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Second Image: https://cdn.nickpic.host/images/CsiEW.gif
Age: 51
Alignment: neutral evil
Occupation: underground dueling arena proprietor
Application: http://newgame.jcink.net/index.php?showtopic=1133
Shipper: http://newgame.jcink.net/index.php?showtopic=1125
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Quote: Gregor Samsa. He was cast aside by his sister, which lead to his death. My brother, our destiny ... I will make sure it’s different. Our salvation is in death.
Race: enhanced human
Fandom: resident evil
Adjective: GODDESS OF DECAY
Preferred Pronouns: she/her
Height & Weight: 5'10" | 132 lbs
Development: http://newgame.jcink.net/index.php?showtopic=284
Alias: Ysa
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Joined: 22-July 17
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Last Seen: Oct 10 2017, 01:32 PM
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Alex Wesker

Neutral_Evil

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Oct 1 2017, 05:34 AM
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<h1>Dead I am the rat, feast upon the cat
Tender is the fur, dying as you purr</h1>


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It is a curious thing, the emotion that curdles in Alex's chest. Without a name, it leaves a putrid taste on her tongue. She does not know how she is meant to feel about this. What it means for this part of her family's legacy to shamble so far to find her. The outbreak, the words they throw to brand it. Zombies are a creature she is far more intimate with than anyone has the right to be. Viruses, too. T-, G-, Progenitor, Phobos, Los Illumatos, Uroboros. A hundred thousand more. Her own blood a sludge of death and the future. Progenitor keeping her illness at bay. T-Phobos keeping her prepped.

<p>

And then, Radames, they say, familiar, but Alex knows her face: Ada Wong. She does not know the woman well, no one did, but this seems far from her wheelhouse. She was a collector, a spy, an infiltrator. She did not initiate. She did not clean up. She did not commit genocide. Alex knew very well how she liked to shrug and look the other way when more moral crooked tasks were on the table.
<p>
Kennedy had still been alive the last time she'd checked.
<p>
It's all. Irrelevant. Wong's prerogative was her own. What happens to this town is of little consequence. Alex, after all, has never quite known how to be afraid. And this ... This unnamed pressure that swells in her chest can be ignored, has to be ignored, because there are things she has to do before she can give herself time for questions. Give herself time to sort out what's eating away at her.

<p>

( It is an excuse not to think about it, how she thinks it might give her some closure, how between all these dull, glossy eyes, she might see a flash of red-orange. It wouldn't be the first time he'd proved her wrong. It wouldn't be the first time she'd seen his ghost.
<p>
But this is a guilt she must live with.
)

<p>
She needs them. She needs a lot of them. But she's not foolish: it is painfully simple to make more if she secured even one.
<p>
Safe just inside the quarantine, hidden in a small shop someone did not bother to lock up when they fled, she waits for her appointment.






<p><hr><p>
Medusa Gorgon




</div></div>

</div><a href="http://shine.jcink.net/index.php?showuser=8549"><span style="font: bold 8px/20px calibri; opacity: .5; text-align:center;">BY MITZI</span></a>
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Sep 15 2017, 09:06 PM
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<center>Classified Request: Deadlights</center>

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Hello, lovelies! <span class="ne">Alex Wesker</span> has a lot of stock in zombies, even if they're carla's shitty c-virus not the strain she's familiar working with. She has crawled out of her hidey hole to drag some good rotting boys and girls back to her underground lair in the Blacklight district. For obvious reasons, this needs to be pretty discreet. So if you have some dubious fucking morals or just like cold hard cash more than lives of strangers, she's happy to look down on you for an hour.

<p>

This probably needs only one other player, but if you've got someone to watch your back -- because she won't -- feel free to bring them along. : )


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Jul 24 2017, 08:39 AM
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<h1>chunks of you will sink down to seals
Blubber rich in mourning, they'll nosh you up
Yes, they'll nosh the love away but it's fair to say
You will still haunt me</h1>


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She appears out of place. Blacklight is dark, grim, a stain hidden by the Upper Districts. It is where morality goes to die. She is pristine despite the surroundings. White on white on white. A slash of green on her wrist. A black book. Blonde hair they do not know used to be brighter. It's very late. Or very early. Depending on your glass. A group of men nearly done with not-quite daily clean up. Cleaners. Not great ones, but good enough for a district like this. They had passed enough blood on the streets: what would a pool of it underground change.

