Cannibal, Cannibal

[Ada Wong]

Getting in through the window was easy. Entering silently, though... not so much. It took several long seconds of careful deliberation before Ada decided where, exactly, to place her feet, and even then it was hard to see through the darkness that was mere inches in front of her nose.

Ada looked around. The deceased woman's apartment was swathed in shadow, cat-like slivers of silver emerging in the sharp edges of her modern décor. The stainless steel kitchen appliances droned out their machine-language hums into the quiet room, the sound carrying even over the low coffee table and soft curve of the chaise lounge.

A chill raised the hairs on Ada's arms. It felt like walking into a dreadful stretch of no man's land— unseen and nameless dangers hidden from her senses, ringing about her position like cruel barbed wire.

Creeping about on silent feet, Ada noted that there was not a single hint of personal affectations in the room. No family photographs, no artwork, just barren walls and carpets so clean they might have been carded through with a fine-toothed comb. Yet, there were other signs of home life hidden here and there... If one knew where to look for them, anyway. Head-shaped indentations in the sofa cushions, strands of shiny blond hair caught on the edges, somewhat greasy from the strain of either a long work day or something more physically tiring. A beaded meditation mat stuffed inside an umbrella holder. Traces of plant material scattered beside the coffee table, bright pink and strong-smelling.

Lips pursed, Ada ran her hands over the plush sherpa blanket thrown over the back of the sofa, her fingers questing for anything out or the ordinary. She felt out a small plastic bag with traces of pink left in the narrow wrinkle at the bottom— interesting, she supposed, but irrelevant to their search.

Of course, the most obvious signs of their mark was the enormous misshapen blood stain on the carpet, coppery-smelling red having sunken into the fiber and dried into a rusty smear. The parts of a body left over were barely recognizable as belonging to a human, seeming more like strings of muscle stripped from a corpse in a meat market.

Surmising that this was where the main struggle between the B.O.W. and its prey took place, the dark-haired woman felt a touch of discomfort. She was hesitant to hypothesize just how the encounter might have gone, but then again, she didn't really have to. The utterly decimated state of the remains was evidence enough. It likely hadn't been pretty, but these things never truly were.

Blood splatters painted the wall beside the open door of the apartment, the handle absolutely slathered in sticky red— almost forming the shape of four dainty fingers and one horribly malformed thumb. It looked like it had almost been ripped off its hinges, but the wooden door was indeed still locked in place, obvious scuffing and stress marks impressed into the dark hardwood.

"Well," said Ada, her voice a low murmur as she leaned in to examine the damage more closely. "It can open doors. Intelligent enough, then."

Dodging around a particularly large bloodstain, Aello came to stand in the light falling in from the hallway, her legs spread apart and hands planted firmly on her hips. Her hair seemed a bit more frazzled than usual due to their mode of travel, puffed up like a vibrant cockatoo. Her teeth flashed in the dark, a crescent moon of a grin.

"Oh my fuck, it can open doors? That's the definition of scary, isn't it? Mastery of doorknobs. Goddamn!"

Glancing around at the carnage, however, the smile dropped from her face.

"Goddamn," she repeated emphatically, much quieter this time. "Goddamn."