[ Root doesn't know what she's doing here. That's not exactly unusual; the Machine often sends her into situations with incomplete explanations, parsimonious about doling out info. But this time she knows it's because the Machine doesn't have the information, because it isn't stored digitally, or it's on an air gapped system, or in records she can't access without revealing her existence. Hard to believe, but there are some data feeds even the NSA hadn't given up to Harold to make his creation.
The Machine can tell where the conspicuous gaps are, where there's blank spaces that information should be, and she can still run advanced calculations and probabilities. So Root accepts that she doesn't have the whole story, as usual; her boss doesn't have the whole story, which is very weird and alarming; and she hops on a flight to Romania.
A couple days later she's a harried figure dressed all in black, practical clothes, hair more frazzled around her than she'd like, reduced to whacking a feral growly werewolf man off of her target with an unloaded rifle she'd scavenged from a house. While it's stumbling, Root pulls out a pistol and fires three precise shots into its head, which explodes in hideously gory fashion.
Maybe Ethan Winters didn't need the assist, but the Machine only sends her on one type of mission: to save people. She lets out a breath after confirming the kill and refocuses on Ethan, whole demeanor businesslike and at odds with the sweet tone of her voice. ]
Please, sir, can I have some ammunition? I just used my last bullets rescuing you.
[ Are you hoarding ammo in that metaphorical briefcase, Ethan? This is a poor soul in need. ]
[ Where the Machine plops her down at is the middle of nowhere, Romania during the deadest part of winter. It's the edge-most part of the season, when people are waiting with bated breath for the first sprightly pop of spring green to arrive through the thick layers of snow. Not because the season change is around the corner— it is purely because they're sick of being cold already.
His back is cold in the tuft of snow Ethan falls onto. The chill penetrates his skin to reach down into his bones in a way that will probably hurt when he bothers to try and feel anything but anxiety or anger. The dip in temperature barely registers over the boiling heat of adrenaline pulsing through his bloodstream as the maw of a beast comes to hover hungrily over him. By the time Root tears bullets through the werewolf— or whatever it is, Ethan sure as shit is not thinking about what it is or used to be— both of his palms are pressed against the monster's face, turning its hanging jaw from her person with all his strength. Which, to the BSAA's credit, is certainly a lot more than it used to be.
Acrid breath blows hot across his own face as the creature threatens to get closer; honestly, getting eaten alive while his daughter is waiting for him to save her is probably at the top of his least preferable ways to die. Despite this, when the butt of a shotgun appears in his peripheral to knock the monster off its center, he turns panicked twice over. Several pops of a gun resound across the village. The beast's skull fragments, brain matter slushes across his face then spills in red arcs across white snow. He understands that three shots have been fired as efficiently as any other killer for hire he's had the questionable pleasure of meeting, which pulls one very distinct and angry thought out of him: Chris fucking Redfield.
It is undeniably true that Ethan Winters did need the assist. When he pushes the lycan aside, balancing onto his feet in a wound up perch, all he's thinking about is tackling whoever is holding the gun.
In some bizarre stroke of luck, he does not meet the non-face of a soldier. It's a woman, frazzled looking but even more alive looking than him. Deflating, Ethan lets his legs give out beneath him so he's sat in the snow, palms of his hands pressed into his eyes. All eight of his fingers clutch at his sweating hairline. (Two of them are sitting in the body of a rotting werewolf. Thankfully, he's still got his wedding ring. Mia would be so pissed if— Ah. Right.) ]
Jesus. I thought you were one of Chris' goons. I almost tackled you. Fuck.
[ Inhaling to center himself, he lowers his hands to gesture to her with open palms. Notably, not answering her request. The metaphorical briefcase (a backpack holding extra guns, ammo, and his daughter's remains) is hanging by one strap off his shoulder, tauntingly. ]
[ Root does tend to spend more time in major cities, likely simply for statistical reasons -- there's more people there, ergo, more things the Machine judges needs interference. She can't say she's thrilled to be out in rural snowy Romania. There's no cameras here, nothing for the Machine to monitor, which leaves her operating effectively on her own recognizance for this mission -- and she can't just steal cars, weapons and ammo with impunity like she usually does.
