The Save Room (fanfic)

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The Save Room (fanfic)

Postby DeHeerser » Nov 02, 2014 8:19 pm

[I've written this for no other purpose than to practice experimental writing - theme is familiarity versus estrangement. Feel free to leave a comment, for example about what you think could happen next. Enjoy. :D ]

The Save Room

Foggy moonlight crept through the blinds – a cold and austere glow lay on the windowsills of Sebastians’ apartment. The woman he just brought with him wrapped his blanket around her slender frame. Sebastian observed how she slowly sank away in a satisfying and restful sleep. He knew that for him, sleep would not come so easily – even when he slept only his upper crust relaxed – underneath there was something that never quite lost consciousness, but lay alert and on the watch. As he studied the moonshades playing through Sheva’s messy hair he wondered how he had ended up in this adventure. From the moment they touched she had seemed insatiable – Sebastian had picked up a certain vibe about her, a dark current coursing through her skin, conveying a naughty and unrestrained side. She had followed him home and asked no questions. Not about his wedding ring, not about his working schedule (it had been much too late to bring home a woman for any working man). To his surprise she did not even ask about the eerie, decrepit neighbourhood, where the stench of decay hung so heavy in the air. Sheva had been entranced by his iron confidence and Sebastian did what he could not to dispel the image he saw reflected in her eyes.

Little did she know it was his last hold on sanity.

An incessant wind swirled the skyscraper, gripping the windows in a haunting wheeze and clatter – a wind Sebastian knew brought the feculent stench of decomposing flesh. He got up and moved closer to the glass, feeling the cold sweep through. A chilling force swirled from the metal window-frame as he tried to peer outside. Sebastian attempted to puzzle his day back together – things had been a blur. After breakfast he had visited the countryside for a walk. The pallid sun shone bleakly upon the frosty landscape; thin layers of ice covered the rivulets. He had then lost account of time, trapped in his meditations and recollections. Thinking of his family, his work. Being a detective seemed so pointless at times – for every crook he brought in two new ones surfaced. Many got away due to loopholes and corruption. He had taken to drinking. It wasn’t long before his family went to shit. Sebastian did what he had often done at work. Found a small room for himself. A desk, few lockers, dusty chairs covered by a sheet. Just trying to get his thoughts together. Meditating the case. Trying not to think about Myra. When the days got darker he brought a small oil lamp to work. The warm light made him relax… Work had been a while now.

His captain told him to take some weeks off – weeks became months. Said some time for himself would do him good. Sebastian wasn’t too sure anymore – the routine had become a blur. The park, the ice, the sun, then too many clubs. More than were good for a man recovering from a breakdown. Therapist sessions, pills. Both had only served to give him nightmares. Distorted his sense of time. Was it just him or were days getting shorter, daylight scarcer, nights longer… He tried to remember. When was the first time he heard them? Restless, stretched-out wails of languish echoed the abandoned alleyways around his flat, giving Sebastian feelings of despondency, of being hunted. Despite the skyscrapers, the condos and highways he could see in the distance the city seemed so empty, so abandoned now. He caught glimpses of their hollow faces, bloodshot eyes, sallow skins. Fourth night in a row, fifth maybe. Some of them had the mugs of crooks he nailed. They were searching, gathering, forming a mob. More of them every night. Sebastian slowly stepped away from the blinds. Backing off into the shadows of his apartment, knowing he was still safe.

He knew looking for them was no use. After the second night he had searched outside. No trace of them in the alleys. Just rotting carbon boxes, broken down washing machines, refrigerators, abandoned rusty grates. Stuff people threw out and just left there. No-one gave a damn. Made it harder to get through each week. Not even the city officials cared. No-one cared about this dilapidated part of the city. But it was quiet. Sebastian had moved there for that reason: it allowed him to forget. Until the nightmares started. Until they arrived.

