't blink heavily as he pulls the door back shut.

BEDROOM, BATHROOM, CLOSET.

on his way to bedroom he does a practiced loop: make sure he remembered to shut the fridge. make sure he locked the door. t.v is turned off. grab discarded bag and shut the light off before moving on. hunnigan had come by once after he got back from an assignment, nearly tripped over his bag and he had learned it was easier to chuck it in his closet than listen to her irritation. he does so, leaves it lying beneath hanging suits and plain t-shirts. he won't get to unpacking tomorrow, or the next day — sometimes he doesn't get to before leaving again. behind a closed door it doesn't feel such a pressing matter anyway.

through the motions of settling back into normalcy: his shoes get kicked off somewhere in the direction of his bed, he swings into the bathroom long enough to brush his teeth. when he catches himself in the mirror he is stark against the plain white walls; colored in the familiar purple of bruises, the reds and browns beneath his nails where fingers wrap around brush. another thing a different man would have to take care of. one who wouldn't have to grope blindly around for edge of comforter. when this one manages though, and when his head hits the pillow, he exhales. between heavy blinks he catches the shadows of things he doesn't need light to know fully: a key with a charm, pills he knows he'll reach for in the morning when he wakes up too pained to move, a bottle of water that's been there since before he left to chase it all with. dog tags that hang from the lap there, countless and he doesn't look too closely when he finds the urge to run his fingers through their mass.

and he knows that where he to roll over onto sore shoulder, he would be met with a retired badge, an old blade. with photos that he doesn't remember when he had them developed but knows he must've been more hopeful, then, that they would be more a staple than they've turned out to be. it's none of their choices. he keeps their cards and letters beneath his bed, as though even in his sleep he can defend them, what he has left of them: the memories, the spaces between life taking them apart. but he doesn't really sleep here, does he? he drifts. dreams when he isn't, and wakes with a start on the worst of nights, tosses and turns on the best of them. he's not a gambling man, but if he were, he knows what he would bet on.

continuing to fight without him is like lightning without the familiar thundering after. she fills herself up with what noise of his does resound — she joins the firelights in his stead.   sees the hole he’s left and tries desperately to fill it with something more than despair. she aspires to lift his firelights up, to have them stand strong.   she adds him to mural,  stains her hands in his browns, and oranges, and greens.   it takes forever to wash off,  still lives in the more stubborn creases of her gloves.   he’s  with  her,  always.   it’s a healing thing, takes a little of the edge off,  settles the weight of him more comfortably on her shoulders.  it all mattered to him so it matters to her,  has her committed 100% to her community and his.   she’s got all the battery in the world to spare.

when he returns, things that used to bother her don’t as much.  she doesn’t mind the way he sounds when he knows he’s right anymore.  doesn’t mind the way he toils and throws himself headfirst into countless projects. she gets it.   has lived in his shoes for countless weeks.   zeri wouldn’t change him, but she does devote herself to his side fully  —  this time when they walk it is in step with her’s no longer falling out of time.

meta 002: what does love (familial, romantic, etc.) mean for her? is she flighty, does it scare her, or does she embrace it when it comes to her?

love isn’t hard for zeri.  she’s been surrounded by it all her life by her family. she’d been a concentrated storm in their home growing up, but her family had never tried to run for shelter. she carries that onwards;   friends, family, romantic?  doesn’t matter how chaotic it gets. she’s stubborn,  has always taken it as a compliment when her father said as much. she thinks anybody is deserving of what she received: patience,  understanding, space made.  when zeri cares, she is devoted in such a way that it’s more akin to a guard animal than a lover. fiercely protective because she knows it’s what she’s good for.  to exert that energy outwards to anything that would harm them has always been easier for her than to give it physically to another. she went years only experiencing the briefest periods of touch,  when storm would allow —  her father,  mostly.  he’s the quietest of them, able to sneak in and out of what rages with little harm done. she’d wanted to embrace him in more ways than simply taking in what was given.  almost always thought better of it.  it’s a pattern that continues: the only portion of love that can strike fear in her is the potential for her to hurt anybody.  she’s very cautious in this regard.  you could say flighty if she weren’t so determined to weather it all and remain by their side in at least some capacity.   