<p>

She looks younger than she is, but there is something off about it. An appearance that picks, nags, whispers unnaturally. False, it says. But her eyes cut unnaturally, blue flecked with gold, and most look away then. They call her Alex. They call her more colorful things. They will not call her Messiah or Savior or Holy Lady. Not like the others. Not like before. She no longer has the luxury of time to spread the deception that she is here to save Kadath before she takes a knife to it. Her plans are in ruin. Her research gone. Her body is failing her, even as Progenitor growls incessantly at the ash in her blood.

<p>

Her hand squeezes irregularly on the book in her hand. Above it, a wristband still glowing green. They asked, only once. She had slipped it off, put it on one of their wrists, and flooded his veins with T-Phobos. Blood dripped art down the back of her hand when she'd taken it back. Red to green instantly, a stoplight confirmation that she did not feel the same fear they did at the spectacle. They do not ask anymore. There is a syringe on the table as a reminder. Empty. They will look at it, will talk about it amongst themselves when she is gone. But they are paid well to keep their mouths shut. Men will always pay top dollar to take out their primitive aggressions. Allowing them to kill each other is a lucrative if inconsistent business.

<p>

One of the men, a leader by his lack of assistance on the sidelines, swaggers to her. Jams hands in his pockets. Stands beside her, tries to be level with her, watching the men work as she does. "Good enough haul, ma'am?"

<p>

Her fingers squeeze on the book and do not release. Her jaw works for half a second before she manages to release a word that is not simply a snarl. "No," she says, burying irritation that will grind her teeth later. They follow, they listen because she is calm, controlled, because they cannot smell the decay on her. He cannot see her hand on the book, though the white of her grip is hardly noticeable on her pale skin. "If I wanted corpses, I'd rummage the streets." She turns her head toward the ring leader, self-appointed, and does not smile. "The point," she reminds him, cool for lack of empathy, "is to keep them alive." Her eyes move over the men before them. "Where is the doctor?"

<p>

"He was out of commission last night." She hears just like you in the pause and wonders if she is strong enough now to flatten his neck in her hands. "You're just going ta kill 'em anyway."

<p>

She smiles now. It's the word for it, but her face simply twists, curves her lips to an appropriate angle. Replicating emotions they question if she understands. She says nothing. In her silence, she studies him. Skin pallor normal. Breathing a little deeper for exertion but normal. She counts the beat of his heart in the silence. Twenty in fifteen. 80, minus the small level of effort that elevates it. Concludes that he is healthy. Concludes that he may delay Phobos with anger.

<p>

Assessment: an ideal candidate.

<p>

"Hey, wha --? Don't think I'm gunna -- "

<p>

The curl of her lips shifts to bare teeth as she breaks her silence. "Get them out of here." She interrupts. There will be time for it later. She will make time for it. Alex looks away from him, back to the men heaving another body onto a cart. "And find a new fucking medic."

<p>

"I'll call him --"

<p>

Her look cuts him off. The turn of her head, the gold in her eyes brighter. Progenitor purrs. "You will need a new one," she promises him. Another twist of her mouth that lacks joy. Alex heads for the door, curls the book to her chest. Tries to ease her mood with Kafka, vent with words that pierce her. But she does not know whether she is free or wrapped in chains.

<p>

Her heels echo dully on the walls.

<p><hr><p>
open || notes alex runs essentially a fight club in blacklight. unlike the tarisian dueling arena, this place is fatal by design.





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</div><a href="http://shine.jcink.net/index.php?showuser=8549"><span style="font: bold 8px/20px calibri; opacity: .5; text-align:center;">BY MITZI</span></a>
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Jul 22 2017, 10:01 PM
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YSA. DISCORD. CENTRAL

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ALEX WESKER

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<li>fifty-one</li>
<li>enhanced human</li>
<li>female</li></ul>

<ul><li style="width: 250px;">neutral evil</li></ul>

<ul><li style="width: 250px;">proprietor of the underground dueling arena</li></ul>

<ul><li style="width: 250px;">resident evil</li>

</ul><ul><li style="width: 250px;">resident evil: revelations two, chapter 04 [claire].<br>2011. post-suicide, pre-mutation, pre-natalia. </li></ul>
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<p><center><div class="alanwatts">The meaning of life is that it stops.</div></center>