There simply isn't that much around compared to her usual gigs. The lack of resources, frankly, sucks. She hadn't gone in realizing it was going to be an active war zone with supernatural monsters so she is woefully underprepared. The cold is one thing; she's at least wearing a thick wool coat and a scarf and thin leather gloves, along with sensible boots. But if she's going to be facing whatever the hell these things are, she's going to need a lot more firepower. What she wouldn't do for some of the arsenal from that Latvian mob they robbed recently. ]
Not a goon. Well. Not Chris's goon. [ Chris Redfield, probably? The Machine had given her what limited info she could before sending her in. She could arguably be the Machine's goon, though she prefers the term human agent. ] My name is Root, and I'm here to help you, Mr. Winters.
[ Another person who knows who he is, though at least she doesn't dramatically say Ethan Winters.
Looking at his missing fingers, she appends: ] ... Looks like I'm a little late, but I'm here now! Ammo, please?
[ Stay on task, here. This is a very dangerous environment and she just made some loud noise. Root is already scavenging around on high alert even while they talk, prepared for more threats to show up and extremely antsy that she is out of ammo and unable to protect her target. ]
[ His stomach clenches. Ethan is getting really sick of people he doesn't know being aware of his name.
Reason awakens in his brain, lighting up the dense mass of gray networking in his skull. He feels a shift come over his face, expression hardening despite how he really doesn't want it to. Ethan had spent a month or two just learning to steel the nerves in his face to avoid tipping his wife off to when this particular ember sparked to life in his chest. Paranoid, she would call him, shaking her head so full of secrets he wasn't even sure if they counted as secrets anymore. Maybe they were just answers.
In the woman's face, he looks for answers. A moment passes through him wherein he misses his wife, thinks about her broken and bleeding on the floor of their home. In that moment, he feels haunted: The fine fuzz on the back of his neck stands at attention, his skin prickles against the winter chill and, impossibly, he wonders if he did the right thing at all talking to this woman. Looks at the gun in her hands, lets the split-second wonder of how she's survived all this time with limited ammo. Then, thinking far too hard on the situation, Ethan retrieves from his backpack a semi-automatic handgun.
Even if she's lying about how much ammo she has or doesn't have, there's potentially over ten shots in that thing that he's not able to account for. Beside him lays the dead lycan, its broken, leaking architecture spilling carmine still.
Leveling the gun towards her, he shakes his head. ]
Whose goon are you, then? [ The last person who was supposed to help him dumped a magazine into his wife; he had worked for someone, too. It hadn't been entirely out of the goodness of his heart that he took the Winters under his wing. ] Who do you work for?
[ Root, like the root of something, but his brain conjures up rootkit instead of the more obvious meaning. A codename, he thinks. Like Alpha, or whatever the fuck Chris is going by. Rootkits were tricky, the kind of malware that could hide for a long time before showing its hand, rotting a machine from the inside. ]
[ Hey, at least she gave her name when she used his -- and it is Root as in root directory, not as in tree. It's the truest name she has these days, far more truthful than telling him she's Samantha Groves, and Root has a huge array of fake identities she could've pulled out instead that would've been more plausible. If she didn't want to arouse his suspicions, she wouldn't be. Root can pull off any number of undercover performances flawlessly.
That she's telling the truth as she knows it is a reflection of her recent change of heart, and her allegiance to the Machine and her values. The Machine isn't against lying, but she is opposed to malicious deceit, and generally speaking prefers when Root builds genuine rapport with her targets rather than manipulating them into doing what she wants. In other words: Root isn't habitually honest, she's trying, and she doesn't appreciate Ethan's suspicions. They're entirely warranted but, well, annoying, and a waste of time in an incredibly dangerous situation.
She turns back from scanning their surroundings for more threats and stops abruptly when she sees the gun leveled at her. Root's whole expression suddenly shifts into open pleading, not at all mocking and almost frighteningly sincere. ]
You're not really going to shoot me, are you? I came all the way out here to help you!
[ Look at her. She is a charming, attractive, well-spoken American woman who is completely overwhelmed by her circumstances and pitifully out of ammo. It would be so horrible to shoot her! ]
My boss sends me to help people no one else is able to help. She's kind of a bleeding heart that way. [ This is 100% true if also not an answer to Ethan's actual question. ] But it's usually more politically motivated terrorism and less a town of werewolves.
