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If he'd been sick before, he was positively nauseous ten seconds later.
The sound alone of Wesker's laughter was enough to churn the stomach, each harsh mockery of a note so jagged, so foul, that Chris couldn't help but shake. His gun was held aloft, as if it could still provide protection somehow, trained upon the tyrant himself, splitting himself open with his hollow mania; what a sight to behold, what a foul, foul sight to behold. Nothing about the situation was right, the barking of diseased dogs echoed in the former Captain's broken voice, strung loosely together with the disgusting spectacle. His gun wouldn't save him. Chris refused to acknowledge this, but it had provided such safety before, whyever had it run out already? His home was breached. Sanctuary itself now held no meaning. It was tainted, with the smell of death and decay, with the presence of... True evil. Hatred cluttered the air with rot and putrefaction, infected and infested wounds that crackled in the sun of fluorescent lighting. The cold turned deathly, its dampness amplified with unorganic organic matter contorting within its confines.
He was afraid. Chris winced away from the crunch of creature between teeth, the slick sound accompanying the moments after and the haunting manner in which proverbial business resumed as 'usual'. Leather struck leather, twitching as if possessed by something so dangerous and unspeakable-- of which it was, in a way --that nature itself had turned away. There was nothing natural, now. The shell of a man he'd once so respected was there, finally infected with the affliction of what had always been inside him, all along. He beat a rhythm to which Chris unwittingly followed, crossing bare feet back to a syncopation of steps, trying to bring more distance between them. Without the coffee table blocking his way, he could have a clean run for the stairwell, yes, then he would bolt for the front door-- provided he could lose him long enough-- and then onto the street-- where Wesker would mow everyone else down, just to stab out at Chris, get the uninvolved involved in his personal vendetta-- and make for his jeep... No, no, it was too risky! He couldn't let anyone else get tangled in the web of destruction that he was tangled in already, that'd be--
Snared. Dark, turbulent blue eyes made the fatal mistake of wandering into the path of disturbing red eyes, split down the core like over-ripe fruit bearing sickly yellow flesh and black core. He was held, as if under a spell, compelled to cast his eyes down and onto the mess that awaited. After so many years, he was still rapt at a glance- Let go, why can't you just leave me be?- and wished he could have taken his eyes away from the monstrosity he was forced to behold.
The smell hit him from paces away.
His wince deepened to a snarling grimace, teeth bared; fear crept up in twisting droves, wrapping itself around the pit of the behemoth of a man's stomach and pooled there at the sight. It was beyond anything he'd ever seen in all of his difficult years, through all those struggles to survive, nothing could have matched up to the disease-riddled, savaged excuses of hands that were unveiled so calmly. Chris wished the gloves hadn't moved, returning Wesker's smile with a shake of his head. Right, left, right, left, as if he could rewind and undo the damage already caused. Both hands unveiled, he couldn't stop the shake that came to his own hands, the joints aching in... Not sympathy, not... Not anything like that. It was revulsion, sheer revulsion, the sight so vivid and attacking his sensed, it couldn't be helped.
The handgun clattered to the concrete with a sharp crack and subsequent rattles that followed soon overpowered by words, hollow... So strange. Remedied soon enough with scathing, broken by the interjection of another worm being put back in its place. Their host was a harsh master, indeed; out of line, lose a head, suffer the consequences. How much was Wesker himself and how much was the parasite? It didn't seem to approve of being controlled so, not in the slightest... How peculiar. At the show, Wesker sought to correct himself, retrieved the gloves from the floor and replaced them in a bizarre show of tentacle and remains. Packaged away again, it was as if nothing had happened, face of hands restored.
“Do you know what it’s like to be eaten alive, Chris? To feel your innards devoured?”
Chris held his ground, his snarl curving down.
“Did you save the world? Did humanity thank you for protecting their wretched little lives?”
His medal sat forgotten on his bedside locker on the upper floor, a bit of metal on a bit of cloth and a pin, for 'Outstanding Bravery'. He'd worn a suit to get it. What a day that was, his mother would have been proud if she could see him. He'd always scrubbed up well, Chris. A man of uniform and dress coats, jackboots and combats, suit, tie, neat, respectable. The glaze to his eyes didn't realise until it was too late, a crushing force surged towards him and brought him crashing against a wall, the unforgiving brick and dull impact made his muscled back ache beneath his skin-tight t-shirt. Those hands. They were touching him. They were touching him.
“Or did the insects called the human race leave you to die, bored of their savior when he isn’t saving them?”
They didn't care. They never cared. Their Hero could rot.
Far too close, they were too close, the rot and necrosis clouding Chris' head as he attempted to recoil, finding only the wall as huge hands reached out to push at his assailant, to try and get him away and off. Chris knew that look; that disgusting, mock-soft look with a lowness to voice that should never have been there. It made his skin crawl, being eyed like meat to the wolf, the harsh truth far from anything he wanted to hear. It had been useless, hadn't it? Kijuju was a scam in the big picture. They'd not changed anything. People were still exploited, they were... Victims. They were all victims. Greed cast shackles onto the weak, empowered them, moved them to chain the unfortunate to them and...
“Look at the world, Chris. Look at yourself.”
There was nothing to see. No. There was so much to see-
“Look at me.”
His face siezed, Chris had no choice. His own anger flared then; fear melted, alarms went off in his head as he met the other man's eyes and held them, fearsome red on blue, crackling with hatred on both ends. A hand rose to wrap around the wrist he knew crawled with disease, wounds weeping infection and evil. Though he remained silent a moment longer, there was enough time to behold the face of God...
"All I see's a freak, that everyone chewed up,"
And spat upon him.
Spittle could have struck lenses, skin, slid down grotesque red slashes or black, Chris didn't care.
"Until the flavour was gone."
He may have lost the glossy sheen of high health, but Chris' body didn't let him down. His thumb slid up to wrench that hand away from his face, the action of throwing it back to its owner swiftly turned around into a hook, aiming for the side of the tyrant's head. Anger overpowered him, blinded him, the sheer disgust powering him stubbornly onwards.
 Knight Artorias · Wed Dec 30, 2009 @ 11:31am · 0 Comments |
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