Al's Rabbit Hole
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Tie the Noose Chapter 13
🕑 Added 2025-10-04 03:10:10 +0000 UTCA mid-October Monday afternoon found Daniel Carter standing once more in the back of a drafty community center room. The fold-out chairs were arranged in neat lines, the air smelled faintly of burnt coffee from a steel percolator on the counter, and the chatter of volunteers filled the space. He let his gaze drift across the bulletin board plastered with flyers and schedules, noticing how rarely the entire Watch group assembled like this. Most nights, it seemed, there were small patrol briefings, scattered and informal, but today was a full gathering, with coordinators speaking at the front and a dozen sets of eyes eager to hear the latest updates.
He had told himself he wouldn’t come back. The first meeting had made him hesitant, and returning seemed unnecessary, one more risk added to the dozens he already managed. But as the days passed, the logic shifted. These meetings gave him a reason to be present in the city, to put on a face that fit within the neighborhood. The opportunity to walk streets openly, to collect small connections and see the city’s pulse firsthand outweighed his initial trepidation. He told himself it was a necessary inconvenience, and as much as he disliked it, the more he thought about it, the more it made sense.
Then there was Rebecca. Sharp-eyed, perceptive, never oblivious. She had noticed when he slipped away for hours at a time. She hadn't pressed him about it or tried to pull answers from him, but her patience did not erase the fact that she was watching. Better to have a reason she could see and accept than to leave her wondering. If she thought he was investing in civic duty, in something visible and benign, it would explain his late nights and quiet disappearances. It gave him cover that no lie could manage, and it mattered more now that she was in his life, much as he hated the deception.
The people here were mostly volunteers, men and women who still believed in keeping their streets intact through sheer presence. They were earnest and sometimes naïve, but not without value. Daniel found himself nodding along to discussions of vandalism, curfew patrols, and late-night loitering. None of it truly concerned him, but being seen among them helped stitch together the fabric of his cover. If anyone asked, he was a man thinking about joining the RPD, looking for experience, eager to help his community. It fit so cleanly, with no sharp edges to raise suspicion.
The badge that came with Watch service carried its own privileges. It opened doors in certain neighborhoods, granted access to restricted streets in the late hours, and most importantly, it came with a police-band radio unit. Even if it was supposed to be set to the Watch band, it didn’t have any actual limitations on its encryption. It also lent legitimacy to anyone carrying it, making questions from patrol officers less likely and giving the wearer a reason to be on the street at odd hours.
Keeping the badge required a modest but steady level of activity. Ten hours a month was the minimum requirement, laughably easy to meet, but there were also simple reports to file and occasional attendance at public meetings or safety drills. Volunteers were expected to respond to at least a few late-night calls each quarter, and to sit in on an orientation once or twice a year. Daniel could clear the hours in a week and still keep his evenings free, so long as he stayed disciplined. His plan was to keep his head down and be just another set of boots walking a dim street.
The plan waved a firm and final goodbye when Albert Wesker appeared.
It was at the end of the meeting, when the chatter of dispersing volunteers filled the room. Daniel bent to collect his jacket when a voice, low and polite, brushed his ear. He turned, pulse skipping. There stood Wesker, watching him with an expectant lilt to his head, the reflection of overhead fluorescents glinting off dark sunglasses that no indoor lighting could excuse. His smile was easy, practiced, so perfect that it seemed natural.
“Mr. Carter, is it? I’m Albert Wesker.” The captain’s hand extended, firm and confident, his tone open and cordial. “I’ve heard a great deal about you. Mostly from our newest recruit. Rebecca speaks quite fondly of you.”
Daniel felt the faint thrum of nerves but managed to keep his composure, shaking firmly. “Pleasure to meet you, Captain. She’s spoken of you as well. Nothing but good things.”
Wesker adjusted his sunglasses with an easy motion, showing Daniel a flash of his pale eyes. “Word tends to travel quickly in my office. I imagine you’ve heard about Barry and Enrico’s little flare-up over Rebecca. Quite the the little drama, though it seems she set them straight in no uncertain terms.”
Daniel gave a small smile, unsure how to respond, and wondering jut what Wesker was getting at. “Yeah, she can handle herself.” He settled on, finally.
“Of course,” Wesker said with a low chuckle, “She’s strong-willed, and frankly it’s refreshing to see her show her teeth a little." The man mused, before coming back to the now. "Some might see your relationship as unconventional, but honestly, I find it refreshing. It's good to see her coming into her own, and from what I've heard you're a decent guy. I admit I'm cheering you two on a bit.”
Daniel blinked at the unexpected warmth, his thoughts thrown off balance. There was something incredibly odd about the so-called evil mastermind doing something so inane as shipping he and Becca. The image of the villain he remembered sat uneasily beside the affable man in front of him. He was just so... different. So damn nice. Unsure of how to respond, Daniel shrugged, giving his best gormless smile.
Wesker, as if sensing the pause, moved the conversation forward smoothly. “I understand you’ve only been in Raccoon a few months. Fascinating how quickly some people settle in.” He commented, idly, "You've been something of a common topic in my office recently, you know?"
“Huh, really?” Daniel replied, curious despite himself.
“Indeed,” Wesker replied, still genial. "I hear tell that you might have some aspirations on joining the RPD? It's good that you're making connections early, and from what I hear you're of no small talent yourself."
"I do alright, Captain-" Daniel replied, only for Wesker to hold up his hand.
"Please, call me Albert."
"Albert, then." Daniel nodded, "But yeah, I've been working at it. From what I hear the physical requirements alone are a pretty high bar."
"Of course, of course. Though the way Barry sings your praises it might do if you aimed a little higher." Wesker said with a sly, hinting smile. "Something for later, though. Do you plan to become a full-time member of the Watch?” The change in subject caught Daniel off guard, and he nodded.
“That’s the idea,” Daniel said, surprised at the sudden shift.
“Well, if what I’ve heard is true about you, the qualifications will be a formality,” Wesker said with an amiable nod. “I could help streamline things, if you like. Save you some paperwork.”
Daniel returned a polite smile, shaking his head. “I appreciate it, Albert, but I’d rather do it the right way than the fast way.”
“Fair enough,” Wesker said warmly, smoothly, as if he was tasting something. The moment stretched on as he seemed to decide something. “With an attitude like that, you’ll fit right in.”
Before departing, he paused, his voice friendly yet carrying a hint of sincerity. “Take care of Rebecca. She has many friends who worry for her.” He clapped Daniel on the shoulder, "I'm rooting for you two."