His gaze went across the room until his beating heart relaxed when he saw Sheva. Her body had a calming effect on him. She had wrestled away the blanket in her sleep, her body still moist with sweat. The luminance that came from outside trickled across her smooth skin, piercing the shadows, highlighting her flat stomach. Her taut, feminine forms accentuated by the coils of brightness wrestling the shroud of the obscure. Sebastian suddenly thought of Myra again, of him and her at the kitchen table. When she said she never loved him as much as he loved her. He recalled the overhead light cruelly exposing the lines on her face and her dark-circled eyes. Neither one of them had slept in days – he dropped in and out of the house, living for weeks from club to club. One night she told him it had been enough. Sebastian would never forget the misery in her voice… the sound of loss and giving up dignity. He still did not know if what she said was true. There were times he wondered if tranquillity – as it could not be found in the soul, he was certain – could be found in the smallest space of an industrial office. If there could be space for serenity between neglected stepladders and abandoned archives. Sometimes he told himself all he wanted from life was this room. If he could successfully identify with the worn out typewriter, the solemn bookcase and the mustard wallpaper, he would not have to think of anything else.

The room seemed filled with a solemn quiet, a silence vaguely impressive and powerful, rendering Sebastian unusually open to suggestions of things other than sensory. His gaze drifted over his impressive book case – the furniture was elegantly crafted and bore an aristocratic, timeless air. It contained impressive authors as Dostoyevsky, Jung and Edgar Allan Poe – too much doom and gloom his therapist would no doubt say. Detective novels, too; the best kind of the worst variety. Main characters with repressed youth traumas clashing with sadistic psychopaths, usually with a thing for young girls, too – young girls too licentious for their age. Invariably the cases never made it to court. This ironic introspection made Sebastian grin. He pushed some tomes aside and opened the hidden drawer beneath. There he took out the Remmington shotgun. When he heard he was being summoned to his captains’ office Sebastian realised he could lose his badge and gun. The first thing he did was to buy a shotgun, as well as a reloading tool and material for crafting custom ammunition. The past days he had been experimenting with different types of shells. Pellets, slugs, brass and incendiary ammunition. If they would ever get inside, Sebastian knew he would be ready.

A soft moan reached him from the bedside. Sebastian hurriedly put away the weapon – its metal glittering coldly in the faint luminance of a pallid moon. He did not want Sheva to know of his demons – he wanted her to know only his kind and collected self; the appearance he maintained in the eyes of others. In clubs at least, surrounded by suave and nubile ladies. Too old to need permission from their parents, too young to walk home alone. As Sebastian made his way back to the bed his eye fell on a bottle of drink standing half-empty on his desk. He sat down and filled the glass, reminiscing of past times. They had been good times; wild times without limits. Clubbing, working, bringing in criminals and bringing home women. Those nights had been full of life basking in the neon-lights. He could take on the world back then. And then things changed, somehow.

His gaze shifted unbeknownstly to the old painting above his bed. A landscape depicted by a nameless artist, the tranquil place where he and Myra spent their best days together. He traced the lines of the pool over which a bony willow presided ominously, luring him towards the unknown depth. But a beautiful depth, pristine in a way. Beautiful as the steep blackness of a perfect jet, the impenetrable mystery of polished onyx. Sebastian remembered how they sat by edge of that pool for hours, drowning in each others’ eyes. While returning from their brief escape holiday they had encountered the painting in a market stall. A concurrence of course, not providence but chance. Still Sebastian found himself wondering if there was not a world of the fourth dimension behind things and their external manifestations – a universe existing on the reverse side of the landscape. Nowadays there were nights he could see only a thick blanket of blackness where always lights and life had been. He wondered what had happened to the neon-lights… The panorama of the nocturnal city now only revealed shades of narrow roads that coiled endlessly upon themselves, and the outlines of towering highways that broke off into mid-air. The shadows darkened under a moon glaring hard and bone-like: they grew dim and oppressive, terrifying, bearing with them subtle and stark impressions of things long dead. Then, in the very thick of the dark mass, something moved.

Sebastian opened his eyes. Foggy moonlight crept through the blinds – a cold and austere glow shone from the windowsills. He felt a warm radiance press against his stomach while a frosty presence seeped from the cold glass towards the bed. The sleeping Sheva groaned and pushed herself deeper into Sebastians’ warmth. He looked appreciatively at her slender body and saw her chest reverberating, aware of no danger, calmly going up and down. For now, there was this room. For now, he would be safe.

