Heavy Metal AU
Mar. 5th, 2012 01:36 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
inkribbonTitle: N/A
Fandom: Resident Evil
Characters: Chris Redfield, Rebecca Chambers, Excella Gionne
Genre: AU, SciFi
Warning: None that I can think of
Spoilers: Wildly, massively AU
Summary: Resident Evil with scifi trappings. An attempt to make a world out of Chris' RE5 Heavy Metal Alt Costume.
Notes: WIP Amnesty, so missing scenes galore.
Medics are hard to find on the front lines. There were quite a few, back when the conflict began. Back when it was a mission of revenge, to take back what had been stolen in the night. Before it became a mad scramble to hold on to what they'd managed to keep when the first wave hit.
So Chris is not particularly impressed when the new medic assigned to his squad looks as if she'd blow over in a strong windstorm. Apparently (he hears amongst much jeering from the other squads at the mess) they had to make her armor special, because even the smallest available size was still too large for her. There are more crude comments about where they're going to ink the squad's emblems on her, because there's not enough space anywhere on her that won't lead to a court martial for sexual harassment. That sparks the inevitable commentary [need to find someway to allude to sex without being excessively crude], but Chris tunes it out with ease of long practice. He's read her file, she's about Claire's age, so no thank you. Besides, she's in his squad and there's still a thing called anti-frat regs (and ain't that a shame for a whole mess of reasons that have nothing to do with his new medic.)
But she meets and in some, even exceeds, the military performance standards, and per her file she's an exceptional medic, and hey, even if she weren't, it's not exactly like they're rolling in willing corpsmen. So even if her only qualification was knowing which end of a RESI vial was up, it's not like he could say no.
Her file also says she volunteered and that's what really sells him. Wanting to be here, for whatever the reason, is worth more than the pages of recommendations he idly skims past on his datapad.
Nobody comes here wanting to die. Death isn't the end on this battlefield. Ouroboros saw to that.
----
Dry expedition or not, it's tradition to get shitfaced before the inking. Yes, every soldier on the base is well aware of the penalties of consuming alcohol, and even more aware of the potential hazards to a successful injection such consumption causes.
They really don't care. Getting shitfaced is a team-building exercise, among other things.
If getting shitfaced is an exercise, getting inked is the Olympic decathlon of comradery. Seeing if you can hold your liquor among is a good warm-up.
{So far, Chris is impressed. Not that Rebecca's drinking. Sure, her cup may be constantly in the process of getting refilled, but after the first few times, it's kind of amazing to watch her carefully swap her cup for empty ones. The others know, of course. And at first there is grumbling. (Edward grumbles at everything, so this is not an unusual thing) But that means more for them}
The inking goes off without a hitch the next morning. There's always a buzz from the nanites whenever the squad gathers, just as there's always a sudden rush of adrenaline. This isn't a combat assembly, so the chatter on the line is a different sort of anticipation. Everyone takes the primers, the required training and prep periods, but it's just a pale imitation of the real thing. Nothing simulates being connected to a neural net like actually being connected to a neural net.
The ink is already spiraling out across her skin, draping her arm in elegant swirls that spiral out from the injection point. ("Now she's the only one in the squad without facial tats." "Shut up, Edward.")
It's not really ink, just a technobiotic matrix for the nanites that allows an easier permeability across membranes for cellular repair, but it looks like ink and so ink it's called. And because it's a direct part of the neural net uplink (gotta love the adaptability and multifunctionality of nanites), the subconscious mind has a more than a little influence on the matrix, like the form it takes.
It looks like ink, they call it ink, it's hard not to think of it as ink, so it's not a surprise to find that when the matrix settles (and it can take hours or even days. Vickers has the base record, taking exactly six days, forty-two hours, and fifty seven seconds for his ink to stop shifting and resettling at his every little display of emotion. "And I had money riding on him making a full week." "No really Edward, SHUT UP.") it often looks like something the soldier in question would have as a tattoo. Sometimes it resembles an actual tattoo, something glimpsed or admired somewhere else.
There's a pause in the chatter, then a sudden rush of static, and poof, there she is in the back of his mind, a soft and solid presence as the nanites do their thing. Her confusion is tingled with awe, broadcasted loud and clear that quickly abates into embarrassment as the rest of the squad welcomes her as an official member.