And then Wesker was gone, slipping back into the crowd with the same easy grace that had let him appear without warning in the first place. Daniel watched him go, unsettled. If he hadn’t known the truth, if he didn’t carry fractured bits of game memories and half-remembered lore, he might’ve been completely fooled. Wesker blended in too well, his presence both reassuring and authoritative, his interest perfectly balanced. A snake, Daniel thought. No, a chameleon was a better word.
Walking out into the evening air with the badge paperwork hanging loosely in his hand, Daniel couldn’t shake the sense that this had been one more complication he hadn’t planned for. He’d thought himself mostly invisible, another face in the crowd, but Wesker’s attention proved otherwise. And Wesker himself… Daniel didn’t know what to think. It was easy to be suspicious when you remembered him as the villain of a video game, but meeting him in the flesh had been disorienting. Behind the slicked‑back blond hair and those too‑dark sunglasses, the man came across as warm, charming, even supportive. Nothing about him matched the icy manipulator Daniel had expected. That mismatch lingered in Daniel’s head as he stepped into the street, leaving him with the gnawing realization that his own certainty wasn’t nearly as solid as he thought.
000
Daniel had been through five sessions with John since their first bruising encounter, and each one had stripped away his illusions of what combat truly was. John wasn’t just a combat expert; he was an encyclopedia of violence, embodying mastery that was both terrifying and instructive. On the mats he flowed easily from the raw brutality of ground fighting; chokes, joint locks, and sudden throws, to the near‑surgical precision of hand strikes and joint breaks that turned the human body into a collection of weak points. It was a skill born of long practice and real use, on real bodies. Watching him move was to see predator and craftsman in one, a man who could end a fight with the least wasted motion and then explain exactly how he had done it. He carried that same skill into his instruction, every correction sharp, every point driven home with a simple demonstration that left Daniel on the mat, sore and wiser for it.
Their sparring began with raw drills that cut past any illusion of safety. Combat was a brutal dance, and John demonstrated that with an artist’s hand. Where most martial arts relied on blocks, redirections, or meditative repetition, LINE existed only to kill. Every motion was built to be brutal, quick, and final: elbows crushing throats, stomps obliterating knees, grips snapping joints in an instant. John knew more ways to break, shatter, rip, and rend than Daniel thought possible, and he imparted that knowledge with the steady care of a teacher determined to pass it on. Hours of unarmed sparring reinforced the point; no wasted motion, no posturing, only directed force meant to disassemble an opponent. The lessons were immediate, painful, and terrifying, and after Daniel kept forcing himself up again and again, John’s dismissiveness faded. He began layering technical finesse over raw brutality, teaching Daniel that true skill meant mastering both worlds: the ruthless efficiency of LINE and the control to move from one kill to the next without hesitation.
By the fourth meeting, John had walked him over to the weapons rack, a brutal little garden of rubber and wood approximations of every blade Daniel could think of and more besides. Short swords, batons, axes, machetes, knives in a dozen forms. John simply told him to pick. It didn’t matter what. Whatever Daniel gravitated toward would set the tone of what came next. Daniel’s hand lingered before settling on a pair: a knife, familiar and straightforward, and a tomahawk, small but balanced, its edge built for both cutting and crushing. He had used an axe once before, in the bunker, with bloody effectiveness. The tomahawk was that writ small.
The decision to pick up a tomahawk had many roots, but what struck Daniel most was how it wasn’t just a tool for ending fights, it was a way to control them. The axehead gave him options beyond raw striking power: he could catch and redirect incoming blows, re‑angle an opponent’s weapon, or trap it outright. With practice he could learn how to hook and pull limbs, disarm a grip, or twist a joint until it failed. There was a straightforward, almost ancient logic in the weapon’s design, a blend of weight, edge, and balance that made it versatile in a fight, and he knew that the more he used it, the more that logic would reveal itself.
John’s expression didn’t shift. He just nodded once and reached for a simple Ka-Bar training blade from the rack, lifting it and testing its balance with a practiced flick of his wrist. “Alright,” he said after a moment, satisfied. “This’ll do.”
The next lessons were brutal. Daniel learned the weight of his choices quickly. The tomahawk offered reach and power, but it left his guard open in ways John exploited mercilessly. The knife was quick, sharp in the right hands, but when paired with the tomahawk it demanded coordination he didn’t yet have. Every swing left him vulnerable somewhere else, and John never failed to find that opening. Time and again Daniel found himself flat on his back, the mat slamming against his shoulders, John’s rubber blade kissing his throat or pressing into his ribs.
“Dead. Again.” John would mutter, stepping back without triumph, just clinical certainty. “Try it differently.”
Daniel adjusted. He mixed grips, shifted stances, experimented with where the axe should lead and where the knife should follow. Some combinations worked better than others. A downward chop with the tomahawk opened an angle for a thrusting knife hand. A backhand sweep could flow into a defensive catch. But for every small improvement, there were a dozen failures. He took hits to his arms, legs, and chest. His forearms stung from blocked strikes. His ribs ached from mock thrusts that would have gutted him with real steel. Even dulled rubber hurt when it came at speed.
John was a lesson in the importance of understanding a weapon, and Daniel respected that, but the man taught more than grips or angles. He showed that fighting wasn’t about fixed forms or rehearsed structures, it was about knowing where to move, when to block, when to parry, and when to slip out of the way entirely. It was instinct, sharpened by experience, where fighting dirty and seizing every unfair advantage made the difference. There was structure, yes; how to brace properly, how to keep a stance solid enough not to be bowled over, but it was married to pressure, momentum, and knowing when to press the attack. Every round on the mat was a demonstration of these truths, baked into drills designed to stop bad habits before they could form. For Daniel, it was instruction that promised not polish, but survival when things got personal.
By the end of each lesson, Daniel was dripping with sweat, every muscle trembling from exertion. John, by contrast, barely seemed winded, though he had worked just as hard. He crouched down beside Daniel as he sprawled on the mat, tapping the tomahawk with a finger. “You’ve got instincts with this. Just not discipline yet. You’ll get there.”
Daniel managed a nod, his chest heaving. “That your polite way of saying I’m terrible?”
John smirked faintly, the expression gone as quickly as it appeared. “It’s my polite way of saying you’re not a waste of time. Most of you tourists come in thinking you’re hot shit. No, don’t look surprised, you aren’t my first.” The words were more amused than cutting. “But you surprised me. If nothing else you’re a tenacious cuss.”
