And the mystery of life goes on
Apr. 14th, 2012 12:49 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
inkribbonTitle: And the mystery of life goes on (Subject to Change)
Fandom: Resident Evil
Characters: Rebecca Chambers, Enrico Marini
Genre: Alternate Universe
Warning: None that I can think of
Spoilers: Remake and Zero
Summary: The Mansion Incident... goes differently.
Notes: Work in Progress
After roughly twenty-four hours of killing monsters, Rebecca Chambers wants nothing more than to go to sleep. Until the end of the world sounds nice. Or maybe even longer. She has never been this tired in her life, an exhaustion that hit bone deep somewhere in the depths of an abandoned facility and didn't let up during the rest of the nightmarish mission.
Modern bureaucracy has other plans. There are meetings and reports and meetings in the middle of other meetings, with more reports and paperwork shuffled around the sides. So much paperwork. Rebecca's always had a knack for paperwork, likening it to the nice easy rhythm of formulae and equations. If x, then y, H2C=CH2, sign on the dotted line and file in triplicate, praise be to carbon paper.
She's so fucking sick of paperwork.
It is, however, a nice shield from the chaotic frenzy that has descended on the rest of the RPD in general, and the STARS office in specific. Her rank, position and general rookie-ness leave her inexperienced for the task force that is forming. (She's finding that Chief Irons is very persuasive, especially when he's bellowing into phones at someone who is thankfully not her) And as everybody is constantly telling her, she did her job, bringing back Bravo Team alive and in one piece. For the most part.
She's so fucking sick of that too.
But it's easier to fill out forms with increasingly obscure names and even longer numbers than to dwell on the reasons why she should be grateful and yet isn't.
It's very easy to drift, to slowly sink into autopilot, the regimented lines and ticky boxes of regulated record-keeping stretched out before her, the ebb and flow of conversations providing a steadying buzz of background noise that is comforting in its mundanity. Kind of a simple thing, that recognizable human voices, filled with inflection and words, broadcast a feeling of safety after a night of monotone groans and animalistic shrieks and far too many gunshots.
She's grateful for it, even if it's not the intended effect. Nobody bothers her, tucked away filing in a corner, while the bulk of the task force work is done a few desks away. Alpha Team is a pretty good barrier to keep away the gossipers and the looky-loos. Professionals they may be, the rumors about this pear-shaped mission are flying fast and furious among the officers and detectives on duty. Gossip and donuts abound, go figure.
Eventually the voices slow and sputter and then stop. She continues on, dutifully, still in that place where monotony is better than introspection, but as she reaches for the next stack, a hand descends upon it pinning the stack in place. She can't help it, she jerks back, the scuff of the chair against the tile floor loud and shrieking as she stands in surprise. Exhausted and injured as she might be, her reaction time is still pretty impressive. It's probably a good thing her Beretta has been signed back into the lockers.
Rebecca flushes and apologizes as she recognizes the captain, moving stiffly with wounds of his own. Breathing deeply with the sudden rush of adrenaline, it's a bit of an effort to calm herself. "Sorry sir. I was just.." She trails off, gesturing ineffectively at the desk before her. She actually has no idea what she was just. At this point she has a better grip on what she wasn't than what she was, just or otherwise. Enrico's answering smile is kind, if weary. But then he was leading half a team of trained combat ready men in to a hostile situation. She was corralling a convict and dragging Edward's half-conscious ass through the drainage system of a pharmaceutical's secret underground experiment bunker. She's tired enough and hey, she's alive so that thought is more an analysis of fact that bitter resentment.
"You did good." She can't tell if he's talking about the mission or the paperwork and she doesn't really care. At least this praise isn't the kind tinged with disbelief that she did it or that she did it and did it phenomenally well, considering. "When the others are well enough, they can finish up since you did the preliminaries." He pauses as he flips casually through the top stack. "Although," he adds with a mock stern look, "You might remember that 'Because he was a fucking insane, possibly compounded by the fact that he was dead' is probably not a suitable justification for a response of lethal force, however true it may be."
Rebecca blinks and before she can stop herself she blurts, "I was just trying to think what would Forrest do." Enrico's startled laugh that comes out surprises her; he seems equally surprised. She supposes that dealing with the living dead must wear on everyone, combat preparedness or no.
"You should go home." He claps her on the shoulder, a gesture of comradery, of teammates and turns her to the door. "Rest. We're on stand-down. The mayor has contacted the national guard. We've even got the Alphas from Brahams on loan to us."
