whatsyourprice

[whatsyourprice]

There’s no resistance when Wesker grabs the phone, the barest of body heat seeping through layers of cloth drawing a whisper of a sigh from Lance. His mouth wavers in the way it does when he’s biting back a smile, tired eyes, exhaustion bruised-deep shadows coloring his skin, gazing up at Wesker with something flitting across his face that almost approaches fondness, at ease with the Tyrant in a way no being should be, before it’s quickly smothered under a bland mask once more. You only talk when you’re mad, or comfortable. But he keeps that particular thought to himself, the image of the Wesker he knows sprawled out on their bed, limbs tangled together, one hand clasped to Lance's hip and another carding through his hair, low words in a halting cadence against Lance's scalp, as if hiding his mouth would somehow hide the fact Wesker is willingly opening up a closed casket of himself to another person firmly in his mind's eye.

“Be a good boy and unlock it.” That earns a small noise, strangled somewhere in the back of his mouth, a shivering ripple traversing over his ribs.

“Of course, sir.” He murmurs, dipping his head in a small bow to hide the brief heating of his cheeks, heartbeat picking up at the bridled good boy thrown his way, needing to drag his mind out of the gutter it was swiftly diving into. Quick press of a thumb against the phone and it’s unlocked. Lance’s body is lax and loose, looking up and up at the taller man, nonplussed by the violent aura crackling under his skin - he’s been stared at too many times by too many people with the same disregard for his personhood for it to ruffle his feathers too much. The slight hurt that slithers under his ribs is thoroughly ignored.

There’s an intense urge to stick his tongue out at Wesker when he turns away to give more orders, one he violently suppress, knowing it will only end in bodily harm, at best, for himself.

“The folder’s in Images, the one with a bunch of knives in it.” He instructs, giving the passcode to unlock the hidden pictures contained within. Not the deepest of security by a long shot, but decent enough to keep any casual perusal from finding them, the photos easily seen in the folder are truly basic things of the different blades he and the others have used over the years, anyone seeing them would gain no substantial information.

In the hidden folder, there’s only a few dozen photos within, mostly of the Pack members out in deployment, showing various job sites they were stationed at and some B.O.W.s they managed to bring down, a few posed like big game trophy shots. This phone purposefully does not contain a large amount of personal or incriminating data on it, with him being in the streets and now an easy target for cops it’d be so thoughtless to carry that around in easy reach.

And it’s now that he starts to shift uncomfortably, because if this doesn’t prove that something is up, that he’s telling the truth as much as he can, that he’s not an enemy here, then he doesn’t know what he’ll be doing next.

It’s his turn to watch Wesker with a judging look, contemplating how much damage he could do to the other man if things truly go south. There’s no winning for him if Wesker decides Lance’s life is forfeit, but he can at least make Wesker work for it. Maybe a direct bite to the throat, most people don’t expect civilized folks to make that move, and ripping out a chunk will stagger him enough for perhaps a quick blow elsewhere, and at least it’ll leave a lasting impression. Really wish I still had my knife… The last thought is slightly mournful, more so because it’d help him hurt Wesker than anything else, empty fingers twitching as if he could somehow summon the item to him with but a thought.

There’s the smallest of jerks when Wesker steps away, Lance fully expecting a firmer retaliation, at the very least something closer, hand to throat, a grabbed arm, not this.

Seeing Wesker back up from him in the closest thing Lance has ever seen to hurt on the other man, and is not as fun as it should be, revealing a layer of his own emotions to himself during a time he really doesn't need such self reflection. Goddammit. [ᴵᵗ ʷᵒᵘˡᵈ ᵇᵉ ˢᵒ ᵉᵃˢʸ ᵗᵒ ᵇⁱᵗᵉ ʰⁱᵐ ʳⁱᵍʰᵗ ⁿᵒʷ, ʷᵒᵘˡᵈⁿ’ᵗ ⁱᵗ? ᴾⁱⁿ ʰⁱᵐ ᵗᵒ ᵗʰᵉ ʷᵃˡˡ, ʷᵃᵗᶜʰ ᵗʰᵒˢᵉ ᵉʸᵉˢ ʷⁱᵈᵉⁿ ᶠᵘʳᵗʰᵉʳ, ʷʰⁱˢᵖᵉʳ ᵐᵒʳᵉ ᵗʰⁱⁿᵍˢ ᵗᵒ ʰⁱᵐ ᵃⁿᵈ ˢᵉᵉ ᶠᵉᵃʳ ʳᵉᵃˡˡʸ ᵗᵃᵏᵉ ʳᵒᵒᵗ–] a quiet growl from him as his thoughts become unruly. Fucking hell, self, really?