It wasn’t much, but from him, it felt like a compliment.
Before Daniel left, John handed him a thick sheaf of printed pages held together by binder clips. The paper was scuffed and faintly greasy at the edges, clearly copied from an older field manual rather than something polished for a class. The diagrams showed stances, angle cuts, footwork drills, and training sequences for knife‑and‑axe combinations, complete with margin notes about leverage and angles of attack. Some pages focused on gross‑motor movements, hammer fists, elbow spikes, tomahawk hooks into collarbones, while others diagrammed how to step through an opponent’s guard and transition into joint breaks or follow‑up strikes. The whole thing smelled faintly of toner and sweat, like it had been passed through too many hands in too many gyms.
“Memorize it,” John said, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “Front to back. Next time, I don’t want you guessing. I want you moving. Every strike, every grip, every angle, know it until it’s burned into you.” His eyes held steady on Daniel, calm but unyielding, the look of a man who had lived every page of it and expected no less from a student who wanted to learn.
The fluorescent lights above buzzed softly, their hum filling the silence of the empty gym. Chalk dust lingered in the air, and the sour tang of dried sweat clung stubbornly to the mats. Daniel tucked the sheaf under his arm, its weight oddly heavy for a stack of paper. He stuffed it into his bag, wincing as his shoulder protested. He knew he’d be covered in bruises tomorrow, ugly purple and black marks that even long sleeves might not hide. He’d need something for that.
On the walk home, the thought nagged at him. Rebecca noticed things. She always did. The last time he’d come back stiff and aching, she had given him a look that said she had questions but also didn't want to pry. He couldn’t keep brushing it off forever. That meant a stop at the botanical shop he’d found a few weeks earlier, the one that he could get some healing herbs from for a small price. He needed green, dried if they had it, to clean up the marks. It wasn’t that he wanted to lie to her, but there was a part of him that knew if he told her what he was getting into she'd want to look into it, and he doubted John would appreciate that.
By the time he stepped out into the cool night, bag slung over one shoulder and the copied manual weighing him down more than the bruises, he felt both drained and strangely alive. The mat had left him battered, but the lessons were teaching him a lot about just how little he actually knew. John had put him through five sessions already, and each one pressed him harder than the last. The next would be worse, but he knew he would show up regardless. He couldn’t afford not to.
000
The air was sick and wrong, a sour mix of rot and chlorine that clung to his tongue and stung the back of his throat. Every breath was a mouthful of corruption, coating his teeth and gums in a film so thick he thought he could scrape it off with a blade. It was the taste of disease made flesh, damp and foul, as if spores and infection themselves had been turned loose into the atmosphere. Each inhale dragged something rancid down into his lungs, sharp as bleach, wet as mold, and it spread an ache into his chest that felt both chemical and biological at once. His stomach churned violently, nausea rising, every breath convincing him the air itself was toxic, alive, and intent on rotting him from within.
The apartment around him no longer resembled home. Every trace of comfort had been ripped away, the warmth replaced with slick concrete that sweated like stone in a tomb. Harsh red emergency lights buzzed and flickered overhead, their glow staining everything in the hues of blood. Shadows stretched and twisted unnaturally across the floor, bending in ways that made his stomach tighten, as if the geometry itself was wrong. Corners of the ceiling seemed to sag inward, the walls pulsed faintly as though they were breathing, and every surface wept condensation that stank faintly of iron when it touched his lips. The room no longer offered shelter or memory; it was a desecrated shell, a place stripped of safety, turned into both prison and grave. Under the crimson glare he felt buried alive, sealed within a carcass of stone and steel that wanted nothing more than to consume him whole.
His body sagged beneath the weight of crushing armor and tangled gear, the Jericho heavy in his grip. His hands shook faintly from the strain, every finger stiff inside gloves that felt more like restraints than protection. The claustrophobic heat trapped in the suit made the fabric cling to him like damp shrouds. Each inhale rasped through the filters of his helmet, hissing like leaking valves, every exhale rattling with a mechanical hum that never matched the rhythm of his heart. The sound filled his skull until it felt like he was no longer breathing at all, but being breathed for… like some alien machine had taken possession of his lungs.
The armor didn’t sit on him so much as consume him, biting into his chest, shoulders, and ribs with crushing plates. Every shift of weight was a creak and groan, like being locked inside an iron maiden. Sweat trickled along his skin, cold as ice against the false heat, soaking into layers that bound him tighter with every breath. The more he struggled to move, the more unreal he felt, less a man than a corpse bound in endless layers of choking cloth and creaking steel, entombed and suffocating in a shell that denied him the sense of being alive at all.
A crash split the silence like a gunshot, sharp and violent. Daniel spun toward the door, its wood swollen and peeling like rotted flesh. He brought his pistol up fast, every nerve braced for something to burst through. The frame buckled, splintered, the planks twisting and bending as though alive, and then it all blew inward with a deafening crack. He staggered back, blood pounding through his veins, only to face nothing. A void yawned beyond, swallowing the muzzle of his gun, swallowing his breath, leaving him with nothing but the crushing certainty that something terrible had been there, and the terror of knowing it was not. The emptiness itself felt like a threat, and the fear it left behind was worse than if the monster had come.
He moved, boots squeaking against the floor, but the carpet was gone. Underfoot spread a steel deck slick with melting ice, each step biting cold enough to burn. A moan rose behind him, hollow and long, rolling through the corridor like a voice carried in from a grave. He whipped around with his gun raised, breath tight, but there was nothing… just emptiness swallowing the sound. His throat burned as he snarled under his breath, forcing himself forward into the dark.
The hallway warped and stretched as he walked, its geometry collapsing into something alien, every angle bent and wrong. It became a frozen corridor reminiscent of the cold storage chamber in the bunker, only now vast and endless, distorted into a pulsing vein of ice. The way ahead fell away into a black abyss, and behind him a wall of glacial ice surged up, veins of frost crawling across its surface like it was alive. Overhead, strands of pipe ran along the ceiling, vibrating with a steady thrum like diseased arteries pumping unseen lifeblood. Ropes of wiring dangled from shattered fixtures, hanging in bloody strands that linked the flickering lights in pulsing knots. The floor squelched under his weight, a slick mass of ice and slushy slurry that threatened to swallow each step whole. The stench was everywhere, a suffocating pall of rot and chlorine, thick and clinging, searing his lungs until every breath felt like he was inhaling poison.