For now.
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Re: The Save Room (fanfic)

Postby Lazarus753 » Nov 03, 2014 1:23 pm

I'll be reading this soon and commenting, I just haven't had time yet.

Edit: Read it. Very dark. Not sure how much of it is building off of in-game documents, besides the drinking, as I'm only on Chapter 7. Kind of off putting that you named the girl Sheva, as that reminds me of RE5 (which I'm pretty sure was a horrible game).

Thanks for sharing
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Re: The Save Room (fanfic)

Postby Terra2500 » Nov 05, 2014 9:04 pm

I liked how you described all the scenarios and surroundings etc. in such detailed way. Sadly I'm not good in this. If you read mine, all were written in simple English.

I was wondering does this story take place after the game? And Sheva...hmm...when I read it, I thought it was Sheva from RE5 but then I assumed her to be your OC.

Will you be writing more on TEW fics? If do please let me know or where you post them? Recently I uploaded chapter 5 and registered an account @ https://archiveofourown.org/

Going to post my fics on there too besides fanfiction.net
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Re: The Save Room (fanfic)

Postby DeHeerser » Nov 06, 2014 5:34 pm

Thanks for reading guys! Feel free to share.

As to the chronology - the chronology of TEW is itself very twisted and obscure. It could take place before the game or during the game. Or during a sequel who knows. I tried to build upon the "dark vibe" of the game without cementing it timeline wise.

As to the Sheva character, in this story she is mainly a projection of thoughts and desires of Sebastian, so I did not build an extensive bio for her. But she could physically look like the RE5 Sheva born and raised inside the Evil Within universe. With the same supportive and sympathetic aspects of personality but also more dark and prurient ones. Given that the universe of Evil Within is overal more dark, her character development would have been darker as well. Perhaps I will expound this with a sequel.

As to RE5, I would say story and atmosphere are indeed über-cliché but the co-op in Mercenaries is exciting and the gameplay is solid. Weapons feel good as do the effects of the weapons and melee. In my RE5 time I probably played 99% Mercenaries and 1% story.
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Re: The Save Room (fanfic)

Postby Terra2500 » Nov 06, 2014 9:08 pm

DeHeerser wrote:Thanks for reading guys! Feel free to share.

As to the chronology - the chronology of TEW is itself very twisted and obscure. It could take place before the game or during the game. Or during a sequel who knows. I tried to build upon the "dark vibe" of the game without cementing it timeline wise.

As to the Sheva character, in this story she is mainly a projection of thoughts and desires of Sebastian, so I did not build an extensive bio for her. But she could physically look like the RE5 Sheva born and raised inside the Evil Within universe. With the same supportive and sympathetic aspects of personality but also more dark and prurient ones. Given that the universe of Evil Within is overal more dark, her character development would have been darker as well. Perhaps I will expound this with a sequel.

As to RE5, I would say story and atmosphere are indeed über-cliché but the co-op in Mercenaries is exciting and the gameplay is solid. Weapons feel good as do the effects of the weapons and melee. In my RE5 time I probably played 99% Mercenaries and 1% story.


Look forward to your sequel :)

RE5 well I never even played at all except my bro. I watched him played from beginning to end and my review for this game is "Disappointing. Too much action packed and too much unbelievable shit. One e.g. is Chris and Sheva can survive the overwhelming heat of the volcano. I think in real life, they're probably dead by now..." :?

For TEW; my review for it is gameplay awesome. I'm ok with the camera controls but storyline had too much loop holes and not very well explained like you said. They should make a Joseph DLC too telling us where the hell is he after getting separated from Seb in chapter 7.
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Re: The Save Room (fanfic)

Postby DeHeerser » Nov 07, 2014 10:35 pm

The Save Room 2

When Sheva opened her heavy eyelids she was welcomed by a tender winter's sun in a cold white urban day. Waking up in an unfamiliar bed in an unknown room, she felt surprisingly good. While readying her muscles to get up she gave in to her tired limbs and decided to lay down again, just a bit longer. After all there was no rush – no urgent matters today.