Silence stretches between them for a long moment, awkward and strained, Lance easing out of his tense posture and assuming something more neutral, head slightly cocked to the side, eyes roaming over Wesker, staring at him the way he does when studying someone to better learn how they tick.

this is not the Wesker I know and we’re strangers to one another

suddenly transported to a strange lab when I've not been working for a while now.

no idea how to get out

the man in front of me is very unhappy with me

Conclusion: shit's fucked yo.

“You're right, this isn't a dive bar.” He frowns unhappily, taking a small step back, then another, closer to the wall behind him to show he's not trying to flee, and not reacting to the verbal barbs lobbed his way.

His mood is somber now, unconsciously rubbing the tips of his fingers together as he thinks.

“I…” his voice trails off, throat bobbing as he swallows. Another few steps back and he’s pressed to the wall, a shiver of unease crawling over his skin; this is not helping his mental state he's been battling with these last few months. Is this a hallucination of some type? Feels so real…it’s not any normal kind he’s encountered before, which means possible infection. There’s various people who would like to see him undone like this but…

Hallucination or not, he has no interest in pushing Wesker’s boundaries. Hell, there’s no telling if he’s reacting in real life to what he’s seeing either. And if this isn’t a hallucination or some other fucked up dream-state then, well, he’s out of options.

Dimensions? An unhelpful thought supplies for him and he nearly snorts derisively at himself for it, reigning it in so as not to antagonize the man that looks like a spooked cat. It’d be just his luck for some sort of near magic bullshittery like this to happen to him. Because at this point, why the hell not?

“I know that information because I know you,” Lance says, watching Wesker watch him, “my Pack worked alongside…you for several years now. All of us became close, of sorts, when we kept surviving all our missions. And…you and I would occasionally have fun together. There’d be nights that would lead to talking, and well, pieces could be put together.” The corner of his mouth twitches up in a humorless grin. “But that’s kinda hard to believe right now, yeah?”

Thunking his head back against the wall, he sighs, knowing he should be more bothered about this situation, but unable to rouse the energy, or care, to do so. He’s so tired. Not a normal tired either, he knows it’s coloring his actions and judgement but…

Then, once he thinks of it, he wants to smack himself upside the head so badly - his phone. There’s not many images on this device, but it should do enough to get things out of this stalemate they’re in.

“I have a phone in my jacket,” he says, motioning slightly with the stump of his arm to his chest where the inner pocket is, “with a hidden folder that has photos of my work, of us, in it.”

[whatsyourprice]

There’s the smallest of jerks when Wesker steps away, Lance fully expecting a firmer retaliation, at the very least something closer, hand to throat, a grabbed arm, not this.

Seeing Wesker back up from him in the closest thing Lance has ever seen to hurt on the other man, and is not as fun as it should be, revealing a layer of his own emotions to himself during a time he really doesn't need such self reflection. Goddammit. [ᴵᵗ ʷᵒᵘˡᵈ ᵇᵉ ˢᵒ ᵉᵃˢʸ ᵗᵒ ᵇⁱᵗᵉ ʰⁱᵐ ʳⁱᵍʰᵗ ⁿᵒʷ, ʷᵒᵘˡᵈⁿ’ᵗ ⁱᵗ? ᴾⁱⁿ ʰⁱᵐ ᵗᵒ ᵗʰᵉ ʷᵃˡˡ, ʷᵃᵗᶜʰ ᵗʰᵒˢᵉ ᵉʸᵉˢ ʷⁱᵈᵉⁿ ᶠᵘʳᵗʰᵉʳ, ʷʰⁱˢᵖᵉʳ ᵐᵒʳᵉ ᵗʰⁱⁿᵍˢ ᵗᵒ ʰⁱᵐ ᵃⁿᵈ ˢᵉᵉ ᶠᵉᵃʳ ʳᵉᵃˡˡʸ ᵗᵃᵏᵉ ʳᵒᵒᵗ–] a quiet growl from him as his thoughts become unruly. Fucking hell, self, really?

