Resident Evil 2: Redux (BlisteredBlood & Miss Macro)

[BlisteredBlood]

Tuesday
July 3rd, 1998

I had been working as a bouncer at one of those hotspots, known as Club Hell for about seven months now. Heh. They don't pay me enough to keep the riffraff out of the dump even if they tacked on Hazard Pay. Mostly, I just do enough damage to their face then send them on their "merry" little way. But lately, I've been taking notice of a few things in the place. Apparently, some of the people in there have been acting like complete and total fucking morons. I didn't think much of it, because personally, one asshole or dumb bitch is just the same as the other.

I should really think about starting another career at this point. You know. Get some more excitement out of my dead-end life. You know. Go skydiving, mountain climbing. Ride the world's most dangerous bull, Bodacious. Anything that's better than this stupid shit I gotta put up with on a nightly basis.

There was also something on the news I'd been paying attention to, as well. Apparently, I heard about the accident at that mansion up in the Arklay Mountains just a few hundred miles outside of Raccoon City from them and how there were grisly murders that showcased the most brutal deaths anyone has ever bared witness to several weeks prior. Bodies cannibalized by flesh-eating mutants of some kind, badly misshapen creatures coming to life under heir own power.

When I saw this on the news, I only shook my head in disbelief. It was like something out of some fucked-up Wes Craven or Quentin Tarantino movie. I dunno about what one, but seriously. I had never seen anything like it before.

Well, I suppose I'll end this rant for right now. I'm probably going to get sleep. Got another early night tomorrow night. Apparently they're needing me to pull for another guy's shift because he called out sick.

==========================================================================

Vincent Cooper, dressed in the usual sleeveless black shirt and back track pants with a vertical white stripe and white sneakers, had just come home after a difficult night at one of the local nightlife clubs in downtown Raccoon City, sighing to himself in moderate aggravation as he walked inside. Man! Of all the nerve of that one asshole! Why the hell did he have to act like an asshole if he knew the rule was if you fuck with the other customers, you're gonna get your ass tossed out!? He thought as he shook his head with the same amount of aggravation ever since he stepped inside the apartment. Along the way, the 6' 6", 320 pound - all of which was in muscle - man kicked his shoes off at the door, sighing with a small degree of comfort once his sock covered feet hit the wooden flooring then sauntered over to the kitchen, looking to get get himself something to eat.

Along the way, though, he stopped by the living room to pick up the remote and fiddled with it for a moment to turn on the TV situated in the entertainment center in front of him. One of the channels he flipped to was the local news stations. On it, it had yet another crazy article about how another murder has sparked concerns of a serial killer or killers was possibly on the loose. The body looked relatively the same as it was with all of the others: Cannibalized beyond all known recognition.

"Heh. Jeffrey Dahmer, eat your heart out." Vincent remarked then shook his head with a roll of his eyes as he then turned towards the kitchen once more and began to root around inside the refrigerator, illuminating the tattoos he had on his arms - one being a Samoan tribal wrap that circumnavigated the entire right bicep and reached up his shoulder and a pair of Japanese characters on his left. Roughly translated from kanji, the words appeared as "Man-Monster" - for something to munch on. Apparently, beating back the morons at Club Hell has really sparked an appetite he hadn't known he had in some time.

"Hohkay..." He sighed to himself as he looked around in thought. "What are we gonna have here...?" He muttered afterward.

 

[Miss Macro]

From: <!-- e --><a href="mailto:david.bryce@raccooncitynews.org">david.bryce@raccooncitynews.org</a><!-- e -->
Sent: 03 July 1998 23.48.13
To: <!-- e --><a href="mailtoascale.nguyen@raccooncitynews.org">pascale.nguyen@raccooncitynews.org</a><!-- e -->
Re: fgiotjgtgbwtg

Itchy. Hungry.


