(Untitled)
Becky may not have been too successful in making friends while she was in school, but now that graduation has come and gone, it seems the relationships she'd never have expected to take root are beginning to.
( Professor Partridge was one of such relationships. )
( Professor Partridge was one of such relationships. )
She disentangles herself from the awkward position of bent knees and hanging just so above the steps that it prevents stepping down easily, and uses the lull to reload with shaking, burning fingers. It's an old habit - do it when you have the silence, or you might not get the chance when you really need that extra cap in the fresh magazine. She has two extra clips of ammunition stowed in her under-jacket holster; the half-spent cartridge of six is ejected, shoved into her jacket pocket, and a new one is locked into place. As soon as she racks the slide to put another bullet in the hole, there's a wet, gurgling, horrible sound interspersed with screams from the levels below.
Sure he was running, but not away from her - it was towards somebody else.
Pistol held in the ready position about a foot from her head, muzzle pointed skyward, Becky pads as quickly and quietly as she can, sidelong, down the stairs. The quivers are starting to come back now that the immediate threat is gone, but she forces her knees to lock when her trembling legs want to dump her on her rear and just keeps going. With her other hand, she gropes for her cell-phone, speed-dials the S.T.A.R.S dispatch office and for a few long moments her world is filled with nothing but a dull, electronic ringing, fluorescent yellow lights and metal-and-stone stairwells. Cling cling cling, her soles speak against the steps.
The officer side of her is determined, her inner-medic is anxious about being caught so unprepared and not looking forward to surveying this damage, and the scholar in her feels guilty, guilty and dirty. Her presence has brought this desecration and this ugliness into this beautiful place of knowledge and wisdom and morals.
She'll be sure to feel very bad about it tonight if she gets out of this alive.
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That's okay, though. He's a patient man; he loved teaching with his team, travelling, finding new and inventive ways to get his ideas across.
When she comes around the corner he'll be waiting at the bottom of the stairs, a lot bloodier than he was a few moments before; and with something shaggy and rather red in his hand. Trails of red are running down his forearm and dripping to the floor.
But he's not going to wait for her to figure it out before he throws the head at her.
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She looks at him, eyes still wide, then trains the pistol on him again, careful not to box herself into a corner. He was blocking the door.
"He didn't do anything to you."
Nor did she, but she has a feeling that would carry signifcantly less weight as an argument.
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"Thing is, little girl, the first time I died for no damn reason." He considers, flicking his fingers dismissively, scattering small drops as he adds, "the second time was because Wong couldn't finish a mission without trying to hook up with the target, and the third was because I need to take more than fifteen minutes after death to start another rumble. But that's over with.
"I should have died for my team." He absently crosses a red finger along the largest scar, then draws two over his brow, streaking his face with red. "Should have died for my country. And then I'm gone and the next generation jumps from cop to fed like it's kindergarten to first grade? Fuck that. No, look at you. Who said you can step up, again?"
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"Nobody," Becky replies, "That's the difference between us; nobody had to say anything, and all you've done so far is talk."
She starts edging to the side, circling around - she's put herself directly between the stairs and the door. It just depends which one he'll let her get to first.
...wait a minute, "Wong"... where did she hear that name before...?
"You're a scary guy, but your shtick is boring. Gotta wonder if you actually shut up long enough to finish people at all, let alone quick."
Well, sir on the floor is a good example of it, but...
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He reaches back behind him; she'll probably hear a very familiar sound of a knife leaving the sheath.
Which means it's time to dodge, because he's throwing it up at her head, point first.
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There is a loud, painful metallic squall. It sounds almost like a crunch. She waits for blood to start draining and colors to go foggy, but it doesn't happen.
When she opens her eyes, one lid is cut, very finely, by the point of his knife which has buried itself into, and cut through, the back-end of her pistol's barrel.
She doesn't need any other incentive; she tosses it aside and breaks as fast as she can, up the stairs.
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He pauses for a moment there, breathing deeply; if he could just get an air freshener like this. . . and then he scoops up the cell phone, since it's getting his attention and hey, he can probably do something fun with its phone book; he's going to need something to do on the trip back.
It's a side thought. He scoops up the knife and separates it from the pieces of the barrel with an almost affectionate expression.
Then he starts up the stairs after her; it's not like he's going to lose her scent at this range, but she might run into some other distraction if he doesn't keep up.
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Honestly, if Becky was more present of mind right now, she'd be pretty damn embarrassed at how quickly she'd actually started to resemble the stereotypical horror movie final girl - running up the stairs in a miniskirt, unarmed, already short of breath and without her shoes. To her credit the shoes are more of a liability with them ON, but hey. Hindsight is 20/20.
In any event, she's volleying up the stairs at a pretty good click, taking about three of them at a time. She's obviously better at getting away from things than she is at actually fighting them.
...she's also leaving a trail of blood. It appears the adrenaline, while helping her get away, is also lying to her about her middle finger having been half-severed by his knife.
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Krauser? Is following somewhat more slowly, and apparently still talking.
Either he's got an imaginary friend, or he's found someone to talk to.
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When she gets to it, the door to the fourth floor gets flung open and she darts through it, looking around for somewhere she can hide or maybe exit from here...
...her PINpoint is on her phone. Shit.
She stops and turns to look over her shoulder, to see just how much time she has. Then, she sees it -
Lab 204
Chemistry and Biochemistry
The SuperBrain starts spinning its wheels, and she runs over to the door, eye still on the door at the end of the hall. She's tiny, yes, but when you know WHERE to rush a door, it tends to break open pretty easily.
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She's got a few seconds, yes. Krauser's finding his entertainment where he can.
Blood, fear, and revenge: wonderful elements to have on hand.
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The acidic smells and acrid fumes might hurt the nose of anyone else, but to Rebecca, this is her home - and armory, all at once. She gets to work.
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It is hard to tell whether Wesker or Chris will be facepalming hardest at the end of the day.
It's good that Yoko's entertaining, really, considering her finger.
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There he is, still talking on her phone.
...hell, if this didn't work, there are always perfectly nice windows to dive out of.
And hey look, a fire axe.
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Krauser has gotten all the entertainment value out of his phone call he can, the smell is starting to mutate again, and although he'd love to play with more interference, it's time to get moving.
. . . he keeps the phone. This could be a source of entertainment for weeks.
She's wearing a mask; it makes him keep his head angled back a bit, face angled away, as he comes in, one hand raised for interference. He doesn't say anything; he just sweeps the blade.
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