A chill sank into his bones, not the ordinary bite of cold but something deeper, invasive, hollowing him out. His armor began to fail in front of his eyes. Plating corroded and rotted away, shedding in sheets of rust as if centuries of decay were compressed into heartbeats. The straps tore loose with dry snaps, threads splitting and unraveling into dust. His clothing clung for a moment before sloughing off in damp strips that reminded him of rotten skin peeling from a corpse.
Panic surged sharp and tangible, twisting in his stomach as the familiar weight of gear and packs dissolved into nothing, leaving him bare, unprotected. Every tool, every anchor of preparation, simply gone as though they had never been. He felt his breath stutter and quicken, each inhale too shallow, his chest tightening as if he might suffocate. Only the gun remained, slick in his trembling hands, metal biting into his palms. It was the last fragment of his world, a fragile line between him and the abyss, and as he clutched it tighter the terror crushed down on him until his heart thundered like it wanted to break free of his chest.
Something followed. It hissed and scraped, massive claws dragging against metal, each shriek of steel making his spine jolt. Daniel’s pulse thundered in his skull as he broke into a sprint, but it was like running through molasses, every motion dragged and heavy, each stride swallowed by the weight of the corridor. His lungs burned, tearing in his chest as he fought for speed he couldn’t summon. Behind him the sound grew louder, closer, a vast horror gaining ground, its scale too immense to picture, too terrible to confront. He couldn’t look back. He didn’t dare. The certainty sank in with every faltering step: if it caught him, death would be a mercy.
The hallway ended without warning, and he slammed face-first into a steel wall. The impact hammered through his skull, a brutal shock that left his teeth rattling and his vision bursting with stars. Naked, cold, and terrified, he clawed at the surface, scraping his hands against the unyielding metal, knowing it would never give. The air was a reeking haze of vomit, rot, and chlorine-ammonia, a choking perfume that filled his throat until bile burned its way up. Panic became all-consuming, crushing down until his whole body trembled.
He knew he had to turn. Every second stretched out, dragging against him like lead, and the sound of that thing closing in rattled his nerves until his teeth ached. His hands trembled so violently the pistol nearly slipped free, the metal slick against his palms, far too small, far too useless against whatever waited behind him. He could feel the vibration of its approach crawling up his spine, a pressure in the air that threatened to crush him before it even touched him.
His chest seized with each breath, ribs straining as terror coiled tight around his lungs, suffocating him. He could taste bile rising, the stink of rot and chlorine-ammonia thickening until it felt poured into his throat. The wall at his back was merciless, unyielding, leaving him with no escape. The certainty of death pressed down heavier than steel, and in that instant he realized with a bone-deep clarity that turning to face the nightmare was not courage but inevitability. He had no choice, and that knowledge hollowed him out even more than the fear itself.
Hargreave stood before him, a grotesque phantom of rot and decay. His skin was waxy, stretched thin over brittle bones, and his chest was riddled with bullet holes that oozed foul white pus and chalk-brown blood. His eyes were clouded with cataracts, blind and milky, his jaw unhinged in a soundless scream that seemed to vibrate in the air. In his skeletal arms he cradled a stillborn horror: a piss-yellow amalgam of malformed limbs and twitching nubs of wings, a carcass that writhed and gurgled in spasms. Its body dripped amniotic filth across Hargreave’s fingers, the fluids reeking of ammonia and blood, every twitch and wheeze a grotesque mockery of life. Bathed in the pulsing red light, the sight of the mangled infant in the hands of that decaying corpse was a slap of unabated horror, a vision that rooted Daniel to the spot with raw disgust and fear.
Daniel fired. The muzzle flash seared his vision, and when his sight returned it wasn’t the corpse or the infant before him. Rebecca stared at him with wide eyes, shock frozen on her face. A perfect hole split her forehead, blood and brain painting the steel behind her. The Jericho melted from his grip, leaving his hands bare, slick with blood that wasn’t his. He stared, mute and horrified, as the hissing returned.
It came from above. He looked up and met eyes that were serpentine, bright, and cruel. The nightmare bunker dropped from the dark, its mouth opening impossibly wide as it lunged. The impact was total, a hammering shock that ripped through him, a crash of teeth and shadow that sent him hurtling out of the abyss and back into the waking world, nightmares tearing at his mind as his eyes flew open.
Daniel woke with a ragged gasp. His body was numb, every limb frozen despite the warmth of Rebecca beside him. Sheets tangled tight around his legs, clinging like restraints. Fear crawled over his skin, cold sweat slick against his chest. His heart hammered, deafening in the silence. Rebecca stirred, then her arms wrapped around him without hesitation, pulling him close, unbothered by his trembling or the damp heat of his sweat. He let himself fall into that hold, even as the terror refused to fade.
Rebecca jolted awake at Danny’s sharp gasp, his body burning hot with tension and drenched in sweat. For a moment she lay still, mind trying to catch up, then instinct pulled her arms around him. She drew him close the way she had before- like the last time this happened, and the time before that. Ever since they’d started sharing a bed, she’d come to expect it. The nightmares weren’t new, not with the way they seemed to haunt him. They were old wounds rising up whenever his guard slipped. She knew trauma nightmares when she saw them; she’d studied them in college, during a unit on stress disorders, and he had every sign written across his body.
The first time it happened, it scared her badly. That night they’d collapsed together after making love, exhaustion dragging them under, both of them drifting off content. It wasn't until a few hours later that Danny started shaking, his chest rising and falling too fast, his breath catching in ragged bursts. She woke to the sound, confused at first, not realizing what was going on. Then he began to hyperventilate. His hands clenched, his whole body locking up, a panic attack in the middle of sleep. She made the mistake of trying to wake him, not realizing what had been going on.
What tore out of him was a scream, raw and primal, the kind that stripped the air from the room. There was so much pain, so much anger, so much fear, that it made her blood run cold. He flailed, tangled in the sheets, not striking her but scaring her badly all the same. And yet she could see, even through her stunned shock, that he was far more terrified than she was. His eyes had snapped open, wild and horrified, seeing things that weren’t there, evils and terrors that only he could see. He rolled out of bed in his panic, hitting the floor hard enough to jolt him back. Later, when she asked, he just shook his head and said he didn’t know what it had been about.
That answer hadn’t surprised her. It was common, after all, the repression of trauma, the way the conscious mind built walls to block out what was too much, only for those barriers to crumble during sleep. Still, seeing him like that had unsettled her deeply. The dream itself, whatever it contained, wasn’t what lingered with her. It was the look in his eyes, the sound of that scream, the way his body kept trembling even after it was over. Something deep lived inside him, something that gnawed constantly, a knot of barbs buried in his soul.