Pascale blinked at the screen and the internal mail displayed thereon. It was of course not the first time she had been on the receiving end of spam, much less the distorted sense of humour of Bryce, and now it seemed as if he had found a way to combine the two. She clicked delete, as any other sane person would have done, without bothering to reply or think more of it.
"Hey, Nuhgooyen!"
She looked up from her computer at the ritual mangled mispronounciation of her surname, and into the face of Carter. He had no second name that she was aware of, and the boyish good looks of a man half his age (which she put to be around 45, his actual age - not the half). "N'win," she said. "It's pronounced N'win. What do you want, Carter?"
"Grab your gear, we've got a shout that there's been another murder," excitement on his voice, looking for all the world like an over-sized schoolboy in his dark blue suit and permanently off-centre tie. "Downtown this time."
There was a map pinned to the chipboard cubicle wall behind Carter, and Pascale glanced at it over the man's shoulder. The recent murders, at least the sites in which the bodies, what was left of them, had been found, were marked with pins. Carter added a new one as Pascale fumbled for her bag, which had somehow become tangled up with the wheel supports of her chair.
Inside was a very expensive camera, a gift from her parents, and a selection of lenses and other strange artifacts of the photo-journalist's art.

The two reporters headed out of the Raccoon City News building.
One was tall, male and boyishly good-looking with an old-fashioned trilby perched on his head at a rakish angle, a press card stuck into the band. It was only one of many affectations Carter adopted and discarded on a regular basis, but this one seemed to have struck a chord with the man, and he wore it at every available opportunity. Which was every time he had to step out of the office.
The other, shorter of the two by no small margin, all of five feet nothing, slim and female with a helmet of dark hair, was struggling with a large black bag bulging with camera equipment.
They were arguing, although bickering might have been a better description.
"Don't hesistate to help."
"It's your own fault. You don't have to take absolutely everything with you every time we get called to a crime scene."
"I might need it all. It's overcast. It might rain."
"Granted, but a tele-photo lens? It's not like we're going to be so far away that you need something you can use to take pictures from a mile away."
"It's like a condom. I'd rather have it and not need it than need it and not have it."
"Are you propositioning me, N'win?"
"In your dreams."
And so on.

Eventually, the arrived at an alley cordoned off by black and yellow crime scene tape. Several RCPD officers were in attendance, and none of them looked particularly pleased to see either Pascale or Carter, but one sauntered over anyway, obviously relegated to the role of dealing with the press and other nosey buggers by someone further up the chain of command. He did not look happy, but in Pascale's experience not many cops did.
There was a brief exchange between Carter and the officer, but Pascale had already fumbled her camera out of her back and fumbled to lens-cap off and started to take pictures of the crime scene techs, all anonymous in there white overalls, doing whatever it was they did to dead bodies.

 

[BlisteredBlood]

Vincent overheard on the television of where the current body was found this time, located in the Downtown area - which wasn't really far from him, only by a couple blocks shy of where he was - of Raccoon City. In truth, he only shook his head once more at the thought of it, thinking that this town is definitely going to hell in a Barbie Dream Car and Satan was pointing it out. Still, it was all the better reason for him to have kept a few weapons close by him, namely a 9mm Beretta 92FS with a full clip in the nightstand near his bed and a baseball bat near the front door. Not for nothing, but he was not doing to be this serial killer's lunch, no matter how many of them were following him or her.

But for right now, all he was focused on was just getting something moderate to settle his appetite, finding a bowl that had left over spaghetti and meatballs from the other night. It definitely wouldn't be much, but at least it was better than just finding something small that would just make him hungrier later on down the line.

He took the bowl out of the refrigerator and walked over to the nearby microwave, popped the lid off of the bowl then stuck it in, setting it for a quick reheat and pressed the start key. From there, the only other thing he could do at this point was just head on over to the couch in the area then sat down in it, sighing in comfort as he continued watching the news.

It wouldn't be long before his moment of solace would be interrupted when he heard his phone go off. Finding it odd that someone would call him in the dead of night, Vincent arched his left scarred eyebrow before standing up and walking over to it, seeing the number on the caller ID display. It didn't look to be either of his buddies or the boss calling him, according to what it said.

"786... 547-5433?" Vincent muttered to himself in confusion. "Hmm." He then shrugged his shoulders a bit before picking up the phone and held it against his ear.

"Yeah?" Vincent said into the receiver.

All he could hear was dead silence for maybe about five seconds before he heard someone speak.

"Hunnnnngryyy..." The person, a male, on the other line spoke in a droning tone of voice before giving off a short moan.

"The fuck...?" Vincent muttered to himself then held the phone back a moment. "Hey! Asshole! Don't call this number again!" He growled furiously before slamming the phone down in an irritated manner then turned away from it.

Jesus Christ, I need to get my phone number changed...! He thought before shaking his head.