By littlemaiko

'A dead man walking' is a curious notion only as long as the dead man in question is not Marcus. I've seen my share of long-wasted bodies shuffling and spasming, jerking toward whatever they perceived as morsel. Unintelligible, half-decayed, useless monsters. What disturbed me concerning Marcus was that he didn't resemble one of those creatures. By far.

"No, it can't be." The statement had exited my throat before the action of voicing even registered with me.

Inside the static-ridden screen, a young man had his eyes fixed on the camera. Fixed upon me, us. The face gleamed of structural beauty resembling that of a mannequin. I didn't know him, but I knew his name. Al had scanned the previous image we got of him in the database and the result had clearly stated "James Marcus." Marcus was one man who should be dead, buried and gone. We'd seen to it. Perhaps not personally, but close enough to see those glassy irises dilate. Spreading oblivion had turned into complete emptiness, and the man... yes, his heart beat no more than curtains on a windless day. Dead. Gone.

Then why is this face in the screen? I exhaled slowly and regarded Albert, who appeared just as controlled. I couldn't read into his eyes due to the wall-like shades. There was a tint of slightest apprehension in his pursed lips.

"Leeches. Is that really him or..."

"We should look through his notes. It is -very- likely that Marcus is something other than what he used to be," murmured Albert. I nodded simply. We are the types people would call dispassionate. Generally, nothing touched us. The flip-side, of course, was that whatever did touch us touched us hard. Thus our passion for greater genius. Our strides toward Creation.

Al adjusted his sunglasses for a better look at Marcus. Eyes like a husky's. They often shine with a petty light of pragmatism, but I must admit, they are lovely. If he didn't have his feet rooted so steadfast in the soil of this world, if he didn't waste time in competition, I might have been drawn more. For now, it was enough that I brushed a fingertip near his right eye socket. My index finger combed some lower eyelashes, making him blink and glance irritably at me.

"Find something to fondle besides my eyes, will you?"

"Al, you speak much too plainly," I returned in a flat tone. Some things he says amuse me, and that is why I tolerate his presence. His words just now only pulled my attention downward, briefly, then lost their significance. They weren't good enough to begin anything.

"I do recall -you- telling me to cut the jargon and communicate better."

"Of course. But only regarding your reports and presentations. They were much too tenuous to listen to. You wasted your voice on immaterial words."

"Hmph. I trust that you would put my voice to better use?" Unmistakable cold mirth crept into Al's words. I allowed a 'wicked grin' (Annette insisted that some charm wouldn't hurt in a man) and placed a hand on his shoulder. Broad and hard. I probably could sit on those shoulders and he wouldn't sway.

"I put everything to their best uses, Al."

He baited me better than the last time, so I played along. We're not much for dramatics or sincerity; our eyes dart to the screen even as we entwine into a uncomfortable position. Me on his lap, a slim presence but very far from harmless. He knew that I had him where I wanted him. My gaze, situated a notch above his.

Beneath the black and white lines of disturbance, Marcus still stared. He lingered in the way only a dead man could; immobile, devoid of heat, caressed by his darling leeches. I let him watch.

Author's notes:

Disclaimer: Resident Evil series and all its elements are properties of Capcom. Snippet belongs to littlemaiko.

Description: I liked the fact that Birkin and Wesker appeared on-screen together in Zero.

- littlemaiko