#ubcs

[dbk-artchive]

nov 24, 2024 | the world crumbles around you, and still, you stay. Why?

[s-dei]

yeah thanks, I think it was my sanity

[evilstalks]

cont. from x, @ubcs

MM-31 knows it's risky to have Carlos wake up so suddenly. The man is armed to the teeth, trained to be on alert at all times. He could have so easily blasted him through the skull or the neck with one of his many guns. Not that it would have killed him, but it still would have hurt. Besides that, it would have drawn attention to them, and that's the last thing they need right now. It's surely hard enough to hide MM-31 with how massive he is. Surprisingly though, Carlos has done a good job at it. It is incredibly strange to receive help, especially by someone like Carlos, who has been taught to contain and kill things like MM-31. Right? Then again, there is not much he knows. He just assumes for the most part. Which, were he programmed correctly and didn't end up with flaws, he wouldn't even be doing in the first place. He would have no free will, no free thoughts. Unfortunately for Umbrella, they failed in that aspect.

There is a small step taken closer, and though he looks relatively human (minus the massive size and the extremely pale, almost see-through skin), the sharp, sickly glow of his yellow eyes is undeniably monster-like. He ponders for a moment, hesitates. He knows his vocal cords work-- sort of. He wasn't made to speak after all, he was made to kill.

"Why are you helping me?" It is a struggle to get the words out. His voice is terrible, unfitting for his appearance. It almost sounds mechanical, artificial. He decides not to speak again-- but the curiosity pushed him far enough to do so in the first place.

[priceforeverything]

"Weird? No. Flattering, yes: that I fail to remind you of either. Fatherhood makes tyrants out of men. Many fathers. Mine." Nikolai, baiting while he wears this false identity, using snippets of a vague yet true history. @ubcs

Jake snorts at that, seems to be glad that he didn't make it fucking weird- but his words of thanks are stopped by Misha speaking. Tyrant. It's a word fitting for him, isn't it. "Shit, sorry about your old man." It's easier to deflect, but he's not good at it, when was the last time someone even offered to hear what he had to say? "I don't think fatherhood had anything to do with mine being a tyrant." Was Wesker always like that, Or was passing on his DNA just making him crazier-no Jake that's stupid.

"What ended up happening between the two of you? Did he ever change?" Why is he holding out hope for a story he doesn't have any part in, but now needs to hear that it can bet better, it has to.

[schwarzwaldcr]

Scary as hell place to drink. Or maybe the drinking helps? Haven't decided still.

Unprompted Shenanigans || Always Accepting

The Wolf is not so tipsy as to be oblivious to the vague concern creeping on Carlos' face. He looks in some form of brow-creasing thought, so either she is about to witness an astounding show of Carlos-ness, which would probably make the night here in the Crossroads more entertaining, or she is about to hear his descent into alcohol-induced philosophy.

For a moment she lets him stew in it, watching it progress just slightly enough to know which path to best respond to. It doesn't stop her from doing something that would get her fired from any other job on the planet and downing a shot of her favorite flavored whiskey. A slow burn as it drains down her throat and settles into her stomach, spreading warmth into her chest. She notes that although there is a small tick of relaxed lethargy in her head, it is gone before the buzz can full settle in.

Perhaps, she thinks, she is getting far too used to this. Perhaps, as an afterthought, she should check in on her liver.

But just because she cuts herself off for a moment does not mean she cuts Carlos off. Rather, Wulf is more than happy to see where this process goes with a renewed top of his glass. It's not that she can read minds, but she does know he knows the pressure of the state agents who are in constant inhabitance of the table near the front doors.

Maybe he can also distinguish the distant rumble of wooden thunder further behind the hipped-roof building that makes up the tavern and its inn, a certain lullaby call that tugs at the heartstrings. The Mother is lonely, it says, come back and walk and exist in and die in these towering monoliths with the thousand eyes. Perhaps, she thinks again, it is the swell of a breath from afar that twangs the ominous razor-wire, or the grumbling uncertainty of Fleet in his corner.

Even with an open window, the unfortunate Sleepwalker still has a smell to him that seems to permeate that corner of the bar. And despite being assured that Sleepwalkers are merely a tragic afterthought of any Zone worth its salt and never a danger to anyone but themselves, she knows Carlos has a certain sour taste of the undead and its variations.

It could be any one of these things that makes him think so hard that he has barely noticed she sort of keeps filling his glass. As any good barkeep should until told otherwise. But maybe she should offer him some incentive to get it out of his head and out in the open.

"Keep thinking that hard, your face will get stuck like that."

It's a poke, but a playful one. Jovial in its rich undertones, with the ever-smoking wolfshead pipe pinning back that devious too-wide grin and the smooth Stuttgart accent dripping like syrup from every tick and cadence. For a second, it looks like her eyes may have flared just a little brighter, but in the lights of the bar, it's hard to really tell. Still an ethereal little chortle to tag along the last syllables, she knows what she's doing.