[ That part is pretty damn cool, actually, or will be when she isn't in active peril and hamming up how pathetic she is out here all alone, ambushed by supernatural creatures. ]
Ah, I didn't mean for it to come off that way! I merely mean that whatever you feel like offering is welcome, whatever it may be. And I don't want you to trouble yourself too much over it.
Okay, listen, there's other ways to sort your groceries. For example: Produce, protein, boxed items, canned items, spices, drinks. Frozen always goes last.
[ he'd last all of one aisle before intervening at this point... but then, he'd probably stop being subtle by then, too. he's just boring enough to think joining her on a 3am grocery run might be, shockingly... fun. ]
Hey, we're putting a hold on this teasing me for my music taste thing for a minute. I'm taking you grocery shopping next week, and I'm going to play what I want on the radio while we go over there at a reasonable hour. I can't let you live like that.
3am is a reasonable hour, you know I like to sleep late, the middle of the night is my afternoon.
[ There's a bit of a lag as she debates between arguing further, or just letting this one slide. Fortunately she's in a generous mood. And, she could actually use the help - half her groceries end up smashed at the bottom of the bag by the time she unloads them later. ]
Fine, if you insist on coming along I suppose I won't stop you. But if you think I'm going to listen to your sad man music on the way over you are sorely mistaken.
[ They're going to be switching the stereo back and forth repeatedly on the way over, basically. Good luck fellow motorists. ]
Sure you don't want to go when everyone's shoulder to shoulder?
[ It's like when a cat's had enough of you petting them but doesn't want to leave you along entirely, so it slinks over to the corner of the room, flicking its tail back and forth. Cute. ]
I can cut you a compromise on the radio. Joint playlist. You pick one, I pick one. We can call it the Grocery List.
Yeah. On Spotify, which I already mentioned. I haven't collected anything since I was 12, Leon, what would I do with a stack of vinyls?
You gonna at least tell me what you're using the knife for? Chicken, I hope.
[ part of him expects to hear something else. another part of him expects to hear 'yeah i was looking for something to listen to while making chicken parm'. ]
( Ethan you had a whole life before you turned into sentient mold, what were you doing with yourself between 12 and "why sure I'll check out the abandoned swamps of Louisiana for my presumed dead wife"? )
Why is Redfield always on my case when you're right there and infinitely worse. ( so Leon considers a whiskey neat a meal and is currently going steady with his emotional unavailability. at least he has a Spotify subscription! )
He's always been the do as I say not as I do type.
( if he picks on them for having sad miserable lives, then nobody is nitpicking his sad miserable life. honestly, it is pretty smart if you think about it that way. )
Give me a playlist for playing five finger fillet. Surprise me.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
The Machine can tell where the conspicuous gaps are, where there's blank spaces that information should be, and she can still run advanced calculations and probabilities. So Root accepts that she doesn't have the whole story, as usual; her boss doesn't have the whole story, which is very weird and alarming; and she hops on a flight to Romania.
A couple days later she's a harried figure dressed all in black, practical clothes, hair more frazzled around her than she'd like, reduced to whacking a feral growly werewolf man off of her target with an unloaded rifle she'd scavenged from a house. While it's stumbling, Root pulls out a pistol and fires three precise shots into its head, which explodes in hideously gory fashion.
Maybe Ethan Winters didn't need the assist, but the Machine only sends her on one type of mission: to save people. She lets out a breath after confirming the kill and refocuses on Ethan, whole demeanor businesslike and at odds with the sweet tone of her voice. ]
Please, sir, can I have some ammunition? I just used my last bullets rescuing you.
[ Are you hoarding ammo in that metaphorical briefcase, Ethan? This is a poor soul in need. ]
no subject
His back is cold in the tuft of snow Ethan falls onto. The chill penetrates his skin to reach down into his bones in a way that will probably hurt when he bothers to try and feel anything but anxiety or anger. The dip in temperature barely registers over the boiling heat of adrenaline pulsing through his bloodstream as the maw of a beast comes to hover hungrily over him. By the time Root tears bullets through the werewolf— or whatever it is, Ethan sure as shit is not thinking about what it is or used to be— both of his palms are pressed against the monster's face, turning its hanging jaw from her person with all his strength. Which, to the BSAA's credit, is certainly a lot more than it used to be.
