Ichor And Steel

Chapter Thirteen; Raport

ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ᴄᴏꜱᴍɪᴄ, ᴀɴɢᴇʟ ᴏʟꜱᴇɴ

A sweet winter's breeze careening through suburbs landed its caress on Rosemary Winters' skin, holding her face the way once Mia held hers, be it a grazed knee or academic achievement. She awaited her friend, a blue hard-shell briefcase beneath her, its paint chipping off against the ground.

The paved neighbourhood swung up big hills and winded around corporate offices and smaller cafes. Just beyond a place called Ducks was a pond Rose fondly remembered being taken around by Mia and Chris when she was young. She swore however on the days Mia was a little lopsided in the head, another man accompanied their walks, tall and broad but not as wide as Chris...maybe not even as tall. It was hard to tell when she was just knee-high, distractedly squabbling about the geese and mussing up her face with mud. Apparently, this man eventually left, and Mia described to a five-year-old Rose—possibly her final few days before Mia began her descent into the ground—this man's leave felt as cold as Ethan's. Chris Redfield, the hunk of muscle, heavy black coats and the man who smoked like a pollution pipe was inconsolable.

Rose had come to him clutching lilies to her chest; they were meant for Mia but suddenly, he seemed in greater need. Nonetheless the stature of a man or woman, how sharp their face is cut or what stone they are carved from, whether you have borne witness to their most blood-thirsty or lustful moments, you will see their eventual crumble. It is then you may crumble them, smother them to nothing but ash. Chris did that, at the worst time. Rose was left in the protection of agents she barely knew, and when he did return...well, at least he seemed lighter.

Rose only remembered it then because she could see the pond and Chris stood there now, contemplating, and seeming to speak to the water, asking for advice.

In her carry-on satchel was a photo, like the professional sorts where the woman dressed entirely in white and the man wore blue jeans with a big cheesy grin; that man was Ethan Winters, face stained with a particular black spot. She took it over to Chris, leaving her luggage unattended—which he had asked her not to do—and crouched beside him.

"I thought I told you—"

"Dad was here once," Rose told him, ignoring his fierceness, and crumpling up the picture in his hand. She then glanced across the pond, geese searing through the surface as still as the dead bodies buried around it. "I feel like people need to tell you you're not alone, old man."

He became a little ruffled by her comment, teetering too close to comfort and before salty tears broke through the façade of distain, he straightened his morals and stood, projecting his higher power. Rose would usually shut up at this gesture and she did, unaware the tinge of guilt twanging in his chest. He nudged her with the toe of his boot and took off across the road; in his black coat, he was like a crow silhouetted by the encroaching grey skies.

"We might hit a storm on our way out tonight," Chris grumbled like a rumble of thunder.

"That's comforting," Rose scoffed, twirling her suitcase before sitting on it and the plastic lurched beneath her weight. "Are we flying commoners?"

He grinned a little. "Whatever keeps us off their radar, I suppose...." He frowned and the girl felt impending bad news. "Apparently, from an insider I've got around there, some fatigue wearing maniacs recently went missing—swallowed up by the lake."

Rose raised her chin. "Swallowed? Did they fall in?"

Chris wanted to laugh at her obliviousness; he remembered vaguely intervening with that fish and Ethan. That flopping mongrel, seizing on the planks and crushing bones. He withheld such a reaction in the light that it wasn't appropriate. "I think it was something else...just don't get your hopes up too much, Rose."

She shrugged, her father's coat seeming tighter around her shoulders with each day. Rose than glanced to her little blue house, a fly-screen flat she'd resided in for as long as her hazy memory allowed and yet, there was something missing; she sensed the empty cavern in her suitcase. Oh, her cap! She bit her lip and slipped off her baggage, handing Chris the satchel.

"Rose?"

"I forgot something—"

"Is it buyable?"

She deadpanned him. "No, Chris. It's my cap."

He let her sprint off, mainly because his breast-pocket began vibrating, the coat's lining writhing from the sensation. He plucked out his phone and, in a hollow grunt, "Redfield. I hope you make this quick."

"I will. I just wanted to ensure she didn't know much...or anything, for her sakes," the voice spoke; it had an ageless tone. A particular chime the caller had when they were a fresh face at the academy.

"She doesn't. Glad someone cares."

"I can never tell if you're being sarcastic or not," they said, and Chris could see their smile; feel it.

"I wasn't." He saw Rose's figure dash around, just faintly through the black screens. "It's good we get to work again—"

"And just working together it will remain. Have a nice flight, Chris."

Rose barrelled out, joyfully exclaiming she found her hat and took her bag eagerly. Chris touched her head and in the soft dim of a fading afternoon, rounded a white cab. Rose was under the impression this cab was secretly called through one of Chris's burner-phones; Chris new the caller from a few moments ago had sent it, with the extra gift of a flower for him.

Damnit, Kennedy.