She's not really telling him what to do, but perhaps it gives her the response path she so desperately wants out of him.

@ubcs

[illusivesoulgaming]

Jill and Tyrell

[alphateamsfinest]

93﹕ a gun wagging nikolai gestures for jill to sit down .

For a split second Jill wonders if it wouldn't be so bad getting shot. It would probably suck less than having to hear him gloat. Blue eyes look around the room, trying to ascertain the best spot. She's almost certain that in a physical fight, she would lose- short of playing dirty.

She sits like she doesn't have a gun pointed at her by some complete jackass. Good for nothing mother-

She sighs her answer, as if she couldn't be bothered. "If you're going to gloat can you keep it under the five-minute mark? I have places to be."

[seabiscuit]

@ubcs gets this bc I kept thinking about them and almost normal AU

Tahno tried to estrange himself from enormously strong men ; those who stood tall, threatening to tower over every building in Tokyo, and initiated the retired host's response of ' fight, flight, or bite '.

But, even when they first met, there was a remarkably strange sense of respect between him and the Russian. Perhaps it came from their similarities ; an ever evolving sense of self importance, each having swam in the big seas and leagues of their Mother Nation ( Nikolas defeating storming currants while Tahno drowned while counting coins ). Appearance was always audited, and sharpness came in the shape both sunglasses and how accurately you could point and shoot under panic and stress. It was respect of both weapon and, perhaps,

the shared softness towards a certain bubbly and wonderous blonde woman.

( Liselotte had a whole harem at her hands. )

Oh, how funny it was that the Howard name had such a hold on them.

So, it is almost eerie how easily Tahno strolls up to Nikolai, dark lenses tugged down so near-clear eyes could stare over the top, the retired host ready to accept responsibility when escorting Nikolai's most precious person around.

" Where does Princess go today --

Boss ? "

[tallon-underworld]

"This looks like Nicholai's work..."

[soulmissed]

@ubcs: you haven’t had an easy time with grownups, have you?

memes, accepting

the boy remembers a timeline when adults were detached, disgruntled. (classroom teachers annoyed by his curious nature. a school counselor, pencil upon notepad, judging his block tower heart. you’re too soft, mr. collins.)

he’d grown from a timid boy to a turbulent survivor after his daddy’s killing. his new home: bone-chilling alleyways. park benches. the adults of his current life were mean, dangerous. (gotta keep our streets clean, kid. red-and-blue splash of patrol sirens. fists shaken from store counters. hooligan! go away!)

carlos’ words break the remembrance. and the boy rubs a brown thumb along pocket knife hilt. puffiness bags the skin under his lids. red pinwheels the whites of his chestnut eyes. “ it’s hard. ” august mutters, voice paper thin. “ trustin’ that people will actually give a shit. ”

[umbrellacleanupduty]

Very genuine alarm blaring.

"Don't worry. That's probably just a false alarm."

Lijah probably- definitely- looks like a long tailed ferret in a room full of rocking chairs. His mouth is hanging open in shock and his head is tilted up towards the ceiling where the speakers are blaring, as if there's some secret code that he should be able to figure out if he just listens hard enough. Maybe there is. He's read pamphlets about subliminal stuff they put in the radio to scare the mole people away so they never rise up from underground.

Words perpendicular to the sound of the alarm shock the custodian out of his thoughts and about two feet into the air with a surprised shout. His braids whip through the air as he turns his head wildly until he can find the source of the new sound. It's- Lijah has no fucking clue. Big guy. Not a lab coat. Not those gas mask security people who are probably actually bug people and that's why they're covered up all the time. And why the masks all have really big eyes. This dude is probably not a secret bug person.

"Yeah?" Lijah has to shout over the alarm. He's not convinced. But. He also hasn't finished mopping the hallway. If it's a false alarm and he gets caught not working he might get fired. Or, worse, reassigned to cleaning the vents in sub-sub-basement 2C again.

He nods a little too quickly and shoves his mop back into the yellow bucket he's been wheeling around. "Uh..." The water is squeezed out as much as he can get it before he starts up on the floors again. "The floor's wet." As if that's not obvious. "So be careful!"

[umbrellamedic]

❝ no one tells you how quiet the world gets after they leave. ❞

Eventually the exhilaration of escape evaporates. The nervous system can only support excitement for so long, especially after being starved of reality for so long. After escaping the Fog- truly, honestly, finally exiting into something more than the same campfire and facsimile of buildings- and realizing her two teammates made it out- it took time for reality to really seep into Bertha's bones and settle as solid, undeniable fact. A full night of hopeful disbelief and actively looking for anything which might prove them wrong until sunrise finally signals freedom. It's brighter than she remembers. Gravity is stronger, or maybe the medic is weaker. The concrete rooftop in the remains of a destroyed city is solid beneath Bertha's kneepads when they meet it.

Somehow she knows this place. Silent and mostly destroyed by the missiles launched to handle the viral outbreak that brought all three of them to the city in the first place- how long ago was that? Lifetimes. Bertha lost count of how many deaths and lives the trio endured between then and now. The city looks as wrecked as she feels. She might collapse like some of the buildings. She's tired.