Silence stretches between them for a long moment, awkward and strained, Lance easing out of his tense posture and assuming something more neutral, head slightly cocked to the side, eyes roaming over Wesker, staring at him the way he does when studying someone to better learn how they tick.

this is not the Wesker I know and we’re strangers to one another

suddenly transported to a strange lab when I've not been working for a while now.

no idea how to get out

the man in front of me is very unhappy with me

Conclusion: shit's fucked yo.

“You're right, this isn't a dive bar.” He frowns unhappily, taking a small step back, then another, closer to the wall behind him to show he's not trying to flee, and not reacting to the verbal barbs lobbed his way.

His mood is somber now, unconsciously rubbing the tips of his fingers together as he thinks.

“I…” his voice trails off, throat bobbing as he swallows. Another few steps back and he’s pressed to the wall, a shiver of unease crawling over his skin; this is not helping his mental state he's been battling with these last few months. Is this a hallucination of some type? Feels so real…it’s not any normal kind he’s encountered before, which means possible infection. There’s various people who would like to see him undone like this but…

Hallucination or not, he has no interest in pushing Wesker’s boundaries. Hell, there’s no telling if he’s reacting in real life to what he’s seeing either. And if this isn’t a hallucination or some other fucked up dream-state then, well, he’s out of options.

Dimensions? An unhelpful thought supplies for him and he nearly snorts derisively at himself for it, reigning it in so as not to antagonize the man that looks like a spooked cat. It’d be just his luck for some sort of near magic bullshittery like this to happen to him. Because at this point, why the hell not?

“I know that information because I know you,” Lance says, watching Wesker watch him, “my Pack worked alongside…you for several years now. All of us became close, of sorts, when we kept surviving all our missions. And…you and I would occasionally have fun together. There’d be nights that would lead to talking, and well, pieces could be put together.” The corner of his mouth twitches up in a humorless grin. “But that’s kinda hard to believe right now, yeah?”

Thunking his head back against the wall, he sighs, knowing he should be more bothered about this situation, but unable to rouse the energy, or care, to do so. He’s so tired. Not a normal tired either, he knows it’s coloring his actions and judgement but…

Then, once he thinks of it, he wants to smack himself upside the head so badly - his phone. There’s not many images on this device, but it should do enough to get things out of this stalemate they’re in.

“I have a phone in my jacket,” he says, motioning slightly with the stump of his arm to his chest where the inner pocket is, “with a hidden folder that has photos of my work, of us, in it.”

What remaining ire Lance has drains completely, slowly replaced by confussion edged with something like concern.

He actually doesn't know me.

The thought lodges a wedge of ice in his stomach, heart rate once again ticking up higher. It’s disturbing in more ways than one, first the emotional aspect of having a sometimes-lover treat him this way, coupled with the growing creeping feeling of how wrong this all is.

Then it's all gone, his face shifting to that of a more cooly professional and bland mask. Eyebrows briefly furrow in concentration before that too is wiped away. He eases out a slow breath, body lightly relaxing as the threat of certain and immediate death passes (for now), head looking to the side down the corridor, gaze going unfocused as he's lost in thought.

He's not acting like the Wesker I know, I'm deep in a Tricell lab by seeming magic, then what is this whole mess?

His eyes refocus on current surroundings, sweeping around the place similar to when he first got here, evaluating it with a new light, slowly contemplating the few pieces of information he has.

At the sudden change of tone he hears from Wesker going from 'near murder' to cajoling him like a wild horse has the left corner of his mouth twitching up in amusement despite the situatuon, his syes slightly crunkling to match: he's always enjoyed Wesker’s ability to get under people's skin but having it directed at him like this certainly an interesting event.