And she knew he knew. She could see how much it bothered him, the loss of control, because if there was one thing she was learning about Danny, it was how much control he kept over himself. Not over her- never her, or anyone else around him. He was one of the kindest, most quietly generous men she had ever known. But with himself, the control was ironclad. He guarded his emotions, his reactions, even his smallest gestures. He was careful, deliberate, carrying himself like a man who would rather shatter than let something slip. To watch that restraint collapse in the grip of sleep was terrifying for him, and heartbreaking for her.
There was something almost clinical about the way she recognized it, the war in her head between what she knew as a student of medicine and what she feared as a woman who cared for him. She could name the symptoms, separate facts from feelings, but lying beside him and watching him sleep made the lines blur. His hands sometimes tightened, looking for something only he could know. His jaw locked when the silence stretched too long. His eyes narrowed, his thoughts in places only he remembered. Every sign told her how much he was holding back, and her professional mind ticked off the reasons why, but her heart twisted at the cost of it.
He held so much in check it sometimes made him seem distant, even cold, and she knew many people would see him that way. Yet in those stiff moments came sudden flashes of warmth, a glance, a smile… his wide, disarming grin that broke through every wall. That smile had come to mean everything to her, proof that beneath all the restraint there was something gentle waiting to reach for her. And she wanted nothing more than to help him with that, to steady him, to show him he didn’t have to fight it all alone.
It was when he didn’t think she was looking that she saw the cracks. She watched as he climbed out of bed, his bare back glistened faintly with sweat while he walked toward the kitchen for water. For a second her mind shamelessly lingered on the cut of muscle across his shoulders and the restrained grace in his movements. But the darker thoughts slipped back in almost immediately. She saw the tension in the line of his spine, the way he held himself like even alone he had to stay braced against something invisible. The sight distracted her briefly, but it didn’t last. The worries crept back, stubborn and insistent.
She had tried to talk to him about it before. Sometimes she pressed gently, carefully. He’d reassure her with quiet words, and that would be the end of it. He wasn’t dismissive, not cruel, but he’d close the door firmly. Therapy, she knew, could help him. She’d read enough, seen enough cases to understand, but he wasn’t open to it. He listened, even admitted she might be right, but when he explained his refusal it was clear and measured. Something in his past with therapists, she suspected, had soured him. He framed it as caution, even reasonableness, but she could feel the hesitance behind it, like he was afraid to risk even letting the smallest bit of it out.
Once, she’d even gone to Barry, not naming Danny directly but speaking in general terms. She hadn’t needed to; Barry had figured it out almost immediately, though he was kind enough not to call her on it. She asked what it meant, men who carried themselves with that kind of constant weight. Barry shook his head, serious and thoughtful, as if the answer was obvious. Men like them, he said, grew up in a different time with different expectations. They were taught certain things about what it meant to be a man, what they could show, and what they had to bury.
Rebecca had bristled at that. Those beliefs sounded dangerous to her, harmful and outdated, the kind of thinking that cut men off from the very help they needed. Barry hadn’t been dismissive, not cruel, but the weary tone in his voice carried the weight of someone who’d lived it, someone who still bore his own scars. It was acceptance, not approval… just the reality as he saw it. And that unsettled her more than anything. She couldn’t stand the idea that Danny was doomed to carry everything forever without release, and the thought of him locked in that same cycle of silence and restraint hurt her more than she wanted to admit. She cared about him, maybe more than she was ready to say out loud, and imagining him condemned to that weight twisted at her heart in a way she couldn’t shake.
And she knew it was a lot. They’d only just gotten together. She was still learning him, feeling her way forward carefully. But god, he tried for her. He tried to be present, to give her the best of himself. He made the effort. And then he’d vanish for hours. Sometimes it was the long walks that he occasionally invited her on, though most often going alone. Other times it was the range, his clothes coming back smelling faintly of cordite and oil. Or he’d return late, after hours unaccounted for, quiet and unreadable. She’d gone with him once or twice on those walks, and the sheer distance he covered, the places he roamed, left her staggered. It felt like he needed to move through the city to quiet himself, as if only motion kept the weight from crushing him.
The dates they shared were smaller things, easy comforts: a meal, coffee, lingering at her favorite bookstore, or standing side by side at the range. Little things, but strung together they’d become the rhythm of their life. She hesitated to call it cohabiting, but that was what it was. She had all but forced herself into his space, and he hadn’t resisted. If anything, he’d welcomed it. She’d worried at first that she was intruding, but he told her plainly that if it was too much, he’d say so, and she believed him.
That was what made it hard. He had his boundaries, and she didn’t want to push him, not when he gave her so much space and so much respect. It wasn’t manipulation. She’d been warned about that, taught what to look for. Jill had drilled into her the signs of control, of possessiveness, long before she ever thought about letting him close. But Danny didn’t fit that mold. If she asked, he answered, even if it wasn't what she wanted to hear, and he was never duplicitous about it. He was careful, respectful, sometimes almost too much so. And still, the worry lingered. She feared his kindness was just another kind of restraint, that he was holding parts of himself back, pieces that only surfaced in the dark with the nightmares.
That thought, one among many, bothered her, twisting at her heart in ways she didn’t like to admit. She cared for him deeply, more than she’d expected to so soon, and it scared her to think his heart might come with unspoken walls she couldn’t reach past. She knew his smiles were real, his words genuine, but she also knew there were things he held back, not hidden exactly, just unspoken, like landmines he didn’t dare set off.
The tension between what he shared with her and what he kept quiet tugged at her constantly. It left her caught between gratitude for the man who opened himself to her in so many ways, and a quiet fear of the parts he still locked away. It hurt to think he carried those things alone, and she wanted, more than anything, to find a way to help him shoulder them.
She tightened her arms around him in the present, his body trembling against hers. She whispered softly, more to steady herself than him, though he stirred faintly at her words. She kissed the sweat from his temple, ignoring the salt taste, and let her lips linger. His breath was still too fast, his muscles still rigid, but he was here. He was with her. And she promised herself that she would not let him face it alone.
It was too soon, far too soon, to use a word as loaded as love. They had not been together long enough. She was too careful, too rational for that. But in Danny she saw something rare. She saw beauty in the way he carried his burdens, strength in the way he tried so hard, and a delicate, fragile thing in the cracks he tried to hide. She wanted to reach into those spaces and cradle that part of him. She wanted him to know that he did not have to hold everything alone. That he could be vulnerable and still be safe.