Something unsettles him though, as he watches the ebb and flow of the ink across her arm. It's not settled yet, still rippling and spreading as she feels her way around the link and tries to deal with a squadload of new sensory input. But in those moments when she does have a handle on it, the traces of black settle in to the same pattern every time. Rebecca is good and distracted to he focuses on it, trying to discern why that base shape seems so familiar. It reminds him of letters, vaguely, but he can't shake the suspicion that he's seen that same pattern somewhere before.
---
Excella is pristine, in spite of the wind and the muck. The faint air of perfume follows in her wake, the smell of something floral at odds among the tang of unwashed bodies too long in grime-spattered armor. She looks nothing like a scientist, and more telling, nothing like a soldier. She practically gleams, clad in heels and silken dress, compared to Rebecca's olive drab, emphasis on the drab.
The divide in the camp is mirrored here, in this standoff between the two women. Excella and the science staff on one side, in good health and good spirits, due to distance from combat and the lion's share of the budgeting and supplies, and Rebecca and the rest of the squad, battered and weary.
Chris spits, to get the foul taste out of his mouth. It'll probably come to a head right now, but god, he hopes not. They need to at least present a unified front, in the event there's a journalist underfoot.
The scientists are the ones who will finally win this war, as it will be their research that builds the silver bullet to end Oroboros once and for all.
But they're not the ones who sacrifice for it. Chris thinks they need a reminder of that, but no one ever asks him.
--
Rebecca shrugs. "They're not all bad. They just can't stand up to Ex- their superiors." She gives him a wan smile, holding up a medpatch between two fingers. She drops it into his outstretched palm. "They fight back in smaller ways." Her eyes flick to a small stack of crates, clean and pre-fab white. Her smile perks a little, and her voice is warm as she continues.
"And they're more focused on getting the project finished, rather than getting their names on the finished project." Her gaze is distant, as if she can see beyond the metal sheds that pretend to be home. "When it's done, there'll be a revolution in among the scholars. Oroboros changed everything we knew as fact, and Caduecus will just add to the turmoil." The pain in her voice as she continues is unmistakable. She may like where she is now, but research is obviously what she loved. "They're pushing genetic and biological knowledge forward in leaps and bounds everytime we come back with a sample." Her eyes are bright with hope, something he hasn't seen in a long time. "That bastard might have beaten us out of the gates, but he's not lapping us in this race anymore."
Fandom: Resident Evil
Characters: Chris Redfield, Rebecca Chambers, Excella Gionne
Genre: AU, SciFi
Warning: None that I can think of
Spoilers: Wildly, massively AU
Summary: Resident Evil with scifi trappings. An attempt to make a world out of Chris' RE5 Heavy Metal Alt Costume.
Notes: WIP Amnesty, so missing scenes galore.
Medics are hard to find on the front lines. There were quite a few, back when the conflict began. Back when it was a mission of revenge, to take back what had been stolen in the night. Before it became a mad scramble to hold on to what they'd managed to keep when the first wave hit.
So Chris is not particularly impressed when the new medic assigned to his squad looks as if she'd blow over in a strong windstorm. Apparently (he hears amongst much jeering from the other squads at the mess) they had to make her armor special, because even the smallest available size was still too large for her. There are more crude comments about where they're going to ink the squad's emblems on her, because there's not enough space anywhere on her that won't lead to a court martial for sexual harassment. That sparks the inevitable commentary [need to find someway to allude to sex without being excessively crude], but Chris tunes it out with ease of long practice. He's read her file, she's about Claire's age, so no thank you. Besides, she's in his squad and there's still a thing called anti-frat regs (and ain't that a shame for a whole mess of reasons that have nothing to do with his new medic.)
But she meets and in some, even exceeds, the military performance standards, and per her file she's an exceptional medic, and hey, even if she weren't, it's not exactly like they're rolling in willing corpsmen. So even if her only qualification was knowing which end of a RESI vial was up, it's not like he could say no.
Her file also says she volunteered and that's what really sells him. Wanting to be here, for whatever the reason, is worth more than the pages of recommendations he idly skims past on his datapad.
Nobody comes here wanting to die. Death isn't the end on this battlefield. Ouroboros saw to that.
----
Dry expedition or not, it's tradition to get shitfaced before the inking. Yes, every soldier on the base is well aware of the penalties of consuming alcohol, and even more aware of the potential hazards to a successful injection such consumption causes.
They really don't care. Getting shitfaced is a team-building exercise, among other things.