Need to get him to believe me without getting killed. What a lovely predicament this is; I'd rather be fist fighting a Licker.

“Yeah, I do very much wanna get out of here, which is why I plan on telling the truth. And one of those truths is: we know each other. Or should, in any case.”

A pause, his gaze titling towards Wesker in the manner of a curious raptor. "I think there's something going on here beyond the both of us, sir." The honorific is intentionally used, in the tone of a soldier to another. "I worked with The Pack, a mercenary group,” he slowly starts, carefully saying each word as if measuring their worth. "The usual method of following the highest bidder, different governments, organizations, typical deep-pocket types."

Slowly, he raises his hand and moves it toward Wesker, checking his reaction with every inch closing between them. Other than the subtle tightening of his body, leather creaking in irritation, Wesker makes no move to stop him, perhaps too curious about Lance's motives to do so. Lance's small hand eventually comes tonrest against Wesker's torso, at the edge of his ribcage and sternum. A spot that means nothing, unless you know what's underneath the clothing.

“My group shifted around employers a lot, not liking to stick to any single one for long, until Umbrella, and you, until Raccoon." Pale blue eyes lift to look directly at blazing red, Lance's breath stuttering in his chest as he pushes out the next few words. “One of your bigger failures, a puzzle of what ifs and squandered potential that'd keep you up at night if you let it.” That small hand traces down Wesker’s torso, directly following the scar given to him on that fateful day when he'd died all those years ago.

Lance's whole body is tight now, eyes wide and dark to take in as much light as possible, stance wide to make flight, as useless as it'd be here, easier to accomplish.

[whatsyourprice]

What remaining ire Lance has drains completely, slowly replaced by confussion edged with something like concern.

He actually doesn't know me.

The thought lodges a wedge of ice in his stomach, heart rate once again ticking up higher. It’s disturbing in more ways than one, first the emotional aspect of having a sometimes-lover treat him this way, coupled with the growing creeping feeling of how wrong this all is.

Then it's all gone, his face shifting to that of a more cooly professional and bland mask. Eyebrows briefly furrow in concentration before that too is wiped away. He eases out a slow breath, body lightly relaxing as the threat of certain and immediate death passes (for now), head looking to the side down the corridor, gaze going unfocused as he's lost in thought.

He's not acting like the Wesker I know, I'm deep in a Tricell lab by seeming magic, then what is this whole mess?

His eyes refocus on current surroundings, sweeping around the place similar to when he first got here, evaluating it with a new light, slowly contemplating the few pieces of information he has.

At the sudden change of tone he hears from Wesker going from 'near murder' to cajoling him like a wild horse has the left corner of his mouth twitching up in amusement despite the situatuon, his syes slightly crunkling to match: he's always enjoyed Wesker’s ability to get under people's skin but having it directed at him like this certainly an interesting event.

Need to get him to believe me without getting killed. What a lovely predicament this is; I'd rather be fist fighting a Licker.

“Yeah, I do very much wanna get out of here, which is why I plan on telling the truth. And one of those truths is: we know each other. Or should, in any case.”

A pause, his gaze titling towards Wesker in the manner of a curious raptor. "I think there's something going on here beyond the both of us, sir." The honorific is intentionally used, in the tone of a soldier to another. "I worked with The Pack, a mercenary group,” he slowly starts, carefully saying each word as if measuring their worth. "The usual method of following the highest bidder, different governments, organizations, typical deep-pocket types."

Slowly, he raises his hand and moves it toward Wesker, checking his reaction with every inch closing between them. Other than the subtle tightening of his body, leather creaking in irritation, Wesker makes no move to stop him, perhaps too curious about Lance's motives to do so. Lance's small hand eventually comes tonrest against Wesker's torso, at the edge of his ribcage and sternum. A spot that means nothing, unless you know what's underneath the clothing.

“My group shifted around employers a lot, not liking to stick to any single one for long, until Umbrella, and you, until Raccoon." Pale blue eyes lift to look directly at blazing red, Lance's breath stuttering in his chest as he pushes out the next few words. “One of your bigger failures, a puzzle of what ifs and squandered potential that'd keep you up at night if you let it.” That small hand traces down Wesker’s torso, directly following the scar given to him on that fateful day when he'd died all those years ago.