Acrid breath blows hot across his own face as the creature threatens to get closer; honestly, getting eaten alive while his daughter is waiting for him to save her is probably at the top of his least preferable ways to die. Despite this, when the butt of a shotgun appears in his peripheral to knock the monster off its center, he turns panicked twice over. Several pops of a gun resound across the village. The beast's skull fragments, brain matter slushes across his face then spills in red arcs across white snow. He understands that three shots have been fired as efficiently as any other killer for hire he's had the questionable pleasure of meeting, which pulls one very distinct and angry thought out of him: Chris fucking Redfield.
It is undeniably true that Ethan Winters did need the assist. When he pushes the lycan aside, balancing onto his feet in a wound up perch, all he's thinking about is tackling whoever is holding the gun.
In some bizarre stroke of luck, he does not meet the non-face of a soldier. It's a woman, frazzled looking but even more alive looking than him. Deflating, Ethan lets his legs give out beneath him so he's sat in the snow, palms of his hands pressed into his eyes. All eight of his fingers clutch at his sweating hairline. (Two of them are sitting in the body of a rotting werewolf. Thankfully, he's still got his wedding ring. Mia would be so pissed if— Ah. Right.) ]
Jesus. I thought you were one of Chris' goons. I almost tackled you. Fuck.
[ Inhaling to center himself, he lowers his hands to gesture to her with open palms. Notably, not answering her request. The metaphorical briefcase (a backpack holding extra guns, ammo, and his daughter's remains) is hanging by one strap off his shoulder, tauntingly. ]
Are you okay? How long you been out here?
no subject
There simply isn't that much around compared to her usual gigs. The lack of resources, frankly, sucks. She hadn't gone in realizing it was going to be an active war zone with supernatural monsters so she is woefully underprepared. The cold is one thing; she's at least wearing a thick wool coat and a scarf and thin leather gloves, along with sensible boots. But if she's going to be facing whatever the hell these things are, she's going to need a lot more firepower. What she wouldn't do for some of the arsenal from that Latvian mob they robbed recently. ]
Not a goon. Well. Not Chris's goon. [ Chris Redfield, probably? The Machine had given her what limited info she could before sending her in. She could arguably be the Machine's goon, though she prefers the term human agent. ] My name is Root, and I'm here to help you, Mr. Winters.
[ Another person who knows who he is, though at least she doesn't dramatically say Ethan Winters.
Looking at his missing fingers, she appends: ] ... Looks like I'm a little late, but I'm here now! Ammo, please?
[ Stay on task, here. This is a very dangerous environment and she just made some loud noise. Root is already scavenging around on high alert even while they talk, prepared for more threats to show up and extremely antsy that she is out of ammo and unable to protect her target. ]
no subject
Reason awakens in his brain, lighting up the dense mass of gray networking in his skull. He feels a shift come over his face, expression hardening despite how he really doesn't want it to. Ethan had spent a month or two just learning to steel the nerves in his face to avoid tipping his wife off to when this particular ember sparked to life in his chest. Paranoid, she would call him, shaking her head so full of secrets he wasn't even sure if they counted as secrets anymore. Maybe they were just answers.
In the woman's face, he looks for answers. A moment passes through him wherein he misses his wife, thinks about her broken and bleeding on the floor of their home. In that moment, he feels haunted: The fine fuzz on the back of his neck stands at attention, his skin prickles against the winter chill and, impossibly, he wonders if he did the right thing at all talking to this woman. Looks at the gun in her hands, lets the split-second wonder of how she's survived all this time with limited ammo. Then, thinking far too hard on the situation, Ethan retrieves from his backpack a semi-automatic handgun.
Even if she's lying about how much ammo she has or doesn't have, there's potentially over ten shots in that thing that he's not able to account for. Beside him lays the dead lycan, its broken, leaking architecture spilling carmine still.
Leveling the gun towards her, he shakes his head. ]
Whose goon are you, then? [ The last person who was supposed to help him dumped a magazine into his wife; he had worked for someone, too. It hadn't been entirely out of the goodness of his heart that he took the Winters under his wing. ] Who do you work for?
[ Root, like the root of something, but his brain conjures up rootkit instead of the more obvious meaning. A codename, he thinks. Like Alpha, or whatever the fuck Chris is going by. Rootkits were tricky, the kind of malware that could hide for a long time before showing its hand, rotting a machine from the inside. ]
no subject
That she's telling the truth as she knows it is a reflection of her recent change of heart, and her allegiance to the Machine and her values. The Machine isn't against lying, but she is opposed to malicious deceit, and generally speaking prefers when Root builds genuine rapport with her targets rather than manipulating them into doing what she wants. In other words: Root isn't habitually honest, she's trying, and she doesn't appreciate Ethan's suspicions. They're entirely warranted but, well, annoying, and a waste of time in an incredibly dangerous situation.