What a great irony. What an absurd comedy that it is you that survives to the end. For all the thousands of children Spencer weeded out of the world, to be caught in the net is amusing enough. Funnier still, that you survived the preliminaries: thousands to thirteen. And then, oh, Progenitor sliding into your skin, changing, polluting, but it too, shrugging at the disease rotting inside of you. But you survived. Felt the world shift under your bare feet, seventeen and hungry and unable to name it. Thirteen dissolving into two.
<p>
Your fingers skate over the glass, tracing the lines of the child's face underneath. Young, healthy: things you were, things you aren't. Six months to incubate. Six months of silence. A suffocating peace you haven't know in years even when, not far away, survivors die screaming and B.O.W.s stalk the grounds.
<p>
It's done. It's all done.
<p>
What irony. Your hands drag nails along the coffin, curl into fists.
<p>
All the things you've accomplished and you are still so unbearably unhappy.
<p>

You are aware, quite suddenly, that you are no longer alone in this space.
<p>

<p><center><div class="alanwatts">I am a cage, in search of a bird.</div></center>

<p>
( Before. )<p>
You know unequivocally what you are. You've known since you were seventeen, staring into the face of a dying man baring yellow teeth, a monkey mimicking pleasantries. You hated the look in his eyes the second you met him, felt it curdle and overwhelm you, spoiled milk in your chest for man it took twenty-nine years to pry away from. Another three months for the pre-programmed ache to sever from a hand through his chest. Twenty-nine years of addressing the man who bought you or stole you -- the semantics don't really matter once you're gone -- as Father.
<p>
He tells you one night with all the gentleness of a man trying to kill you about the Project. Project Wesker. He waits for your anger or your adoration or for something, eyes over your face, lacking any finesse. Just like that, he hands you the answer to your existence, to his inner workings, as if it will crumble you. He tells you there are others, scattered. He tells you he will be a God. He tells you your place.
<p>
Everything suddenly, horrifically, deliciously, makes sense. You can mimic pleasantries too, lips curling with a malice you blink out of your eyes. "I'm honored, Father."
<p>
His laughter makes you sick.
<p>
All the same, you need him. Sold or taken, you have nothing to go back to. But that's okay because Spencer has money and resources and work and you take to it like breathing. You are adaptive, intelligent, observant. So much so, that even when the illness starts to rear its head, he does not throw you to the proverbial wolves crafting monsters in the well-hidden corners of Umbrella.

<p>

You are sick and for all the technology Umbrella boasts, they cannot name it. The Progenitor Birkin shot into your veins without meeting your eyes did little to satiate it. Some days you are the picture of health. Fake smiles and pressed dress-suits. Other days you are delirious, so much so that you cannot hold a coherent thought. A cough lingers with you always, fluctuates from clearing your throat to tuberculosis.

<p>

But you were hand-picked and even when he looks at you in distaste because your eyes are still blue and you are still sick, the space between you knows that it is his failure, not yours. He does, you see, also need you.
<p>
Even then it was hard to tell which one of you was emanating the stench of decay.
<p>

<p><center><div class="alanwatts">Evil is whatever distracts.</div></center>

<p>

Spencer likes to think, as men ordained by their hubris are want to do, that you would be content to have only with what he gave you. That you would sit patiently, but desperately, for him to divulge more. There are rules in all his games. Ones you follow in his presence, ones you shatter alone. He likes to dangle those threads and you watch them, feigning curiosity even as you send messages with the smugness in your eyes.

<p>

I know about him.

<p>

Spencer's arrogance nurtures his incompetence with a loving hand. How, you wonder, he did not think you smart enough to link the same word is beyond you. For Spencer to not even change his name ... Progenitor writhes under the skin, but you are not burdened by a need to seek out Spencer. After all, you are painfully acquainted. Instead, you seek that which is like you, and Albert Wesker is already a name in that deep dark of Umbrella. One of Spencer's favorites. The T-Virus, Tyrant, Marcus's sudden and overtly suspicious death: all things you've discussed at length with him, keeping observations tight to your chest.