Lance's whole body is tight now, eyes wide and dark to take in as much light as possible, stance wide to make flight, as useless as it'd be here, easier to accomplish.

When Wesker moves, it's all too fast for Lance to do more than brace himself and take it. He has to bite back a growl when his knife is torn away from him, the urge to reach out and hurt an itching sensation under his skin, made all the worse when Wesker frisks him like a damn enemy.

Then it's all done and Lance is left disheveled and staring up at Wesker with anger burning bright in his eyes. It takes a few harshly even breathes for him to wrangle his emotions under control and not making this weird situation any worse than it is.

Wide blue eyes stare at Wesker, one predator assessing another, his expression shifting as he realizes things are far more off than he initially thought.

"Fucking Christ," he mutters lowly, a small release of his ire in a way that shouldn't upset things.

Well, this is fucking bad.

Releasing a long, slow breath, and a shake of his body to expel heightened energy, he slowly straightens his posture, keeping his right arm slightly away from his body in clear view, lips pulling down into a frown.

"My name is Lance Price, as you should know. I've worked with Umbrella and you long enough we should be familiar by now." Never mind that they've been fucking lovers for quite some time now. And this is definitely not Wesker having a fit.

He could lie, but that feels like it's get him killed far faster than truth, even if it sounds outlandish to the other man.

Is this even Wesker? It has to be, no one else feels like that. Then, why is he acting like we're strangers? This ain't a dream, though I'm definitely not in Kansas anymore...

"Up until a few minutes ago, I was home, sleeping. I woke up here with no idea how I got here." He slightly tilts his chin up, voice steady like he's giving a report to a superior. "And surprise visits to labs like this aren't the most welcomed thing around, thus my caution."

Done with his speech, he drops his chin back down, covering his neck, for whatever good it'll do him here.

[whatsyourprice]

When Wesker moves, it's all too fast for Lance to do more than brace himself and take it. He has to bite back a growl when his knife is torn away from him, the urge to reach out and hurt an itching sensation under his skin, made all the worse when Wesker frisks him like a damn enemy.

Then it's all done and Lance is left disheveled and staring up at Wesker with anger burning bright in his eyes. It takes a few harshly even breathes for him to wrangle his emotions under control and not making this weird situation any worse than it is.

Wide blue eyes stare at Wesker, one predator assessing another, his expression shifting as he realizes things are far more off than he initially thought.

"Fucking Christ," he mutters lowly, a small release of his ire in a way that shouldn't upset things.

Well, this is fucking bad.

Releasing a long, slow breath, and a shake of his body to expel heightened energy, he slowly straightens his posture, keeping his right arm slightly away from his body in clear view, lips pulling down into a frown.

"My name is Lance Price, as you should know. I've worked with Umbrella and you long enough we should be familiar by now." Never mind that they've been fucking lovers for quite some time now. And this is definitely not Wesker having a fit.

He could lie, but that feels like it's get him killed far faster than truth, even if it sounds outlandish to the other man.

Is this even Wesker? It has to be, no one else feels like that. Then, why is he acting like we're strangers? This ain't a dream, though I'm definitely not in Kansas anymore...

"Up until a few minutes ago, I was home, sleeping. I woke up here with no idea how I got here." He slightly tilts his chin up, voice steady like he's giving a report to a superior. "And surprise visits to labs like this aren't the most welcomed thing around, thus my caution."

Done with his speech, he drops his chin back down, covering his neck, for whatever good it'll do him here.

Lance blinks at Wesker, the sharp tone and readiness for violence only slightly unexpected.

Ah, so he's in one of those moods. Wonderful.

His head tilts like a curious wolf's as he regards Wesker, eyes flicking all over, cataloging all the little details that Wesker is putting on display. Some of his stress is receding now that he's in the presence of someone familiar, though the edge of wariness doesn't leave him entirely since it's clear Wesker's in a mood to bite.

"Yeah, alright." He says, eyes pinned to Wesker’s body.

