#biovaliant

    ⮞ FOR : @biovaliant

          Sonorous peels of laughter interspersed with shrieks of delighted horror ring throughout the neighborhood, defiant against the thick collapse of the humid fall night that seems intent to muffle them. Sunset streaks the road with umber and burnishes the houses in vibrant autumnal light, the encroaching darkness revealing in halting increments the luminous decorations festooning nearby porches ------ sinister and playful facades carved into pumpkins are lit from within, ruby eyes of plastic skeletons twinkling alongside artful arrays of silhouetted bats, and neon signs limn gauzy ghosts.

          The evening, begun sunny midafternoon for the younger children, passes in a march of miniature vigilantes and ninjas, soldiers and sailors, doctors and nurses, cowboys and pirates, fairies and princesses, witches and zombies, and a spider so creative Jill has shuddered to behold it scurrying to their candy bowl. Claire had met every one with feigned fright dissolving into exuberant smiles and animated compliments elicited by giggling squeals, Scruffy and Aly lavishing their own wet and wagging enthusiasm on the trick-or-treaters, stolid against the many molded props and treat bags haphazardly struck against their fur.

          Their sugary stores had been emptied and refilled many times over as the shadows emanating from front doors and street lamps lengthened and the hordes of the hungry aged before their eyes. They became gangs of unbothered teens not-to-inconspicuously packing rolls of toilet paper and what Jill hopes is silly string and tiny water balloons rather than spray paint and eggs. She and Claire exchange skeptical glances as the latest leave, the dogs lounging on the lawn with tongues lolling, their zeal waned with the depleting interest of their visitors.

          Still Claire does not seem inclined to retire.

          “Beer?” The offer comes with a departing pat to her wife’s knee as Jill leverages herself from her own chair, filching from the bowl on the low table between them a gummy bear she immediately pops in her mouth, skillfully dodging the retaliatory smack aimed her way as she retreats inside.

          If the offer would have directed her to the kitchen, she deviates markedly from that course, shimmying out of her current costume as she goes once she’s certain Claire isn’t going to follow her in. In their bedroom, it’s replaced with something far less family friendly.

          Red mini dress cut to reveal the mere handspan of thigh it conceals, the crimson bisected on each side by black vertical stripes to her shoulders, short sleeves and superfluous collar cuffed in the same checkered black and white belting her waist, the skimpy flag girl uniform she’d been so coyly shown is completed with fishnets rolled up her legs and black heels.

Does your character have reoccurring themes in their nightmares?

      This is an interesting question that I’m going to be relating to Trager’s blood dreams more than anything else. Just to get it out of the way, before his blood dreams began, he had the occasional nightmare like anyone else. The reoccurring theme in these dreams was usually some sort of frustration. He would be at work or out doing something in the dream and nothing would go right no matter what he did, usually with a serious shot to his ego. Normal stuff. Now, onto his blood dreams. In Trager’s blood dreams (which in early exposure showed up as nightmares rather than daytime hallucinations) he was usually totally in control, almost like lucid dreaming. They centered around whatever he had been reading in his medical journals lately. He would be performing surgery of some type. These dreams became progressively more violent, his nighttime medical practice dipping into malpractice. Once, he had a very graphic and detailed blood dream about aborting Michelle’s baby (who is also his) himself. These dreams are always full of medical equipment, blood, guts, and general gore. And while sometimes he would wake up sweating and wondering what the hell just happened... other times he found he enjoyed the control.   

In what situation was your character the most calm they’ve ever been?

      Calm is kind of hard to come by for Rick. There are many situations where he is comfortable, but ‘calm’ isn’t really in his nature. If I had to pick a moment of calm it’s probably just sitting at his desk everyday when no one else is to be seen. Doing his job quickly and efficiently is the calmest you’re going to get him. 

Does your character remember names or faces easier? 