<p>

Spencer discovers your intentions after a million hints: sometimes you forget his stupidity is outweighed by his resources. But you're good at diverting your gaze and saying the words he wants to hear. Hate pools, as destructive as the sickness in your blood. Your questions are forbidden, meeting him out of the question, but Spencer gave you access to all of Umbrella. Sometimes, resources are not enough. The Red Queen folds in your hands.

<p>

Spencer's fury is sweet on the tongue. You inhale deeply. For once, something outweighs the scent of your collective rot. But it's too late. You are too far gone. Now that you know, he has no choice but to let you assist. Spencer schemes. For once, you don't. Instead, you play the role as he asks it of you. You do not speak to him unless provoked. Test the air, the distance. Observe and document. Hunger.

<p>

Spencer formulates plans, percentages that you track in a little black book. You do not need his calculations to know that Albert is the epitome of what the Project was made for, wholly adapted, even in his benign state. Ninety-three percent. The itch at the back of your skull increases. Maddening. Begging. You have never wanted Spencer's approval anyway, just his money, just those resources that put him on top.

<p>
You risk them. You need to, you have to. He is the only one. The only one like you. The only one.
<p>
"Albert." First name basis after months and months of nothing. Purring, growling.
<p>
"Alex." Growling, purring.
<p>
Impulse seizes. You stop him with fingers at the line where fabric meets skin of the wrist. Hands pale from the disease without a name blend with the white of his lab coat. Draw attention to the dark spots on the linen you already know is blood.
<p>
Simulated, fleeting control. Your lips curl cruelly. A smile, maybe, on a softer face.
<p>
You tell him what he is.

<p>

<p><center><div class="alanwatts">A belief is like a guillotine, just as heavy, just as light.</div></center>

<p>


By accident, you find his transfer request. Child's play to wipe your presence from the system.

<p>

The only thing you leave behind is approval.

<p>

It is easier to see him outside of the walls of Umbrella.
<p>
Hooded eyes when you see him next. A smile he knows to question. Fingers cool under your hair, against the back of your neck. Squeezing.

<p>You are content.

<p>

<p><center><div class="alanwatts">Self-control means wanting to be effective at some random point in the infinite radiations of my spiritual existence.</div></center>

<p>

For all your combined wisdom, for all your arrogant smirks, for all the shared glances of knowing, neither of you deign to consider he could be a casualty of this test.

<p>


It's dangerous, but fear is a foreign concept to you. They are statistics, percentages, odds you can gamble on. When all those numbers lean positive you have no reason to worry. You don't and he, somehow, does less. Even sprung so suddenly, you have only vague surprise, buried under your laughter at the code name ( 'X-Day. How terribly Spencer.' ) . It is not an issue, not for him. Not for you, when he gives two identical reports: one to his middleman, the one he pretends he does not know leads directly to Spencer, and second to you, sometimes with the added benefit of his hand brushing yours.
<p>
It is all the same to you, checking your hair in the hallway mirror before you find him. "I have to go back." You say, but you don't move from the doorway. "Birkin left you a message."
<p>
He's already dressed like he knows, black and more black. Blue follows the lines before you find his face.
<p>
"Are you afraid?" You ask him through bared teeth.
<p>
The lines around his mouth deepen and you fill the expected silence with laughter.
<p>

( Later, you will recall the tendril of ice down your spine and understand Progenitor tried to warn you. Much, much later, when you feel that chill again, you are bereft of tears by the time Stuart brings news. )
<p>

It is an oversight. One you never overlook again. He leaves, heads to ground zero, playing captain. You like the term. But your hands shake when the video reenacts the end. X-Day is a failure for Umbrella. For you, it is an end.
<p>

You fall to numbers because it is easier than feeling.
<p>
Eighteen percent.
<p>
Spencer demands updates because he is a business man, even mad, and feels the shift of capital. He arrives too suddenly, sees your hands before you can clench them, laughs at you. You are careful to even your breath, to loosen your grip, to relax your shoulders before you turn to him.
<p>

"Father."<p>

"Don't fret, Alex. Your brother is fine."<p>

You offer a smile you hope is as submissive as it is grateful. "I should hope so. The forecast of your goals has dropped considerably with - "<p>

"He had the serum?"<p>
"Yes." Yes, of course, yes.<p>

Something in his face skews. Perhaps there is something on yours. "Are you concerned more with him or my plan?"<p>