Beltway should have something to say about the city getting what it deserves. Or Lupo should be demanding the medic get up and move on to some objective she's set for their squad. There's nothing. Not even Four Eyes musing about whether or not there are any samples to be retrieved from the remains around them. Nothing in Vector's sardonic or Spectre's breathy voices. Bertha hardly feels herself move as she lifts a finger to gently press get earpiece. "Wolfpack-" she doesn't know what more to say. It doesn't matter. There is no one listening.

No one tells you how quiet the world gets after they leave.

The response comes not from her earpiece, but from her teammate. She would throw herself at him, wrap her arms around and cling and fog her mask with sobs; but even the thought of getting up is more than Bertha can handle at the moment. She just shakes her head. She can't stand just yet. Can't hug Carlos and comfort herself with tactile proof that he's real and alive. She hugs herself instead. It isn't much comfort. Hardly better than nothing.

"Besser ein Ende mit Schmerzen als Schmerzen ohne Ende." Her Wolfpack is gone. But so is the Entity and the endless trials. There's pain. Silence. A profound loss the depths of which Bertha has never felt. Her team, her mission, the entirety of what made her existence before the Fog matter.

But. She has her new team for so long as she is useful enough to keep around. They are free. Real. The only three things alive in the ruins of Raccoon City. Bertha takes a shuddering breath and forces herself to stand. Gravity protests and her legs shake, but. They're free and real and alive.

"We will fill the silence ourselves, yes? And in time their voices will return in all the reminders."

In a perfect world, this is where they start again. Make their way to the streets and out of the city- finally, out of that fucking city. Maybe with fond memories of the times before the Fog, when they tried to kill each other in these streets. Maybe with some cathartic destruction of the structures that survived the blasts which ended the outbreak. But they're not in a perfect world. They're in reality; free, and alive, and Bertha's legs give out.

[evilstalks]

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Not the TV!"

Would anyone bringing a Bioweapon into their home not expect some sort of property damage? After all, MM-31 has no idea of the material worth of anything. Even if he did, he wouldn't care. It is not something he has been programmed to care about. In fact, he's been programmed to care about nothing. However, there have been some flaws with his development. Several, actually. Which is why he's here now, being hidden like contraband. Still, he heeds the warning and slowly releases the large "tv" from his grasp, letting it sit back down on the counter. He's curious, it should be expected.

[crookedredemption]

     in a stingy dive bar, the dark urge weaved their way through a sea of bulky bodies. every wednesday, the umbrella mercs go to a bar to relieve some built up tension within their ranks. settling scores by throwing fists and spilling blood. the woman stopped just in front of the fighting ring just in time to see a man with curly hair and tanned skin land a punch against his opponent. the sound of @ubcs 's knuckles colliding with the others jaw made the crowd react amongst themselves.

     all it took was one hit for the stranger's opponent to collapse to the ground with a thunderous boom. sylmae's hands quickly came together as she clapped for the victor, capturing his attention. when he finally approached, the bhaal spawn smiled sweetly up at him.

     "what a mean punch."

[priceforeverything]

@ubcs got hurt.

"Oh yes, do you not know I keep a spare Jetpack in my go bag. Makes leaving the country after a coup so easy." He waves his hand like he's some posh man discussing his cars capabilities. "It is all the rage elsewhere. Open magazine."

But he can't help but admit he's at least a little relieved to see Carlos coming to and being well, Carlos. "You are not yet so heavy that carrying you is impossible." It wasn't much worse than some of his heavier cardio days, though he's thinking he'll need to up the amount he carries in packs. No matter. "I get you out, call for pickup, tell them we need medic and well, here we are."

A hand reaches out and pushes Carlos back onto the gurney insistently. "No no, they said no dogs getting up. If you get up, they have to send you back to pound, huh? And then I have to do paperwork to get you back out. You know I hate paperwork." Despite his proclivity to drop more paperwork than necessary on his superiors.

Though now it seems its enough time to grill him. "What were you thinking, huh? Explain to Nikolai how you get injured."

[schwarzwaldcr]

“   Might commit a little tomfoolery, maybe even some shenanigans. ”

Pure Chaos || Always Accepting

Wulf narrows her eyes in Carlos' direction at this announcement.

It's not that it's surprising, really. It's Carlos, there is almost always some sort of shenanigans (or tomfoolery, as it were) afoot. It's more to the point that this is the emphasis; it's Carlos. She knows his brand of such dealings. It's either incredibly tame or it's so off-the-wall it makes people wonder how he did it. There is no in-between.

There is no real constant, either, nothing predictable. She's contemplating her next words and actions wisely.

She should call him out on his actions. She knows this, that is the sane and right thing to do.

"...What kind of shenanigans are we talking here..."

Unfortunately for everyone else now, she is neither sane nor right. And she is entirely up for shenanigans...

@ubcs