Where is my MIND?
The spring mattress he sleeps on is next to the window. He props himself, palms behind him and body bent. His back aches almost as much as his side. What was the point of dreaming when all there is left are nightmares? Eyes opened or closed. Reality is awful.
I just want to go home.
The window’s blinds are crooked and cut shades. A horizontal lined pattern leaks over his neck and chest. The street lights allow a small cast to pour in, gleaming in his eyes and hiding underneath the shadows.
I just need to clear my head.
He turns himself off the cheap bed, deserting the patterned shadows. A white tee shirt is pulled over his head and shoes are tugged on before he steps out and breaths the night. It’s exceptionally dark, the street nearly doesn’t exist anymore.
A pocket knife is kept hidden in his clothing.
After all, he very well knows that predators strike in the dark.
I’d think by this point, you’d say I’m on fire.
Momentarily, an absence of sound emanating from the rounded robot with the circular optic lens and speaker junctions. Just the propulsion noises as it were running on fuel. In his line of sight, a silhouette, posed up—still. Lifeless and situated like a woman on some Vogue Milan magazine. The harsh, cutting reality of it all was actually a disheveled, old mannequin piled against some nasty garbage. There was a soft, amused stifle of breath that escaped her flared nostrils.
She allowed him to hear it. Mocking him. Taking a stab at his confidence.
She watched through the PDA device from her undisclosed location, thoroughly entertained by his endeavors and misdirection. Putting the VM-259 through field testing and she was impressed by its performance, its scanning.
Because men wore out their usefulness so quickly, she had to keep him on his toes.
"I know what you’re thinking, but no. I’m sorry, your trail is growing cold. Next to you on top of those stacks of brown boxes is a small black datapad. Use it.” came the speakers. Her lips audibly smacked—smoothed over and spread the strawberry red lipstick over her scrubbed mouth.
She didn’t particularly pay much mind to the misplaced arrogance from before. Ada was Caesar, spectating the gladiator in the vast Colosseum to be torn apart by the lion.
"I haven’t got all day, boy. Pay attention."
Her raspy syllables turned radio waves into biting, frozen ice with a warm kiss to soothe the pain.
Teeth grit harshly at the sight of his misleading figure.
His head turns beside him at the pad. This all somehow became a mental mission for the Lieutenant. This little game, and somehow he didn’t feel like he was dealing with the same woman as before. If he was, one of them would be dead or injured by now—but, as much as he wanted to feel that, he had to be dealing with Ada Wong, there was no mistaking her.
Piers reaches over the cardboard and snatches the pad, looking at it, mentally inspecting it as if he was suddenly on a training course. And oh, is he competitive.
The pad calls for an unknown password, it’s black and sleek screen lights up with a few boxes to enter digits in. The cast bounces on his eyelashes and cheeks, creating a flashlight into the shadows.
It’ll all be worth returning the favor to her, wouldn’t it?
To his fortune a history of hacking software and mechanics had been up his sleeve and immediately he goes flip the pad over snapping it’s back open to reveal a primary color selection of wires. Then, he picks up a bashed stone with a clever corner to it, using it to snap a yellow wire and place the lid back on.
The pad is turned on and he smiles at the little robot. The locater tells him to go right and he does so.
Though Chris received a response, there was still far too much to ask. For example, how had the young sniper returned to normal?
At some point in time, while those questions and thoughts swirled in his head, Chris decided that the only thing that truly mattered was that his partner was alive.
"There was nothing you can do about it," he comforted. “What’s most important is that you’re still alive."
Chris came closer and patted Piers on the shoulder firmly.
The scarring had been evidence he hadn’t gotten freedom without a fight. A revolution in his own blood. To talk of the many needles and experiments he was introduced to would be asking for sympathy and pity—-he doesn’t want anything but to go home.
A lighter green eye contrasts with his hazel one, the original color of both. They look up and take in the comforting Captain.
"—but, Chris, I’m not the only one who’s still alive." The voice shook worse, this time because anger was directed towards the woman that managed to live. "Ada is, too. I saw her. No one believes me…"