You hold his gaze, steady, deadpan, even as your smile withdraws. You are cold, inside and out. Pen tap, tap, tapping on your book, and then, "Concerned with 13?" You place analyzed distance with the title. "I," you pause, careful, manipulative, "am trying to be concerned for both. You have said he is my brother, our family, your son." Your head tilts, childish, thoughtful, lying. "I thought that you would expect it of me. Was I wrong, Father?"<p>

His laughter again. He finds amusement in your answer, in the words he thinks are the rawest truth, the core of you. You find amusement in his error, in his hubris.<p>

"My dearest Alex." You know everything to follow is to appease his need for dramatics, the very same that gave you a key all those years ago.<p>

A weak smile again, hopeful. Sheepish.<p>

"If I wanted my children to weep for another, I wouldn't have given you my gifts."<p>

You let your eyelashes flutter as if in clarity.<p>

"My new race: it has no time for tears. For failure." His eyes flicker to the monitors over your shoulder. You turn too, studying the black screen of a failed camera to look at anything but him. "He will be fine. Or he will not. Deterrent or not, my plan will continue on."<p>

It takes a moment, choking down desperation. "You said, once, that we had gifts we had not awoken." A glance over your shoulder, but you will not look at him now. Each breath is a struggle. You are too old for this, for this pain, but you feel it all the same, feel the bloom of hope that maybe, maybe.<p>

"You are altogether too smart, Alex."<p>

You laugh this time, breathless, irritation and still that choking hope.<p>

"If he is worthy of the duty he was tasked with." Spencer leaves the sentence hanging on purpose. You taste the bait, but it continues long enough that you turn back, despite your dwindling control. He meets your eyes and smirks, pleased with his power, his forethought. "This will not kill him."<p>

It doesn't.

<p>

His eyes bleed when you see him next, warmth on the back of your knees as Progenitor whimpers.

<p>

<p><center><div class="alanwatts">If I shall exist eternally, how shall I exist tomorrow?</div></center>

<p>


Spencer distrusts Albert, the same way you distrust him. Tells you openly because you aren't supposed to know him. When you wet your lips, you think you taste his jealousy. He's been working up to this for years and when he hands you the final thing you need from him, he mistakes the sound of your chains falling away as reverence. You smile. Feel your heart in your throat. You know him so well it makes you nauseous, and when the funding slows, you pen words like "problematic" and "issue" and "set back."
<p>
Spencer cannot observe the process himself, giving you a base so far away, Sonido de Tortuga Island. Things start to disappear as your communications slow down.
<p>
"Immortality."
<p>
You hear the word shift out of tune. "I've found another site."
<p>
Crimson burning away the darkness near his eyes. "Where?"
<p>
"Sushestvovanie Island." You stretch, lazily, placated. "Would you like to see?"
<p>

It doesn't work.
<p>

Test after test and test and the replication of the sustainability fails, crumbles. Frustration takes you, bleeds outward.
<p>
It is years before you settle. All you need is time, all you need is a body with --
<p>
Your inhale startles him, eyelashes fluttering.
<p>
If you can't cut out the parasite, cut out the mind.
<p>
He calls it Reincarnation.

<p>

<p><center><div class="alanwatts">From a certain point onward there is no longer any turning back. That is the point that must be reached.</div></center>

<p>


Madness takes him away from you.
<p>
You are on Sushestvovanie, the holy lady, the messiah, ran away with all the money and holdings you needed to continue the work Spencer sent you on: the cure for death. Ran away with it, because if you find it, it will not be for him. For months, you feel the ache, etched on your DNA to go back to him.
<p>
You are in the lab experimenting on civilians that still don't know what you are when it starts screaming.
<p>
You drop what is in your hands, lift empty hands to your head. They don't make it.
<p>
It stops, so suddenly, sickening, like the neck bone snapping.
<p>
On your knees and shaking, you know. Laugh, laugh until you're coughing blood.
<p>
Finally, finally ...
<p>

Madness takes him away from you, passed from a dead man and into the red that burns in his eyes. The right to be a God. When ... ?