She turns back from scanning their surroundings for more threats and stops abruptly when she sees the gun leveled at her. Root's whole expression suddenly shifts into open pleading, not at all mocking and almost frighteningly sincere. ]
You're not really going to shoot me, are you? I came all the way out here to help you!
[ Look at her. She is a charming, attractive, well-spoken American woman who is completely overwhelmed by her circumstances and pitifully out of ammo. It would be so horrible to shoot her! ]
My boss sends me to help people no one else is able to help. She's kind of a bleeding heart that way. [ This is 100% true if also not an answer to Ethan's actual question. ] But it's usually more politically motivated terrorism and less a town of werewolves.
[ That part is pretty damn cool, actually, or will be when she isn't in active peril and hamming up how pathetic she is out here all alone, ambushed by supernatural creatures. ]
tfln.
@silversister
Why do I feel like this is a job interview? I've got experience in customer service. And
Other stuff
no subject
You could help out the Broker, I suppose.
no subject
If I'm honest, though, I was thinking something a little more direct in this 'helping' approach.
no subject
You mean as I descend? I won't turn down help there either, but you must understand how treacherous it is.
@aeoniane
Okay, listen, there's other ways to sort your groceries. For example: Produce, protein, boxed items, canned items, spices, drinks. Frozen always goes last.
[ he'd last all of one aisle before intervening at this point... but then, he'd probably stop being subtle by then, too. he's just boring enough to think joining her on a 3am grocery run might be, shockingly... fun. ]
thank you for moving!
[ She's not sure which is worse, if forced to make a choice she might actually go with 3 Doors Down over Creed. Not that she's telling him that. ]
So you're saying I should put my bottle of mezcal at the bottom and not walk around with it in hand while I gather the rest?
[ That's basically how she's done it so far. He should probably intervene. ]
♥ np, np
no subject
[ There's a bit of a lag as she debates between arguing further, or just letting this one slide. Fortunately she's in a generous mood. And, she could actually use the help - half her groceries end up smashed at the bottom of the bag by the time she unloads them later. ]
Fine, if you insist on coming along I suppose I won't stop you. But if you think I'm going to listen to your sad man music on the way over you are sorely mistaken.
[ They're going to be switching the stereo back and forth repeatedly on the way over, basically. Good luck fellow motorists. ]
no subject
[ It's like when a cat's had enough of you petting them but doesn't want to leave you along entirely, so it slinks over to the corner of the room, flicking its tail back and forth. Cute. ]
I can cut you a compromise on the radio. Joint playlist. You pick one, I pick one. We can call it the Grocery List.
no subject
[ Sometimes she goes places in public and manages to not make a scene. Those are rarer occasions though. Got a short fuse, this one. ]
That sounds absolutely chaotic.
[ A nightmare playlist for smooth transitions, but the title does pull a smile from her. ]
Deal. But it has to end on a song of my choosing, so I don't have any of yours stuck in my head the rest of the day and night.
@antivirus
Tell me about it. At least I've got AC. You'd be surprised what they put on cassettes these days. Are you still holding the knife?
no subject
( let's be real, he's probably holding more than one. but that's not the point (🥁) )
Just so you're aware, you can listen to music outside of a station wagon.
no subject
You gonna at least tell me what you're using the knife for? Chicken, I hope.
[ part of him expects to hear something else. another part of him expects to hear 'yeah i was looking for something to listen to while making chicken parm'. ]
no subject
Why is Redfield always on my case when you're right there and infinitely worse. ( so Leon considers a whiskey neat a meal and is currently going steady with his emotional unavailability. at least he has a Spotify subscription! )
Nothing yet. Hence the need for mood music.
no subject
[ what pissed him off this week? who knows. probably tied to the black hold of existence that was his life between 12 and now. ]
Okay. Better question. What is eventually going to be under your knife?
no subject
( if he picks on them for having sad miserable lives, then nobody is nitpicking his sad miserable life. honestly, it is pretty smart if you think about it that way. )
Give me a playlist for playing five finger fillet. Surprise me.