Those thoughts weighed heavily on her, but she knew the night was late and they both had work in the morning. She couldn’t take away the dreams, couldn't protect him from them, but she wasn't helpless. She would stay, would be there, steady, a presence against the dark. She cuddled closer, pressing her lips to his until she felt the faint curve of a smile… his smile, the one that was only hers, and she let it loosen the knot in her chest. Whatever haunted him, whatever chewed at him in the dark, she would find a way to help. She had to. Because she was already in too deep to walk away, and because she saw something worth every ounce of patience she had.
She held him until his trembling slowed, until his breath grew steadier, and finally, until sleep tugged at her again. But even as her eyes drifted shut, Rebecca’s mind lingered on the thought of those nightmares, and the man in her arms who fought them alone.
000
Chief Irons sat at the head of the long conference table, his chair creaking under his immense weight. He was a soft, ovoid mass of flesh stuffed into a tailored suit he had outgrown by two waistlines, the buttons straining against the swell of his gut. His short hair was plastered to his head with sweat, his cheeks flushed, his brow shining even in the cool room. Sunken eyes peered out from a face that had gone sagging with years of indulgence, the wet shine on his skin and the puff of his jowls giving him an almost piglike cast. He chewed on his cigar with a wet smack of lips, the smoke clinging to him like grease.
Across from him sat Albert Wesker, the picture of cold professionalism. He was fit, composed, and immaculate, his blond hair slicked back perfectly without a strand out of place. His STARS uniform was crisp, the pressed lines sharp enough to cut, and the faint gleam of his mirrored sunglasses caught the fluorescent light with every tilt of his head. His face was expressionless, marble-hard, his lips set in a permanent frown, his presence frigid enough to chill the air. Every line of him was discipline and control, the very opposite of Irons’ corpulent excess, and it radiated from him like an aura.
Between them, William Birkin looked the odd man out. Tall but rail-thin, his frame had a long awkwardness to it, made sharper by the cheap suit he wore under his lab coat. His straw-colored hair was parted neatly down the center, but it looked like dried husk more than gold, and his long, narrow face was framed by thick-rimmed glasses that magnified the irritation burning in his eyes. He fiddled with his stack of notes constantly, flipping a page, adjusting the order, straightening the edges with sharp movements that betrayed his impatience. He cared little for appearances beyond function, and it showed.
The corporate meeting room itself was sterile and suffocating. A long polished table stretched the length of the space, its glossy surface reflecting the harsh overhead lights. Two empty chairs sat among the occupied ones, placeholders for men who had not come. One was marked for Mayor Mike Warren, who was once again absent and off on another vacation, and the other for Smithson, director of Umbrella U.S., who had also chosen not to attend. Neither absence surprised the three present men, but both served as a reminder of the indifference of their supposed allies. Their absence was an expected annoyance, but it deepened the irritation pressing on the room until the silence felt heavy enough to smother them all.
Birkin broke it first. “This situation with Hooverville is becoming intolerable. UBCS units are swarming through my labs, and worse, the USS are sticking their noses into everything. They march through every corridor, prying into projects they don’t understand, making sure every policy is followed to the letter without the slightest grasp of what they’re trampling over. My team is distracted, their morale sinking. Annette has been complaining nonstop about them invading her private lab, and frankly I share her anger. Corporate is pressing us for results, yet they seem determined to strangle the very work they demand from us.”
Irons shifted in his chair with a damp sigh, dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief. “You think you’ve got problems? Try running the RPD with orders coming down that I can’t even explain to my own men. Patrols shuffled without reason, holes left in shifts I have to justify, investigations buried before they can reach daylight. Every move I make has to look natural, like it came from me, but with corporate tugging on the strings it’s getting harder to hide the invisible hand. My officers are starting to notice, asking questions I can’t answer. I’m the one they all look to, and I’m left holding the bag while Umbrella keeps pressing me for more. It’s unbearable.”
Wesker’s voice was smooth, cold, and dismissive, his gaze cutting toward Irons like a scalpel. “Umbrella has been pressing me as well, you know, though you won't hear me whining about it. Their bright idea was to insert handpicked agents into STARS, even to the point of suggesting a third team under the guise of expansion. A consultant’s fantasy. Yet the pressure has been constant. “Make it work,” they say, on top of my obligations to the Arklay facility. And still, I’ve kept Alpha and Bravo intact. I’ve made it work. Which is more than can be said for your floundering.”
Irons slammed a meaty hand on the table, his jowls quivering as he leaned forward, desperate to claw back some authority. “And you’re pretending you don’t take the same paychecks I do? Don’t you dare talk down to me, Wesker. You’re just as deep in their pocket as the rest of us. You sit there acting untouchable, but I know you’re dancing on the same strings I am. Don’t pretend you’ve got everything handled while the rest of us struggle. You’re not as perfect as you’d like everyone to believe.”
Wesker tilted his head slightly, unbothered by the accusation. His voice was cold enough to freeze the room. “The difference, Irons, is that I don’t need someone holding my hand every time pressure mounts. You whine about oversight and orders, but the truth is you can barely piss without someone holding your dick for you. Umbrella gives me the same directives they give you, and I make them work. You, meanwhile, sweat yourself half to death trying to hide how little control you have. Don’t mistake your incompetence for shared suffering. We are not the same.”
Irons surged up from his seat, his face red. “You smug bastard! Don’t you dare-”
Birkin’s voice sliced across the room, sharp and cold. “Enough.” His gaze cut between them, his patience worn thin. “This childish bickering is useless. It stops now. None of this helps us. G-Virus testing continues apace, but Spencer has grown paranoid, and the USS are making that worse. Hargreave was their failure, yet they’re scrambling to spread the blame before someone higher up decides to make an example of them. In the meantime, they’re tightening their grip on all of us. The Hargreave incident remains unresolved, the operative still unidentified and at large, and that uncertainty should worry us all. Someone who can purge a facility like that bunker and kill more than a dozen of USS' best threatens everything we’ve built.”
Irons muttered, “It all comes back to that bastard. It wasn't our fault he managed to set up so close without anyone noticing! Especially not in some rust belt hellhole from the seventies! Hooverville isn’t even on the map any more!"
Birkin’s eyes narrowed. “Regardless of what you think about it, questions are being asked. Don’t underestimate the significance of an unknown element. It means oversight will tighten even further.”