<p>


"Please." You watch him process the word with the same mystification you feel having said it. There are very specific places you beg him. With Excella is not one of them. "Albert."
<p>
It takes him suddenly, rage coiling the muscles in his jaw. "Excella." He spits the word, an order, and the woman (just a girl ready to be devoured) starts, casts a glance between them and leaves. The door shuts, Albert's head cocks, and you know he is waiting for her heels to fade away, further than you can hear. "I'm doing this -- "
<p>

The anger is infectious. You are across the room, closing the distance. Stop, stop, stop. "No. No. You can lie to her, do not do it to me, Albert."
<p>
"It will work. And when it does -- "
<p>
"It will not! You know that. Why -- ?" The question strangles in your throat. The wrath ebbs suddenly, leaves you stranded in desperation. "Don't, Albert, please." Again.
<p>
His reaction is violent this time and when you the conversation just repeats, over and over and louder, you are at the door.
<p>
"Alex."
<p>
"No. You've taken not only his title, but his delusions." You see the words knife him. "T-Phobos is -- "
<p>
"T-Phobos will not cure you!"
<p>
You smile. Sad. Already detaching. Heavy. You are not healers. You have no bone in your body that desires to help anyone else without consideration. But he is using an excuse, letting himself forgive this damning lapse of judgment. Letting himself feed this ruinous virus. "This will not cure anything." It will be the end of him.

<p>

When he dies again, when he stays that way, you entertain the idea that Spencer's derangement will come for you next. A curse on a family that transcended blood. If it does, you are so steeped in loneliness you don't notice.
<p>
Because you left him there. Might as well have pushed him into that fucking volcano yourself.

<p>

<p><center><div class="alanwatts">A book should serve as the ax for the frozen sea within us.</div></center>

<p>


You don't know how to mourn, so you read instead. You bury personal thought in work because there is no reason to stop now, no reason to wait. Everything, everything you had is still burning, and what you have, this rotting, walking corpse that you are, is running out of time. The hard part is done, was done, now its just working those strings. Manipulating the pieces to come to you, to your grave.

<p>

T-Phobos will not cure you. It was never a cure. You've never made anything restorative in your life. You claw things to ashes. You want to live. Legacies and Godhoods, but you just want to live. You have to live, even if everything is gray and out of tune.

<p>

Later, when the needle breaks skin, you wonder if he thought of you. Black in your veins, red in his eyes: maybe he thought of you.

<p>

But you are strong enough for you both.

<p>

<p><center><div class="alanwatts">We are sinful not only because we have eaten of the Tree of Knowledge, but also because we have not yet eaten of the Tree of Life. The state in which we are is sinful, irrespective of guilt.</div></center>

<p>


You are aware, quite suddenly, that you are no longer alone in this space.
<p>
You expect Neil, Stuart for one out of place second, then, perhaps, that something broke through, crawled its way up from below and into this holy place.
<p>
You turn. Not afraid, just angry. Feel that mask shatter on the floor when you recognize the ghost.

<p>

His name sticks in your throat.

<p>

"Alex."

<p>

Progenitor snarls and you know. "You are not him."

<p>

He lifts an eyebrow anyway, mimics old habits. He, it steps forward and you flinch.

<p>

"He's gone." He's gone and you know that because you killed him.

<p>

It looks with his eyes, blood and gold, flickers over you, then up and away. "Yes." Thoughtful. "From here."

<p>

There is a tremble in your hands. A question you do not feel brave enough to ask.

<p>

You recoil again when it uses his voice again, knows words it shouldn't. Laughter like rusted metal serrating your spine. "Are you afraid?" T-Phobos wouldn't allow it. You hear lips part over teeth: another sound that does not belong to it. Another sound that makes you weak.

<p>

"Where?"

<p>

A ripple over the shoulder. Shrugging leather. Maybe it is what he died in. You almost laugh again: how would you know? "Not here." You can't look at it, so you watch its hands, watch as it turns away from you to run a hand over the Beretta on the table. Runs a hand over your solution. It feels like confirmation. "Perhaps we'll search somewhere else for absolution."

<p>

Now, you lift your head to look.

<p>

Before you can see him, before it can feel like a truth, you wake up. Drenched in your own sweat, an alarm letting you know the game is coming to an end. You have seen and aided the creation of monsters. What, to you, is a ghost?

<p>

( You know that it is everything. That it is all you have left. )

<p>

Still, you swallow a cough, taste your own decay, and ready for the final act.