A flick of his wrist and his knife disappears into its sheath. Slim shoulders straighten, the the ofnhis right hand hooking into his jean's pocket, adopting a casual air as he rocks back on his heels a little, subtly stretching muscles that tightened from his time in here.

He tilts his head the other way, the hair covering the left side of his face shifting just enough to give a peek at the ragged scars clawed across the skin.

Something tickles the back of his mind, a sense of things not being right. Can't put his finger on anything more besides the fact he's in a lab, in a location he's not sure of, when his last conscious moment was back in Chicago.

"So! You're probably wondering what I'm doing here!" He chirps with a false cheer, his arms raising up, right hand in front of him, in a way that is clear he'd be clapping his hands together if he had two of them to do so. "Which is something I'd like to figure out myself. Since last I knew, I was home, and not here."

He smiles, eyes narrowed, heart thumping in his chest, keeping his body loose in case, well...

I won't be able to outrun him if he goes after me. But maybe taking the glasses hostage could buy me some time. Blinding him could work too, [the image of slicing his knife across Wesker's face so deep it pierces both eyes flash, the larger man staggering back with an angry cry, hand going up to check his sockets, the red such an ovely contrast against such pale skin flashes through his mind that he quickly skakes away] though that would really ramp things up in a way I'd rather not deal with right now and he'd pout at me for ages afterwards, too. Fuck.

And various other such thoughts filter through his kind whole waiting for Wesker’s next move, Lance keenly aware of what a disadvantage he's at.

Though maybe...could bite his neck and get him into a different kind of mood too. Wouldn't be the first time we did that. [sink his teeth in enough to draw blood, the hot liquid seeping across his tongue and...] Focus!

[whatsyourprice]

Lance blinks at Wesker, the sharp tone and readiness for violence only slightly unexpected.

Ah, so he's in one of those moods. Wonderful.

His head tilts like a curious wolf's as he regards Wesker, eyes flicking all over, cataloging all the little details that Wesker is putting on display. Some of his stress is receding now that he's in the presence of someone familiar, though the edge of wariness doesn't leave him entirely since it's clear Wesker's in a mood to bite.

"Yeah, alright." He says, eyes pinned to Wesker’s body.

A flick of his wrist and his knife disappears into its sheath. Slim shoulders straighten, the the ofnhis right hand hooking into his jean's pocket, adopting a casual air as he rocks back on his heels a little, subtly stretching muscles that tightened from his time in here.

He tilts his head the other way, the hair covering the left side of his face shifting just enough to give a peek at the ragged scars clawed across the skin.

Something tickles the back of his mind, a sense of things not being right. Can't put his finger on anything more besides the fact he's in a lab, in a location he's not sure of, when his last conscious moment was back in Chicago.

"So! You're probably wondering what I'm doing here!" He chirps with a false cheer, his arms raising up, right hand in front of him, in a way that is clear he'd be clapping his hands together if he had two of them to do so. "Which is something I'd like to figure out myself. Since last I knew, I was home, and not here."

He smiles, eyes narrowed, heart thumping in his chest, keeping his body loose in case, well...

I won't be able to outrun him if he goes after me. But maybe taking the glasses hostage could buy me some time. Blinding him could work too, [the image of slicing his knife across Wesker's face so deep it pierces both eyes flash, the larger man staggering back with an angry cry, hand going up to check his sockets, the red such an ovely contrast against such pale skin flashes through his mind that he quickly skakes away] though that would really ramp things up in a way I'd rather not deal with right now and he'd pout at me for ages afterwards, too. Fuck.

And various other such thoughts filter through his kind whole waiting for Wesker’s next move, Lance keenly aware of what a disadvantage he's at.

Though maybe...could bite his neck and get him into a different kind of mood too. Wouldn't be the first time we did that. [sink his teeth in enough to draw blood, the hot liquid seeping across his tongue and...] Focus!

Falling asleep in his little nest of blankets in the corner of an abandoned building, only to wake up in the sterile envelope of a lab did nothing good for Lance's heart.

Holding still, taking in everything around him as he both waits for his heart to calm down and for any alarms to go off from his appearance here.