The heat scourged the dry crust of the savannah soil. Sheva smelled the frayed earth as she lifted her head to the window of the vehicle, its wheels rolling on, remorselessly splitting the arid foliage. Behind the steering wheel was a tall dark stranger. A man in military clothes sat beside him, holding a rifle steady in hand. Empty bullet casings laid strewn over the seats. As fear began to take hold of her young heart Sheva looked for someone she knew, a familiar face, anything familiar. She then realized it was a trap with no way out. There was nothing she could do and what she saw could not be real.

The motionless figures came closer and closer – as the vehicle thundered onwards they stayed still in the air. Sheva thought they were scarecrows at first, but then she noticed there were no fields or crops or tools of harvest. There were only the withering wooden poles and the frail bodies hanging suspended from them. The necks entangled by lines, makeshift nooses of electric cables and barbed wire. When she thought she recognized some of the faces Sheva turned her head with a fierce jerk. The car jerked too while she registered what the driver saw: a white hooded figure in the middle of the road, seemingly undaunted by the onrushing vehicle. The mercenary poked his driver with the butt of the rife and the armoured car quickly picked up pace. Just then, when the vehicle was about to impact upon the figure, she caught a glimpse of what was under the hood and the cloak. A pair of pristine blue eyes that pierced through her confusion and her fear. Pierced her with evil, with disgust. It was a vile face horrendously scarred with burns that spread like veins across a stitched-up body. A face of nightmares.

Sheva threw off the blankets and pushed her thoughts against the haze, trying to remember where she was and how she got there. She recognized the scent of the blankets, the light through the blinders, the form of a painting frame. She recalled Sebastian. Sheva knew she was in his room.

Warm and comforting feelings filled her when she pieced the film together. The slides showed clubs and glasses and neon-lights and then the cop guy. Good looking but roughened up a little. A man who had seen the edges of life. Something stern about him, a cool and unyielding vibe that pulled her in, intrigued her, made her want him. Just seeing if she could get away with it, not giving a fuck about his wedding ring. Going against all sound advices – not caring about the time of night or the shanty neighbourhood. Just enjoying the badness of it all. And him – his drive and stamina and craving. And the mysterious aura he invoked.

There had been something magical about his stare, the raw desire beaming in his eyes when he removed her shirt. Pressing his face against her dark pulsing skin, smelling her sweat, tracing her abdomen with his hands he had kissed each pulsing muscle, each flexing bead of her gaunt stomach. Couldn’t believe his eyes when he peeled the clothes from her athletic body that were too tight for any mother’s daughter. From their first eye-contact she had known he had a thing for thin. Sheva felt warm inside as she recalled how the intensity of Sebastian’s desire suffused her, made her want to be a cup to absorb it all. Whenever he thought she had enough she upped the scale by smiling naughtier, quickening the pace, increasing the lewdness of her posture – for a guy around his forties he had a lot of breath. It felt as if she dissolved within the strength of his desire; her self-awareness waned until there was only an undisrupted stream of pleasure, his yearning hands groping her lissom forms in appreciation… The night had been one of the best in a long time.

As Sheva bent over from the bed to pick up her clothes her eyes fell upon a detail of the room. Or rather, it was as if her attention was inexplicably drawn to something that seemed vaguely familiar. She saw the painting frame and then the image, glinting in the room’s soft light. The scene depicted what looked like a forest with luscious fields in the foreground and in the distance a mossy, medieval looking church. There was a scarecrow with above it a flock of birds that circled forebodingly in the air; their sharp beaks struck her as surprisingly menacing and real. A gruesome detail disturbed the scene – three corpses dangling from gallows on a bleak and muddy elevation. Sheva wondered if what she saw was true, as in the transition between wake and sleep we often struggle with details that fit perfectly with what we see, once changed and turned and switched from angle. She wrested the last bits of sleep from her eyes and opened them again – now the landscape had changed completely.