⮞ ANSWER : uncharted starter sentences [ accepting ]      ⮞ FOR : @biovaliant

The words are hoarse with the abuse that has been inflicted on Claire’s throat, reduced to a gravelly whisper from the tubes and cameras threaded down that narrow channel to the severely aggrieved lungs at their end, only recently removed. What constitutes a mere few scratches in the chart at the end of her bed is another mountain in the range her wife must climb in her recovery, a process she knows from personal experience to be a long and frustrating one ------ even absent the infection the redhead must battle.

Jill’s resentment for Alex ------ another fucking Wesker, in name if not in biology ------ looms like a shadow over them, darkened by each pitiful cough and painful maneuver Claire makes, and by the information disclosed to her on t-Phobos ------ another fucking virus. Would they never stop? But those words, murmured through a faint, reassuring smile that exemplifies her wife’s optimism, indomitable even now, lances through her anger and turns it to anguish. There she lies, not even able to sit up on her own, her face pale and swollen by the drugs pumped into her arm, and still she seeks to reassure her, not a hint of self-pity marring her visage.

It won’t be easy to ‘make it work’. This isn’t like the other ordeals they’ve endured, the other calamities which have contrived but ultimately failed to leech the fight from them. The injuries, the disappearances, the experiments… None of them had been life sentences ------ at least not physically. None of them had demanded the avoidance of fear, of anything stressful enough to too seriously increase the adrenaline and norepinephrine racing through Claire’s veins. None of them since Raccoon City had so strongly recommended such a drastic change to their lifestyle as this does. Claire’s work at TerraSave, the fieldwork from which she had derived so much satisfaction and fulfilment, would be over. Finished. Never to be resumed, except perhaps from behind a desk far from the action. And her own work with the BSAA? Would the worry of what Jill may be facing be enough to trigger a transformation? What about Chris, already now on his way to another battle?

And what of the infinite stretch of unpredictable shocks and frights and tragedies? What of the everyday accidents and hazards? Would they imperil Claire’s life? How would they live? Would she ever be allowed out of the hospital to try? Would Jill be expected to put her down if the started mutating? Could she?

⮞ ANSWER : uncharted starter sentences [ accepting ]      ⮞ FOR : @biovaliant

Warm weight coddles every limb, shrouding her in a snug blanket of bliss she’s reluctant to move from, every muscle somehow both pleasurably stretched and euphorically relaxed. Jill, at least, does not have to move ------ absent any demands on her time, she’s permitted to soak in that delicious satiation as long as she likes, to lounge and loaf the weekend hours away. A work flight denies the same to the catalyst and mutual beneficiary of that feeling, demanding Claire snap on the bra she does now, the straps adjusted over her shoulders with toothbrush dangling from her mouth. She pads from Jill’s lethargic sight to the bathroom, running tap and quick zip evincing what she does there, then returns for her jeans, stepped into one leg at a time then tugged up until the tight denim hugs the attention-arresting rear courteously ( if unintentionally ) angled her way. Audacious, the brunette hums her approval, earning herself a sharp glare attempting to be much more admonishing than it is, the mock approbation undermined by smugness equally vying for display.

Her visage distinctly unapologetic, even daring, Jill watches as her wife saunters back to her, the mattress undulating beneath the knee knelt upon it. Claire's her eyelids are hooded with dire promise she can no longer deliver, though the tone that delivers her bid seems ignorant of that, ❝ Admit it. You’re gonna miss this ass. ❞

“You’re gonna miss your flight,” Jill returns, to a deflated huff.

⮞ ANSWER : UNSOLICITED VALENTINES      ⮞ FOR : @biovaliant

⮞ ANSWER : UNSOLICITED VALENTINES      ⮞ FOR : @biovaliant

          “Ugggggh.” The groan rumbles from her throat, deteriorating into a quiet, sobbing laugh less amused than resigned, repetition of the joke over the last week having gutted any hope she may have harbored that she would survive the day unscathed ( though having those the first words she hears is a special cruelty ). Jill, barely awake and face down in the bed linen, blankets draped across her muscular back and dark hair disheveled about her face, turns that face further into the pillow and groans again ------ only to think better off it and drag said pillow out from beneath her head, clumsily shoved without looking in Claire’s direction. There’s a meagre amount of satisfaction to glean from the fact that it thumps something, but not enough.