"Go home Chambers, that's an order."
Fandom: Resident Evil
Characters: Rebecca Chambers, Enrico Marini
Genre: Alternate Universe
Warning: None that I can think of
Spoilers: Remake and Zero
Summary: The Mansion Incident... goes differently.
Notes: Work in Progress
After roughly twenty-four hours of killing monsters, Rebecca Chambers wants nothing more than to go to sleep. Until the end of the world sounds nice. Or maybe even longer. She has never been this tired in her life, an exhaustion that hit bone deep somewhere in the depths of an abandoned facility and didn't let up during the rest of the nightmarish mission.
Modern bureaucracy has other plans. There are meetings and reports and meetings in the middle of other meetings, with more reports and paperwork shuffled around the sides. So much paperwork. Rebecca's always had a knack for paperwork, likening it to the nice easy rhythm of formulae and equations. If x, then y, H2C=CH2, sign on the dotted line and file in triplicate, praise be to carbon paper.
She's so fucking sick of paperwork.
It is, however, a nice shield from the chaotic frenzy that has descended on the rest of the RPD in general, and the STARS office in specific. Her rank, position and general rookie-ness leave her inexperienced for the task force that is forming. (She's finding that Chief Irons is very persuasive, especially when he's bellowing into phones at someone who is thankfully not her) And as everybody is constantly telling her, she did her job, bringing back Bravo Team alive and in one piece. For the most part.
She's so fucking sick of that too.
But it's easier to fill out forms with increasingly obscure names and even longer numbers than to dwell on the reasons why she should be grateful and yet isn't.
It's very easy to drift, to slowly sink into autopilot, the regimented lines and ticky boxes of regulated record-keeping stretched out before her, the ebb and flow of conversations providing a steadying buzz of background noise that is comforting in its mundanity. Kind of a simple thing, that recognizable human voices, filled with inflection and words, broadcast a feeling of safety after a night of monotone groans and animalistic shrieks and far too many gunshots.
She's grateful for it, even if it's not the intended effect. Nobody bothers her, tucked away filing in a corner, while the bulk of the task force work is done a few desks away. Alpha Team is a pretty good barrier to keep away the gossipers and the looky-loos. Professionals they may be, the rumors about this pear-shaped mission are flying fast and furious among the officers and detectives on duty. Gossip and donuts abound, go figure.
Eventually the voices slow and sputter and then stop. She continues on, dutifully, still in that place where monotony is better than introspection, but as she reaches for the next stack, a hand descends upon it pinning the stack in place. She can't help it, she jerks back, the scuff of the chair against the tile floor loud and shrieking as she stands in surprise. Exhausted and injured as she might be, her reaction time is still pretty impressive. It's probably a good thing her Beretta has been signed back into the lockers.
Rebecca flushes and apologizes as she recognizes the captain, moving stiffly with wounds of his own. Breathing deeply with the sudden rush of adrenaline, it's a bit of an effort to calm herself. "Sorry sir. I was just.." She trails off, gesturing ineffectively at the desk before her. She actually has no idea what she was just. At this point she has a better grip on what she wasn't than what she was, just or otherwise. Enrico's answering smile is kind, if weary. But then he was leading half a team of trained combat ready men in to a hostile situation. She was corralling a convict and dragging Edward's half-conscious ass through the drainage system of a pharmaceutical's secret underground experiment bunker. She's tired enough and hey, she's alive so that thought is more an analysis of fact that bitter resentment.
"You did good." She can't tell if he's talking about the mission or the paperwork and she doesn't really care. At least this praise isn't the kind tinged with disbelief that she did it or that she did it and did it phenomenally well, considering. "When the others are well enough, they can finish up since you did the preliminaries." He pauses as he flips casually through the top stack. "Although," he adds with a mock stern look, "You might remember that 'Because he was a fucking insane, possibly compounded by the fact that he was dead' is probably not a suitable justification for a response of lethal force, however true it may be."
Rebecca blinks and before she can stop herself she blurts, "I was just trying to think what would Forrest do." Enrico's startled laugh that comes out surprises her; he seems equally surprised. She supposes that dealing with the living dead must wear on everyone, combat preparedness or no.
"You should go home." He claps her on the shoulder, a gesture of comradery, of teammates and turns her to the door. "Rest. We're on stand-down. The mayor has contacted the national guard. We've even got the Alphas from Brahams on loan to us."
"Go home Chambers, that's an order."