If getting shitfaced is an exercise, getting inked is the Olympic decathlon of comradery. Seeing if you can hold your liquor among is a good warm-up.
{So far, Chris is impressed. Not that Rebecca's drinking. Sure, her cup may be constantly in the process of getting refilled, but after the first few times, it's kind of amazing to watch her carefully swap her cup for empty ones. The others know, of course. And at first there is grumbling. (Edward grumbles at everything, so this is not an unusual thing) But that means more for them}
The inking goes off without a hitch the next morning. There's always a buzz from the nanites whenever the squad gathers, just as there's always a sudden rush of adrenaline. This isn't a combat assembly, so the chatter on the line is a different sort of anticipation. Everyone takes the primers, the required training and prep periods, but it's just a pale imitation of the real thing. Nothing simulates being connected to a neural net like actually being connected to a neural net.
The ink is already spiraling out across her skin, draping her arm in elegant swirls that spiral out from the injection point. ("Now she's the only one in the squad without facial tats." "Shut up, Edward.")
It's not really ink, just a technobiotic matrix for the nanites that allows an easier permeability across membranes for cellular repair, but it looks like ink and so ink it's called. And because it's a direct part of the neural net uplink (gotta love the adaptability and multifunctionality of nanites), the subconscious mind has a more than a little influence on the matrix, like the form it takes.
It looks like ink, they call it ink, it's hard not to think of it as ink, so it's not a surprise to find that when the matrix settles (and it can take hours or even days. Vickers has the base record, taking exactly six days, forty-two hours, and fifty seven seconds for his ink to stop shifting and resettling at his every little display of emotion. "And I had money riding on him making a full week." "No really Edward, SHUT UP.") it often looks like something the soldier in question would have as a tattoo. Sometimes it resembles an actual tattoo, something glimpsed or admired somewhere else.
There's a pause in the chatter, then a sudden rush of static, and poof, there she is in the back of his mind, a soft and solid presence as the nanites do their thing. Her confusion is tingled with awe, broadcasted loud and clear that quickly abates into embarrassment as the rest of the squad welcomes her as an official member.
Something unsettles him though, as he watches the ebb and flow of the ink across her arm. It's not settled yet, still rippling and spreading as she feels her way around the link and tries to deal with a squadload of new sensory input. But in those moments when she does have a handle on it, the traces of black settle in to the same pattern every time. Rebecca is good and distracted to he focuses on it, trying to discern why that base shape seems so familiar. It reminds him of letters, vaguely, but he can't shake the suspicion that he's seen that same pattern somewhere before.
---
Excella is pristine, in spite of the wind and the muck. The faint air of perfume follows in her wake, the smell of something floral at odds among the tang of unwashed bodies too long in grime-spattered armor. She looks nothing like a scientist, and more telling, nothing like a soldier. She practically gleams, clad in heels and silken dress, compared to Rebecca's olive drab, emphasis on the drab.
The divide in the camp is mirrored here, in this standoff between the two women. Excella and the science staff on one side, in good health and good spirits, due to distance from combat and the lion's share of the budgeting and supplies, and Rebecca and the rest of the squad, battered and weary.
Chris spits, to get the foul taste out of his mouth. It'll probably come to a head right now, but god, he hopes not. They need to at least present a unified front, in the event there's a journalist underfoot.
The scientists are the ones who will finally win this war, as it will be their research that builds the silver bullet to end Oroboros once and for all.
But they're not the ones who sacrifice for it. Chris thinks they need a reminder of that, but no one ever asks him.
--
Rebecca shrugs. "They're not all bad. They just can't stand up to Ex- their superiors." She gives him a wan smile, holding up a medpatch between two fingers. She drops it into his outstretched palm. "They fight back in smaller ways." Her eyes flick to a small stack of crates, clean and pre-fab white. Her smile perks a little, and her voice is warm as she continues.
"And they're more focused on getting the project finished, rather than getting their names on the finished project." Her gaze is distant, as if she can see beyond the metal sheds that pretend to be home. "When it's done, there'll be a revolution in among the scholars. Oroboros changed everything we knew as fact, and Caduecus will just add to the turmoil." The pain in her voice as she continues is unmistakable. She may like where she is now, but research is obviously what she loved. "They're pushing genetic and biological knowledge forward in leaps and bounds everytime we come back with a sample." Her eyes are bright with hope, something he hasn't seen in a long time. "That bastard might have beaten us out of the gates, but he's not lapping us in this race anymore."