While putting on clothes Sheva’s eyes kept glued to the canvas. She now saw a depiction of this same room, with such detail and clarity that it approached realism. Yet the space was different, tainted – the walls were covered by smears and algae, dark puddles corroded the parquet. The scene impressed her with a grim sense of loss and depredation. Sebastian had a bizarre taste for art and this brought her back to the question where he was now. Out for work, doing groceries? She had no way to tell. She could just leave. Or stick around. The room around her caught her interest; a small oil lamp burned in a corner, lending a soft aura to the décor. The space intrigued her with a strange feel of homeliness, of belonging. As if a glimpse of solace could be caught amongst ancient books and piled up chairs – although the room was really a decorated storage niche Sebastian had managed to lend it a flair of classiness and comfort. Something told Sheva to wait until he returned.

Sitting down at the desk there was a particular book that caught her interest: volumes detailing work of doctor Jung. An interesting character, mixing research on the human mind with metaphysical ruminations. As she browsed through the volume Sheva recalled her classes in university: after obtaining a BA in psychology she decided to take a break. The break had become a year, the year was now an on-dragging cycle of getting up much too late and seeing too many men of the wrong kind. And she enjoyed every second of it. The worst part of it was she actually planned to be a therapist to help others, while she knew she lived like an excitement-hungry lass. But as she turned the yellow pages Sheva knew she did not care – somehow a sense of self-reprimanding was missing from the moral mist. She enjoyed the looks of men tracing the fine lines of her body – their absorbing stares allowed her to forget things. Bad things that happened in the past.

To push some thoughts away she focused on the page.

“My thesis, then, is as follows: In addition to
our immediate consciousness, which is of a
thoroughly personal nature and which we believe
to be the only empirical psyche (even if we tack on
the personal unconscious as an appendix), there
exists a second psychic system of a collective,
universal, and impersonal nature which is identical
in all individuals.”

This seemed somehow familiar in a strange way, as if someone was prodding around in her brain. The white-coats had spoken about that, doctors at Beacon Mental Hospital. Fragments of conversation, circling whispers, fleeting dialogues in hallways… Something about collective cognition and ways of connecting consciousness… Particularly abstract stuff by men of dark demeanour. Evil men. When the special forces stormed the camp Sheva was given up for adoption to the US. She received therapy there, at Beacon, to deal with the things the mercenaries had made her live through. She was not the only girl: there were others. The more time they spent there, the less they saw their parents. Increasing medication, drawn-out sessions, unexpected new contracts… It was as if the doctors placed a wedge between them, tried to push the families apart. Things got bad quickly. And then, once her foster parents had been placed at a distance, some of them began to visit her cell. Africa had taught her ways to give in to the doctors and their needs; her friends could not deal with them. War changes people. Upsets the natural order of things. When it happened Sheva pretended to be someone else – that helped. It made the doctors trust her. More than the other girls, at least. She was the only one to be sometimes summoned to the office of the warden.

“We are going to escape tomorrow” her best friend said one evening, “All we need is a key.”
“Escape where?” said Sheva, “They will just bring us back. Nobody believes us. We are sick and they will say we need medication. Everything will just get worse.”
“How can it get worse?” the girl asked – she was beautiful with long red hair. Sheva had thought the fine lines in her face traced back to nobility. “We are not as strong as you are Sheva. We cannot control or endure it like you.” The elegant redhead made clear their intent to escape, that they would go with or without her. Sheva then acquiesced to her request and would attempt to steal a set of keys from the warden’s office. After the guard had brought her back she would unlock the cells of her friends, and together make their escape.

They never made it out. Just when they came to the entrance, approached the looming wooden portal darkened by time, one of the heavy doors swung open and a doctor stepped through, a certain Jimenez. What was he doing at the hospital at night? It was something their plan could not have predicted. The guards rushed to the scene immediately and saw to it she never got a second chance. Not long afterwards the three girls hung themselves. They started giving tranquilizers and from that point everything became a blur. News of the suicides got out somehow and hit the Krimson press, sparkling a scandal so that a special survey was announced. Sheva was sent home before she had even spoken to anyone. Many people quickly disappeared. She read articles on Beacon in the newspapers. And then the people writing the articles disappeared. Then a long time nothing interesting happened. She worked out a lot – running, sit-ups, taekwondo, a bit of something every day. Sheva achieved peak condition and won a scholarship in psychology. Something funded by the prestigious Victoriano family. Soon she would continue her Masters. At least she had been telling herself that for a while now.