Wesker leaned back, folding his hands. “On that subject, I’ve heard some chatter coming down through the ranks. It seems MacKinnon has been filing demands, claiming his unit was held back by faulty gear. He wants better armor, and there’s word he’s pushing for a switch to the P90 platform after Lang’s death. The reports say those rounds he took to the chest punched straight through his vest and tore apart his lungs. He died in transit. Umbrella Europe is already sniffing around FN about licensing, if the rumor is to be believed.” Wesker paused before continuing, taking a moment to skim the report in front of him. “I’ve reviewed the information myself. I’ve decided to bring in a limited number of P90s through a subsidiary to supplement the MP5s in STARS’ armory. Perhaps you should too, Irons. I know how resistant you've been to letting patrol officers carry rifles in their trunks. Giving them something besides those pump actions from the seventies will go a long way to appeasing them.”
Irons waved a dismissive hand. “Absoluterly not. USS can do what they like and I can't stop you from wasting your department budget but this isn't some lawless Wild West border town! There's no need for our officers to have that kind of firepower. Besides, we don't have the budget-”
Birkin interrupted, tapping his notes with one finger. “It’s not unreasonable. Lang’s death demonstrated a vulnerability, one we would be fools not to deal with ourselves. Lest you forget, USS and UBCS cannot operate openly. Your officers are the first line of incursion and it would do little good if they did run into our so-called operative only to be cut down on Umbrella's doorstep." The scientist sighed, tiredly. "Showing we can handle ourselves only works in our favor in the long run. You do have the budget, Chief Irons. You don't need to remodel the Statuary gallery this year and getting the foxes out of the henhouse is a priority.”
Irons frowned, crossing his arms petulantly. “Fine. I'll find the money. But mark my words, this will only cause more problems in the long run. But that's besides the point. The real issue is MacKinnon demanding to be put on rapid response in Raccoon proper.”
Birkin nodded. “They want the lead on the Hargreave investigation. They want payback, a chance to settle the score. Lang was well liked. The unit has filed multiple requests for access to our jurisdiction. They want blood.”
Wesker’s voice hardened, though his expression remained flat. “Letting MacKinnon and his unit off the leash is dangerous. They’re supposed to be a combat response team. They aren't equipped to handle an investigation and if you let them, they’ll run roughshod over the careful facade both we and the Company have been crafting. We all know that if you give them autonomy, they’ll turn half the city upside down hunting shadows, and if they thing they find something the first we’ll hear of it is on the six-o-clock news.”
Birkin spoke with finality. “Then they won’t be on a free leash. The sad truth is that USS is looking to show they have things under control. Nothing says that like having one of their 'problem solver' squads chasing their tails." The man said, before holding up a hand to stop bth Irons and Wesker's response. "They’ll coordinate directly with you, Captain. You’ll keep them in line. They’ll get their scraps of vengeance only under your watch.”
Wesker gave no outward reaction, but the faint pause before his answer was telling. “As you wish. But understand that giving me responsibility over them ties their chaos to STARS’ reputation. If they cross a line, the blame will not be theirs alone.”
“You don't have to like it, Albert, but your agreement isn't needed. Just your compliance.” Birkin said, brushing him off, ignorant or ignoring the quite grinding of the blonde man’s teeth. “The fact of the matter is that STARS will be superfluous in the long run anyway. In a few more years Umbrella will own the entire organization anyway, so a black eye now means very little to myself or corporate.
Wesker gave him a sour look at that, but let it go. Fighting him at this point was a losing battle anyway.
"That's all I have. If there's nothing else-" Birkin said, standing.
Irons leaned forward, his cigar smoldering low. “There is. I want to know what’s happening with that mining operation in the Arklays. The city council has started asking questions. What’s going on up there? Officers bring me rumors of trucks moving at night, equipment convoys. I can’t look like a fool if I’m asked about it.”
Birkin frowned, rifling through his papers before shaking his head. “That project was greenlit by Spencer himself. Communications have been… byzantine, at best. Updates are sporadic, but this is coming from above everyone's head. Umbrella Europe is stomping all over the Raccoon branch's autonomy, and Smithson is furious, but Spencer’s word is absolute. Whatever Spencer is doing, it’s his own prerogative. He won’t even entertain questions. My inquiries were shut down immediately.”
Irons growled, “So we sit here blind while Europe digs in our backyard? That’s what you’re saying?”
Birkin’s tone was dry. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. Spencer answers to no one in this room. Push too hard, and you’ll wind up replaced. In his eyes none of us are irreplaceable."
The three men sat in silence for a long moment, the weight of Spencer’s name suffocating the room. Irons shifted, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air, while Wesker’s face was unreadable.
Wesker finally broke it. “Do you want STARS prepared for an emergency?” His voice was measured, betraying nothing of his own thoughts.
Irons shook his head sharply. “No. This is Spencer’s project. If there’s a problem, he can handle it himself. I won’t stick my neck out for him. If he wants to play in the mountains, he can manage the situation himself.”
Birkin gathered his notes into a neat stack, his face hard. “Then we stay the course. G-Virus trials continue. The T-virus projects in the Arklay lab will continue as scheduled, around USS interference if we must..." He sighed, "And we all pretend we’re still in control.”
The meeting ended with no further questions, only the lingering tension between them. Irons fumed, still seething with humiliation, his hands shaking as he stubbed out his cigar. Birkin left quickly, already shifting his mind back to the G-Virus and what progress he could salvage under the scrutiny. Wesker lingered for a moment longer, adjusting his glasses, his silence heavier than words. Behind the lenses, his mind churned over these new variables that invaded his carefully scripted plans. The room emptied, but the weight of the discussion lingered like a choking smog, clinging to the walls long after they had gone.
000
Barry Burton was a troubled man. A troubled man with no clear path forward, and no idea how to pursue what he didn’t know in order to clear up what he did. The weight of it pressed on him every day, gnawing at him in quiet moments when he should’ve been at ease. He hated the way it made his stomach tighten, how the doubts slid in when he tried to relax with his daughters or sit down for a quiet dinner. It was the kind of unease that left him pacing at night, staring out at the backyard through the blinds with a cigar burning low in his fingers, wondering when that gnawing suspicion would finally eat its way out of him. He felt terrible about it, too. He’d always prided himself on being the kind of man who respected other people’s privacy. He’d built a career on protecting others, not tearing apart their lives. And yet here he was, unsettled and restless, unable to set the matter aside.