Nothing happens. And nothing keeps happening. For long enough that his heart rate lowers to a strong and steady thump, still primed for action but no longer living in his throat.

Thoughts race as he creeps towards the door, back pressed against the wall and cracking it just a hair to peek out.

How in the fuck am I here?

Lights are dim in the hallway, most red hued, signaling late night, the color chosen to not unduly stress the graveyard shift's circadian rhythm.

Well, that'll mean less people to deal with in trying to get the fuck out of here. The main worries will be cameras, other security measures and potential BOWs, if this is one of those labs.

Easing out into the hall, pale blue eyes intense with all senses on high alert, right hand going to his belt to unhook his knife. It’s kept sheathed for now, not needing someone to immediate shoot him if spotted with it.

The style of the place is being against some foggy memories, though it's not until he comes across the company logo blazened on the wall does it hit him all at once -

Tricell.

Lips dips into a frown, nose and brows scrunched in displeased confusion at the sight.

"Well, that answers as many questions as it raises." He mutters quietly to himself, minutely relaxing as he now knows he's not in a horrible spot, he simply needs to find a reason for an unemployed mercenary stalking their halls.

He's about to head towards a stairwell door he sees down the way in an attempt to find an exit when the hairs on the back of his neck and arms raise. Lips instinctively pull back into a snarl and he twists around, knife in hand, crouching low and ready to draw blood and -

A pair of familiar red eyes greets him. "Boss?"

He eases, slightly, still in a ready stance, knife lowered and kept behind. It's been ages since he's last seen Wesker, since losing his arm in that one BOW attack. Sudden butterflies in his stomach as he's hit with nerves; he knows the man likes to keep things professional but with how communication between them was so suddenly cut off, Lance isn't sure what emotions had been brewing in that skull. Not to mention trying to explain how he got here and the answer being one Wesker won't like.

"Ah, long time no see, yeah?"

@progenitorensis

[whatsyourprice]

Falling asleep in his little nest of blankets in the corner of an abandoned building, only to wake up in the sterile envelope of a lab did nothing good for Lance's heart.

Holding still, taking in everything around him as he both waits for his heart to calm down and for any alarms to go off from his appearance here.

Nothing happens. And nothing keeps happening. For long enough that his heart rate lowers to a strong and steady thump, still primed for action but no longer living in his throat.

Thoughts race as he creeps towards the door, back pressed against the wall and cracking it just a hair to peek out.

How in the fuck am I here?

Lights are dim in the hallway, most red hued, signaling late night, the color chosen to not unduly stress the graveyard shift's circadian rhythm.

Well, that'll mean less people to deal with in trying to get the fuck out of here. The main worries will be cameras, other security measures and potential BOWs, if this is one of those labs.

Easing out into the hall, pale blue eyes intense with all senses on high alert, right hand going to his belt to unhook his knife. It’s kept sheathed for now, not needing someone to immediate shoot him if spotted with it.

The style of the place is being against some foggy memories, though it's not until he comes across the company logo blazened on the wall does it hit him all at once -

Tricell.

Lips dips into a frown, nose and brows scrunched in displeased confusion at the sight.

"Well, that answers as many questions as it raises." He mutters quietly to himself, minutely relaxing as he now knows he's not in a horrible spot, he simply needs to find a reason for an unemployed mercenary stalking their halls.

He's about to head towards a stairwell door he sees down the way in an attempt to find an exit when the hairs on the back of his neck and arms raise. Lips instinctively pull back into a snarl and he twists around, knife in hand, crouching low and ready to draw blood and -

A pair of familiar red eyes greets him. "Boss?"

He eases, slightly, still in a ready stance, knife lowered and kept behind. It's been ages since he's last seen Wesker, since losing his arm in that one BOW attack. Sudden butterflies in his stomach as he's hit with nerves; he knows the man likes to keep things professional but with how communication between them was so suddenly cut off, Lance isn't sure what emotions had been brewing in that skull. Not to mention trying to explain how he got here and the answer being one Wesker won't like.

"Ah, long time no see, yeah?"

@progenitorensis

[whatsyourprice]

Master Copy of the RP: Anomaly Verse

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