“A scarecrow is more than a mere tool to scare the
crows away,” Sheva read, “it is also a Jungian
archetype with spiritual significance.
Scarecrows serve as vessels for the archetype
known as the Shadow. This is because
Scarecrows represent warped emotions and
monstrous thoughts which often provoke sentiments
of dread and loathing. Scarecrows were used
during harvesting rituals of early tribes. One
medieval account details how a noble family
ruled a town by annually sacrificing three maidens
to a demonic presence that manifested itself
as a murderous scarecrow…”

Sheva forced herself to stop reading after that – it was unlike anything she ever studied and the details were too harrowing to be mentioned. But when she looked up from the paper there was another surprise – she seemed to be no longer within the same room. Parched autumn leaves cluttered together on the desk – mould crept over the stately bookcase and the leather of her seat seemed repulsively pallid; a moistly feeling seeped through wherever her body touched the decaying fabric. There was water on the floor and the walls had changed too – dark clots of fungi stained the mustard-coloured paper that was wrinkling and coming off the walls. Was she delusional? Was she finally going insane? Even the typewriter in front of her was covered by rust. Sheva got up to closer inspect her surroundings and hopefully regain her bearings.

Her gaze quickly located the painting since contrary to everything else it seemed curiously untouched by the overall decay. Standing in front of it Sheva brought her hand to her mouth and gasped softly – it depicted Sebastian’s room as it had been before, bathing in a warming, incandescent glow. But there was something different about it… Something she could not quite lay a finger on… Until she noticed the small cabinet depicted in the only free corner of the room. Sheva wondered why an artist would exert himself to such a state of perfect realism, only to deviate at the last moment. Or was it Sebastian who had rearranged the composition?

Her thoughts were interrupted by an aggressive thud. She turned around and listened quietly. The thud became a clanking, as if something tried to pick through the glass. Sheva stepped over the puddles and checked the glass – on the windowsill was a large black bird with a scintillating beak. It pecked aggressively against the glass, scraping its head against it, trying to get in. Sheva wondered if the glass would hold… But then she realized something. There were no cracks in the glass and the reflection of the room seemed wholesome. She saw the oil-lamp gently burning in its fickle light. When she turned around the things were back to their state of relative order – there was no sign of the rot and decay. Did she just catch a glimpse of the future? What would this building look like in twenty years from now?

A mysterious and inexplicable force then pulled her towards the corner of the room. Sheva could not trust her senses anymore. She had to confirm it – she had to know. And then – where her hands should have pierced the empty space – something stopped them in their path. Was she resisted by one of the invisible powers that swirl around us, meandering through existence from a higher plane? Forces thin as air that sometimes coalesce to behave as matter where there is really none? It may have been such a force that guided her, as Sheva’s hands did detect what that felt like a cabinet’s drawer. She pulled it open… gently… gripped by both freight and curiosity… A gleaming blade was revealed, as was a pistol – two weapons emerged that seemed to rest on nothing but air!

Weapons . . . In America Sheva had avoided them wherever she could. The outlaws had always carried them around – she had practically grown up among guns. When the mercenaries got drunk they sometimes allowed the kids to fire. Or made the kids shoot the hostages. Nobody gave a shit about a human life back there – and what had those children known about right and wrong? All they had known in the camp were mongrels that roamed around heaps of waste and killed each other for a lukewarm sack of rotten meat. What four years of psychology added to Sheva's understanding of this is that what society terms ‘sanity’ is only a measure of success in concealing underlying madness. Take the varnish of civilisation away… Then humans and mongrels do no longer differ much. Sheva noticed the pistol was a revolver – it was loaded with six 0.45 rounds and had not seen much use. Did Sebastian even know this was in his room? Sheva pushed the knife and gun behind her belt. It was better to have it and not need it, than to need it and not have it.