if she’s feeling even slightly stormy, she shows her love through service;   fetching,  working,  a ready flash of movement on their whim if they would have her.  if she’s feeling grounded, she draws people in under clear skies and gives them all she has until clouds start to move back overhead.  it’s a duality;  that housed within her would seek out and destroy if it were the fastest route to release.   zeri wouldn’t,  actively denies nature, and spends the energy on building foundations strong enough to be their walls in any storm.

meta 003: define her relationship with the kids at the tree of life? she comes from a big family, but does she centers herself as a big sister/mother figure for them? what does her time with them do for her emotionally?

zeri has always been soft on kids: she sees in them people who can rebuild zaun, one without the influence of the older residents. clearly they’ve already been dealt a poor hand, but she’s committed to it not staying that way. over and over she’ll bend backwards to get them anything they want or need. if they have something that needs power she’s there to help them test it. if they decide they want something from the markets? she’s gone and back in a flash. they’re spoiled under her care. she’ll sit and talk with them as long as they’ll have her, prefers to regale them with tales of her fights than partake in the more serious talks that scar and ekko trudge through. often finds that ekko is able to catch her up to speed anyway. to her, those kids are something to be allowed to grow up gently. after all, once she’s done with people who hold old, tired practices they’ll be all that’s left.  free from the weight of the past, its oppression.  her work is for everyone in zaun, but especially for those who haven't had to stain their hands yet, only been caught as bystanders of a tired fight not their own.

she’s more older sister coded than she is matronly. she lacks the grace of a mother, or the proper words to give advice that might be sought from one, but she is sturdy, a protector in the way an elder sibling might seem to be to a younger one.  most of her freetime spent there is used on them; if you hear something boisterous, or something being knocked from it’s place, and then applause, it’s likely that she’s gone a little far in her antics to keep them bright; knocked something over and impressed even herself with her reaction speed in catching it. many events that happen like this when the children gather and zeri is involved.  she’s just a bit of a clown i fear. 

meta 004: what kept her from supporting her family illegally via organized crime? with her skillset, she might've been able to assume a seat at the chem-baron table or find herself in a great position in their organization, where she and her family could've lived a life of luxury in zaun, so, what prevented her from joining them?

likely her grandmother’s influence! she’s been in zaun since what seems like the dawn of time : she’s struggled, fought tooth and nail ( the home is her’s, has been since her grandfather passed ),  experienced loss.  but she was able to build a family, find joy without stooping.  she’d seen the rise of the barons and her opinion on them sort of flows down the family tree .   it’s ingenuine, her grandmother had even called them pathetic once.  she’s sort of an ‘honest, hard work’ sort of woman.  zeri had been approached, sure, in a runner capacity.  she’s fast. but after about the fourth time of them trying to have her on their side with nobody coming back from it, they got the hint that she wasn’t interested. for zeri it’d be to turn her back on everything her grandmother has ever talked about — which is a lot, she loves to spin tales — and it wouldn’t be a betrayal just to family, but to her very core.  zeri sees that the barons bring them low, that their caustic presence eats away at the pillars of their community.  she’d see herself dead before she’d be part of that concoction.

a bit cheesy, perhaps, but she already feels she lives in a sort of luxury being so full of their love. she doesn’t want for material things, power, any of it. she just wants for people to be allowed even the chance have what she has.

meta 005:  what does she imagine her ideal zaun to look like? what is she willing to do to get there?

zeri won’t live to see her ideal zaun.  she’s become more than aware that the change won’t come overnight, or even in her lifetime. for her, it’s about starting over with fresh soil, untainted earth. ideally what grows aren’t widowmakers,  but trees that reach high,  canopy full enough to catch what always rains on them and keep those beneath dry.   leaves touching to form a shelter but not weighing one another down.  she knows that for there to be space it requires culling;   remove the rot which would spread and see perfectly good roots diseased.  she’s more than willing to be the one who does it.  she throws herself in headfirst,  over and over. she kills. it doesn’t play on her mind too badly since she believes it’s for a good cause, believes those who would play an active role in keeping their fellow man beat down wouldn’t add anything of value to their community at all.    she denies her very nature which burns through every vein.  why couldn’t they deny a mere man  —  baron,  baroness, monster,  whatever? nothing foundational about these people. they’re stronger without.