Even as a cop, Barry knew when to put the badge down and leave things be. But this wasn’t like any other case of curiosity. This was something different, something heavier. He could feel it sitting in his chest like a stone, making him short with his wife, distracted around his kids, even curt with colleagues who didn’t deserve it. Every instinct he had told him he was crossing a line, but every instinct also told him he couldn’t look away. It wasn’t only about professional suspicion, it was personal. The emotions tangled together: guilt for prying, anger at himself for doubting, and a deep worry he couldn’t shake. He wanted to trust, he wanted to believe everything was fine, but Barry Burton’s gut didn’t let him rest. And when his gut screamed at him, he’d learned the hard way to listen.
Daniel Eli Carter was a ghost. Not in the sense of missing paperwork or scrubbed records. In fact, that was what made it worse. The man had records upon records, every certificate accounted for, all the right documentation in all the right places. On paper, he looked perfect, but when Barry tried to follow the trail, the man himself didn’t seem to have any roots anywhere. There were no ties that held him down, no connections that gave him shape outside of the here and now. It was like he had appeared in Raccoon whole, with no past trailing behind him, and that absence set Barry’s nerves on edge.
Barry had been looking ever since he and Rebecca had gone to visit Danny after the incident that had left him so bruised and battered. The memory still lingered with him: Danny stiff in his chair, Rebecca close at his side, his body carrying the kind of punishment you only earned in a fight you were lucky to walk away from. It wasn’t just the bruises, either. It was the weight in his eyes, the way his shoulders held tension like he was ready for something to come through the door at any second. Danny had said it was sorted, but Barry had heard plenty of lies in his life, and he knew when someone was covering something up. Something had happened, something serious, and Danny had chosen to bury it. That silence rattled Barry more than any half-truth, because it told him the man was bottling up something, potentially something dangerous, and he wasn’t sure how long that dam would hold.
So Barry dug. He didn’t like it, but he did it anyway. He tried to trace Danny’s family, but the trail ended before it even began. No parents, no siblings, no cousins that could be reached. Every path was a dead end, either too vague to pursue or too conveniently barren. Barry moved on to previous jobs, past residences, anything that might tie the man to a place or a group of people. It was the same. A steady path that ended at... nothing.
Eventually, Barry swallowed his pride and called a friend in the Bureau, someone who owed him a favor and knew how to dig where the law wasn’t supposed to. He asked him to sweep Carter’s name, to look in the quiet corners of databases the public never saw. If Danny had left a mess somewhere, a false trail, or had been hiding under an assumed identity, that would bring it out. But even that came back clean. The name stood. The records matched. There was no hidden alias, no paper-thin mask over another man’s life. Daniel Eli Carter was who he claimed to be. And still, he felt like a phantom.
Barry had thought maybe Danny had changed his name at some point, maybe been shuffled through some bureaucratic loophole, or even been scrubbed by some obscure agency. But he wasn’t in WitSec. If he had been, Barry would’ve quietly been told to drop it. Instead, he was met with silence. No hints, no nudges. Just confirmation that there was nothing to find. That was the part that gnawed at him. He’d expected to find something! A record, a paper trail, even a warning to back off. But there was nothing. And the nothing was what scared him the most.
He didn’t want to take it to Albert. Wesker was solid, but Barry knew exactly what the man would say. STARS was a special weapons and tactics division, not investigative. The unit wasn’t meant for background checks or private inquiries. If Barry raised it formally, he’d be told to hand it off to someone else. Irons was worse. Chief Irons was a joke nobody laughed at, a bloated bureaucrat who’d shut him down in a heartbeat and probably slap him with punitive duty for stepping out of line.
More than that, making anything official would put Danny under a spotlight. He’d get pulled in, questioned, pushed for details he clearly didn’t want to share, and that would be the end of any trust between them. Barry knew the type. Danny was a hard man, not cruel but stubborn, and he wouldn’t crack unless he was forced. Barry wasn’t willing to do that. Not yet.
And still, it ate at him. Daniel Eli Carter was a mystery, and mysteries had a way of getting people killed. He was dating Rebecca, too, and that made the knot tighter. She was young, bright, and tough, but Barry felt protective of her. She’d decided to let sleeping dogs lie, and maybe that was the smart move. She trusted Danny enough to let him keep his secrets. She’d let him into her life, closer than Barry had expected, and she seemed happy. If the rumors around the department were true, she was more than happy.
But Barry couldn’t let it go. Not because he wanted to expose Danny, but because he’d seen what happened when good men carried too much weight. He’d buried enough friends who thought they could take on the world alone, too stubborn to ask for help. He knew the look in their eyes, the quiet fire that burned until it consumed them. Danny had that same look.
So Barry told himself he’d do it for her. To protect her, and to protect Danny in his own way. Because Danny wouldn’t ask for help, not from him, not from anyone. He’d shoulder whatever nightmare was chewing at him until it finally broke him down. Barry couldn’t stand by and watch that happen. He’d lived long enough, seen too much, to ignore the signs. Danny was the type to charge headfirst into whatever trouble stalked him, and one day he’d bite off more than he could chew. Barry had seen enough men like that. Far too many. He wasn’t going to let Danny join them if he had anything to say about it.
That night, as he sat on the edge of his bed, the house quiet save for the faint hum of the fridge down the hall, Barry rubbed at his beard and thought about the weight he carried. His wife had seen it in him already. She’d asked once, gently, if something at work was bothering him. He’d brushed it off with a smile and a shake of the head, but the guilt of it lingered. He knew he was walking a fine line. He knew he was prying where he had no right. But in his gut, he knew he was right to worry. And Barry Burton trusted his gut more than anything. The only question was how far he was willing to go, and how long before Danny’s past caught up to them all.
Comments
Alex Piskura
Oh yeah. Honestly I don't plan to have the big reveal happen for a while, but the way I'm planning it there won't be any questions as to how real everything is. I was never a huge fan of the whole awkward conversation angle personally, though Danny is gonna have some hard questions to answer. But I don't wanna spoil anything until then, hehehe.
Master Zen
I was certain that they were going to have the talk but welp Barry is on the case now.
Alex Piskura
Oh he's absolutely gonna dive in. What I have planned isn't as huge as the last adventure (I hope, these things have a way of getting away from me) but I do plan to introduce a few new characters in the process. next week's chapter is gonna be wild.
Mrburgerdon
Hot damn Barry is sharper than he looks. Seems things are going to start soon specially once the outbreaks get outta hand. I feel bad for all of them but until shit hits the fan Danny cannot really tell them anything though is he gonna hunt down the arklay site or just sit back for a bit is the question.