<p><center><div class="alanwatts">A first sign of the beginning of understanding is the wish to die.</div></center>

<p>


Every second of this act has been staged, rigged from the beginning. You want, need, the audience. What is a confession without a priest? The girl is secured, slow cooking your save state in the floors far below, because this one won't last much longer. There are two left from the trials, just two, and you almost wish you could have waited. Red hair and blue eyes almost as sad as your own. The other is worth nothing. No better than dead, shambling behind the warrior, who is free of fear.

<p>

You are free of it too, you've always been. Wristbands pulse green. Defiant blue locks with failure blue between the glass. You speak to her directly. Watch the words pass over her face. "My brother, our destiny… I will make sure it’s different." A second longer and you might have hesitated. “Our salvation is in death.” You watch Claire's eyes dilate as the realization starts to dawn. She will remember you.

<p>

You inhale sterilization. Exhale relief. It's so easy. So easy. One smooth swing of your arm from your hip to your temple. A second of soothing metal against the skin. A kiss, you hope, in forgiveness. You squeeze the trigger. Think you might have felt it pierce your brain.

<p>

For the first time in your life, brain matter dissolving under the force, you are afraid.

<p>

For one second you are nothing.

<p>

<p><center><div class="alanwatts">Don't bend; don't water it down; don't try to make it logical; don't edit your own soul according to the fashion. Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly.</div></center>


<p>

Shaped like him, it pulls you back out of the black.

<p>

You know it is not him, another ghost, but for one second, you let yourself believe it. A hand against his jaw, fleeting: even the skin is wrong. Words on your lips for someone else. It is Kafka because monsters can only deflect, redirect, fall apart. <b>"I dream of a grave. Deep and narrow."</b>

<p>
It smiles with his mouth. This time you don't flinch when he disappears.












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<div class="tab">
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<label for="tab-4" style="margin-top: 126px;">four</label><div class="thcontent"><div class="thabilities">

Progenitor While Alex was on track to receive this eugenics virus regardless, when her disease reared its head, she was given this early. The first survivor of the devastating changes Progenitor causes, she was, for the most part, immune to the greater aspects of Progenitor until recently. Current enhancements detailed below.
<p>

T-Phobos Self-administered as a vital step in the Reincarnation Ceremony. T-Phobos is a dormant virus triggered by fear, an emotion Alex is almost completely unable to feel (save very special circumstances, IE: committing suicide without absolute proof that her plans would come to fruition). T-Phobos was developed and tested by Alex. She is simply a carrier of the virus, one she can easily isolate from her blood to administer to those less worthy. Eventually, someone will withstand it and serve as a new host for her consciousness.
<p>
<hr><p>
Alex was hand-picked and groomed to be better than the staple of humanity. Unbeknownst to Spencer, a disease that no one can name ravages her body. The Progenitor virus administered to her when she was still young has stabilized it, but was unsuccessful in removing it from her system. While it had never gone far enough to give her the abilities of her brother, Alex is able to sustain youth to an extent but lacks a cure. This unnamed curse is killing her. With no information on what it is, she has no timeframe on how much life she has left. It makes her desperate, only amplified by the fact that she was yanked from her world at the crescendo of her Ceremony, the one designed to give her eternal life through another body.
<p>
Naturally, she has a knack for mimicry. It takes very little for her to understand a process and duplicate it. Her memory is not photogenic, but if there was a line, she borders it. She is able to piece together very loose threads to create a larger picture, from conversations to genetics. Manipulative and charismatic, she knows the buttons to press to make others relax, bend to her whim.
<p>
In Kadath, in the wake of her death, the blue of her eyes has flecks of gold and, without knowledge of the success of the Reincarnation Ceremony, she debates if it is her biggest accomplishment. Progenitor is, finally, taking the stage. With it, her senses are heightened to unnatural degrees. Her sense of smell is the most attuned, but she could boast, if she felt like playing her cards on the table, an improved eyesight and a very decent hearing, able to pinpoint sounds even in a crowd. Her strength too, has come back and nearly tripled. Once weak from the nameless disease, Alex is now able to defend herself and more, though physical combat is not a training she has outside of a few sparse lessons. She deals in gunplay and what she doesn't end in a bullet, Alex toys with via viruses.
<p>
T-Phobos and Progenitor are in her veins, after all. Be careful the former doesn't end up in yours.

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