La Mouette Lunaire proudly presents
A minor drawback
Whose kidnapping is it anyway?
The sky was blue. Not really blue. Not blue as in 'a bright and sunny blue'. Not the clear blue that makes you want to grab your cheap t-shirt with the flowery design and go outside to eat some ice cream with your scantily-clad friends. No. It was a grey sort of blue. It wasn't entirely grey, mind! Still one could say that it was very much bordering on grey nonetheless. Of course it was mainly blue, but in an ominous sort of way, very dirty, very slack, as if to say 'I think I'm going to turn grey any minute now!'. Also there were faint streaks of white which-
The crow falls to the ground with a faint thud, twitching helplessly. Hand gripped tightly around his gun he smirks. A bitter expression. Bitter, knowing that his action does nothing to improve the situation. Attracts attention at best. But he doesn't care. He has vented the worst of his anger on the unsuspecting bird and for now only that matters. And at last the readers' attention turns to the main character, where it should have been in the first plays anyway, if it hadn't been for the author's firm belief that any thrilling story has to start with a detailed description of the sky. Or the weather. Or preferably both, providing-
A noise from above to consume all silence, powerful enough to split your ear and the multicoloured sky. The noise is all it takes to make the water appear. Make it pour down in seemingly endless gushes, make it soak the dusty paths, make it ruin the hero's carefully selected hairstyle completely.
'It won't be enough to wash away the blood,' he thinks bitterly. Or maybe he does not. Still, it would be too fancy a line not to use. And at least the crow would agree. Not that it does the bird any good now, but there you go…
He is still clutching the gun with one hand. He runs through his soaked hair with the other. It looks slick, still blond but darker now that it's wet. He should have worn a hat. So he thinks. He has lost his jacket on the way already. Of course he doesn't care, wouldn't even notice if it wasn't for the cold creeping through his body, secretly making him wish he could be somewhere inside. Somewhere where it's warm. Somewhere with her.
But that's why- but she's why he can't. She's why he has to keep going. She's why he will.
"Ahí está!" a female voice croaks from somewhere behind. His focus returns immediately and he spins around, both hands on his gun, now face to face with the approaching group of stereotypical trademark villagers. Three of them. He wonders if there will be more. The thick rain makes it more difficult, but he can still see his surroundings quite clearly. The forest landscape looks deserted, looks like the group of three will be his only obstacle. But he doesn't rely on it. He has seen them appearing, seemingly out of nowhere, looking strangely alike.
He has only a faint idea of the trouble he was plunged… no, the trouble he has willingly plunged himself into. The idea is enough. He raises the gun, aims and pulls the trigger, pulls the trigger, pulls the trigger. Cracking bones and loud splattering noises. A sickening sight, still not enough to make him frown. Not anymore.
One of them has dropped his pitchfork but he doesn't lie still. A portly man, bald, black moustache, wearing dirty and stained clothes like all of them. He twitches and writhes on the ground, calling out a name the blond agent doesn't understand. Aims. Pulls the trigger. Pulls it again. And again.
Over. He turns away and sees the giant buildings for the first time. Bizarre, concrete, entirely misplaced. He reaches for a new clip. She can't be much further away now.
The old man straightens his robes and sighs. There is nothing else left for him to do. He sighs again. And again, wondering what gave him the illusion of doing something exciting in the first place. He used to play chess when he was younger. That had been exciting. Now he is just waiting to take over the world. And it does not excite him all.
Tedious work, boring work, theory over theory. The prospect of ruling the world remains worthwhile to him but loses its glamour when undiscussed. He always liked talking about his plans. He still does. Still would, if only there was somebody around to listen.
Ganados. Servants. Cattle. Of course they would have been eager to listen, eager to oblige each and every one of his commands. Sadly he knows that listening is one thing while comprehending is another. Their brains are mangled, abused and no longer in shape to take in anything beyond a simple order, let alone an entire conversation.
A few are still fit for the task. Saddler can count them on one hand but he takes comfort in knowing that they do exist. Sadly he also knows that their abilities are rare amongst his followers and that their services are needed elsewhere. They must not be stuck in a dull, grey room, wasting their potential, abiding their time. So unlike him.
Of course there is still the girl. He flashes a vicious grin at her, makes her shudder and tear at the ropes that tie her down. Intimidating her had been amusing, but now all it does is to give him another sigh as he finds that even this has lost its former appeal. And talking to her? No. The disgust in her eyes is enough to let him know that he wouldn't get so much as an insult, even if her gag was removed.
He turns away, stares at the ceiling and prepares for a lengthy yawn, only to force his mouth shut again and almost choke at the sight of the massive iron door bursting open, of masses of rubble crashing down from the ceiling and thick clouds of dust obscuring his vision. Finally.
"WHAT'S GOING ON HERE?" he bellows, almost enjoying the opportunity to lose his composure.
No reply. Not yet. Slowly the dust sets down, enabling him to catch a glimpse of the intruders. Intruder. A single silhouette, male, reasonably muscular, obviously armed and apparently foolish enough to be aiming at him.
And finally the sight is clear. A blond man, clothes torn and dirty with the remains of dust, mud and blood, his face equally stained. Yet his blue eyes are piercing, looking at the cult leader now with fierce determination.
"What do you want?" Saddler asks, his voice reverting to its usual quiet, almost lazy tone.
The intruder's answer is calm, yet firm and entirely beyond a mere reply, beyond a mere statement. "My daughter," he orders, fearlessly locking eyes with the purple-robed man.
His opponent falters. The blond raises his gun. He expects defiance. He expects cruel laughter. He expects the man to surrender. He expects an attack. He doesn't expect this.
Lord Saddler slaps his forehead and slumps back in his throne, looking utterly torn apart by disbelief.
The blond man falters, then grits his teeth. He takes one step towards the enemy, his finger trembling dangerously on the trigger. "I said I want my-"
"AGAIN!" Saddler wails and jumps up, ignoring the agent and brushing past him before he can react, stomping out and away into the corridor. "I CAN'T BELIEVE THEY TOOK THE WRONG GIRL AGAIN!"
The echo of his screams in the long hallway. Then silence. An empty room. Empty except for a girl's muffled cries of relief and a very bewildered federal Agent Jack Bauer.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
This beautiful piece of slightly odd present tense fiction was written for a Resident Evil cross-over contest at DeviantArt. And I do think they go well together, in fact they are probably frighteningly similar to say the least. But anyway, comments?