Where was Sebastian anyway? A restless urge of pressure weighed down her mood and Sheva was indecisive on what to do. As she turned around her axis it was again the painting that distressed her. Now it was back to its initial state – a luscious woodland with a dark church silhouetted against a spectral light. The glowing expanse culminated in a hill with gallows and a scarecrow – but now it was different again. The hanging corpses were nowhere to be seen. Her brains were playing tricks on her – “I have to get out…” she whispered to herself, “I am losing my mind…” Yet then, at that very instance when she tried the door, Sheva heard a loud snapping sound. As if a cord split in half under a very heavy weight. She put her ear against the wood and heard footsteps coming up the stairs. An irregular, almost shambling sound, but with a certain advance. “Sebastian...?” she asked shyly, still pressing her ear to the door.

BAM! BAM! Two strong and sudden blows upon the surface caused Sheva to lose her bearings. She stumbled backwards into the room. Overcome with surprise and fear she did what she could to puzzle her mind together. More blows followed and the wood began to inch inward. Splinters filled the air when the door was impacted by something like a heavy maul. Her brain pulsed with fevered thoughts – it was now a matter of seconds… Survival… Fight or flight… Life or death... The maul was brought down again and the hinges creaked. Sheva heard a gurgling voice, then an erratic nasal noise. Sounds of excitement… of bloodlust… by whoever was on the other side.

Sheva jumped to the back of the room and found the still open drawer with her hand. She could not see anything but pulled and pushed the invisible matter between herself and the door. And then, when it was too late to do anything else, she took the knife in her left hand and the pistol in her right, and crossed wrists to absorb the recoil. It had been years since she shot a gun. The loud noises of kicks and thuds worked the last bits of wood from the hinges – She saw her assailants, their passage now free! Grossly female figures, horribly distorted, their skins deformed by sun, the elements and time – hardly human. Sheva stared right at three leathery faces with hollowed-out eyes, pupils reflecting an unearthly light. Each wore a noose and their heads stood unnaturally on their necks in a hideously twisted angle.

The one with the maul lunged forward and swung the weapon with a wayward arc. Sheva steadied the pistol as her attacker took another eager step, eager to cross the distance and to bring down the dead metal weight on the lively flesh… And fell! She noticed the look of surprise on the emaciated face – an emotion that came as something dead and distant. And final, as Sheva pulled the trigger at nearly point blank range – the bullet came straight from the pistol and buried in the head. A mushy, absorbing sound; then blood spurting, oozing black and dark with threads thick as tar. The other two advanced, climbing over the corpse of their fallen sister but hindered by the invisible blockade and the maul. Sheva kicked against the dusty sheet and the stacked chairs began to move, then came crashing down on the possessed undead. She jolted to the other end of the room, desperate for a way out, knowing there was none.

Quickly and effortlessly she pushed her lissom body under the bed. Seconds – mere seconds later the attackers had made their way to the bed. One made clicking, excited noises – the other let out a delirious grunt. It was obvious from the sounds that they were searching and enjoying the hunt. Until one made a mistake and took a step too close to the bed. Sheva did something that she had learned in another life – a life that was supposed to be forgotten. With her right arm she trapped the foot, clenching the ankle between her shoulder and her wrist. This same second a clean thorough slice bit through the heel entirely – the hostile female shrieked as the leg collapsed under her weight. Sheva held the gun fast and immediately rolled out, just barely ducking out of the way as the second assailant yelped and lashed out with a pair of scissors. A fuming foetor filled her nostrils.

While streams of a warm liquid poured down her cheek Sheva launched herself backwards and pulled the trigger three more times. A chaos of brick dust, glass shards and splinters rained down on them. Blood trickled in her eyes and she could not see what she had hit – at least one bullet had gone straight through the sallow flesh and ricocheted off an archive casing. Sheva kept crawling forward until she pulled herself up by the edge of the desk. What she saw then defied every law of God. The possessed with the cut-through leg squirmed in anguish as metallic wires pulled apart the surface of her skin. Barbed wire grew out of her dead veins and wrapped itself around the broken foot – then pulled taut. Like a ragdoll on a string the female was raised to her feet – as a puppet controlled by a paranormal puppeteer.

The two remaining enemies advanced relentlessly towards the desk. Their faces bore no trace of mercy – only of an insane and unresponsive laughter. An awareness then came to her, a semblance, something from deep within the ancestral part of Sheva's brain. The bodies were remarkably small for their ferocity; they could hardly have been adults when they turned, perhaps barely adolescents. One of them had possessed a certain elegance – Sheva noticed the long and fiery red hair. She aimed and squeezed another round from the trigger. Lead clashed with cheekbone – a gluey matter burst out and stuck small shards of bone against the wall.

Then there was one, final round. Aiming the revolver at the kneecap of her nearest attacker she fired her last 0.45 shot and smelled the scent of gunpowder close to her face. It blew the kneecap straight off, catapulting a mushy pus into the room as the post-human creature sank to her knees. Sheva rushed forward and lifted her leg, then brought it down on the possessed as hard as she could. The blow knocked it backwards, causing the other sister to trip. Feeling the oil-lamp burning her hands Sheva lifted it from the desk and brought it above her head. Just as one tried to crawl out beneath the weight of the other they simultaneously noticed the flickering flame. The top one brought her arm to her face for protection, but it was too late. The glass burst open against their limbs and the oil ignited in a hellish flash. What she saw then is something that defies the wildest nightmare. As the possessed caught fire they squirmed and tried to get up, but their flesh literally evaporated layer by layer. They melted like a wrinkled plastic, so thin and black that it burns in the wind and then falls apart in the lightest ashen films.

But then she noticed something. The gentle luminance that had previously given the room an edge of warmth and calm was now diminished. Now there were only shadows that stuck out like pointy spikes from upside-down chairs and shards of broken glass… There was only the shadow. A shadow that was growing until it enveloped all in its wake… Until all that Sheva could see was blackness without form.

Until she opened her eyes.

“Well would you look at that…” she heard someone say faintly, not far away from her. “Astounding… Have you ever…” Sheva murmured something in response, stretching her limbs to signal that she was awake. One morning it would be different. One day she would mould the dreams to her own will and overcome the nightmares.

“Good afternoon,” Sebastian said. “You’ve slept a hole within the day. Good dreams or bad ones? You seemed quite stirred in your sleep.”
“Huh?” Sheva stated drowsily, “Where did you go? Was all of this a dream?”
“Whatever are you talking about?” Sebastian replied, frowning lightly, “I was here with you all morning. But hush now… There is something I’ve never seen before…” He pointed slowly to the window, then whispered: “Have you ever?”

On the windowsill was a large dark bird with a sharp metallic beak.
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Re: The Save Room (fanfic)

Postby Terra2500 » Dec 21, 2014 9:24 pm

Whew....finally got the free time. As usual, this fic is as interesting as before though I hope you can change Sheva's name to another. Sorry if I say that cus every time I read her name, I think of that Sheva from RE5 whom I despised a lot.

Kinda curious; where did you get the idea of writing these theories like these

“My thesis, then, is as follows: In addition to
our immediate consciousness, which is of a
thoroughly personal nature and which we believe
to be the only empirical psyche (even if we tack on
the personal unconscious as an appendix), there
exists a second psychic system of a collective,
universal, and impersonal nature which is identical
in all individuals.”

“A scarecrow is more than a mere tool to scare the
crows away,” Sheva read, “it is also a Jungian
archetype with spiritual significance.
Scarecrows serve as vessels for the archetype
known as the Shadow. This is because
Scarecrows represent warped emotions and
monstrous thoughts which often provoke sentiments
of dread and loathing. Scarecrows were used
during harvesting rituals of early tribes. One
medieval account details how a noble family
ruled a town by annually sacrificing three maidens
to a demonic presence that manifested itself
as a murderous scarecrow…”

Did you write these on yourself or you did some research then copy and paste from a site?

As for me...sigh...I'm still stuck at chapter 5. Had a hard time to update due to sudden last minute work.
When someone is miserable, they will need someone who is more miserable than them - Sebastian to Delsin (Crossover fic)
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Re: The Save Room (fanfic)

Postby DeHeerser » Jan 04, 2015 1:56 pm

Very observiant! The first quote is actually from Jung himself in the introduction of his work.

The other one I mixed together from a bunch of articles on topics like Tarot and psychoanalyses.
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