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No Less a Man No More a Monster

@bsaapuppy / bsaapuppy.tumblr.com

A wayward compass, always pointing n o r t h [Transman Piers Nivans indie RP blog from RE6, mainly post-game.]
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@viirales​

Breath stops just short of leaving Piers’s lungs with what feels like a fist burying firmly into his gut, footsteps faltering as he comes to a dead halt. No, there was no way--it wasn’t possible. He’d seen that stupid, shadowed smirk so many times before, even if mostly from the corner of his eye, that finding Alex in a crowd had almost become too easy. He knew that black coat overlaying a heather grey hoodie, he knew the posture the virus carried.

So how was it, that in the blink of an eye, Alex was no longer there? How was it that Chris, of all the people in this godforsaken city, Chris fucking Redfield, was the one that stood before him, looking ten years more exhausted than Piers remembered.

Image

This was a dream. It had to be. It had to be. Just another wishful dream that had managed to creep up on Piers, even after he’d long buried the thought of ever tracking Chris down and telling him that he’d survived, that he was...well. Little more than a mutated corpse. Right. That’s why he hadn’t.

A flurry of emotions works their way across Piers’s face, and an undignified squeak is all that really leaves his throat, before he shakes his head, good eye burning up with unshed tears. “N-no, there’s...there’s no way this is real, you’re not...here, there’s no way you’re here right now...”

#RUDE#viirales
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viirales asked:

“If you answer a just a couple of questions, I may let you go.”

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answers this late bc that's my style anyway

It doesn't take much for Piers to lift his head, the metal digging into his skin no longer freezing cold. The chains barely rattled as he moved, watching Alex suddenly appear as if from nowhere, and simply gave the same response he'd given before.

A cold glare.

For a writhing mass of blackened goo impersonating a celebrated geneticist, which was the best way Piers could really think to describe the biomass, Alex was exceptionally good at making sure to keep a captive as useless as possible. Rope would have been too easy for Piers to get out of, and he's made damn sure that Piers couldn't yell or bite. Thin fabric was tied tightly around the back of his head, pulled taut between his teeth with duct tape slapped over it so he had no prayer of making any significantly loud sound. And the chains that locked his hands together behind his back were decent enough, looped around his wrists and up to above his elbows before being locked to the ground behind him.

Not really a situation any kind of military training could've prepared him for. It really was just so unfortunate that Piers couldn't even so much as attempt to get out the words Fuck you.

#viirales
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me, reading the wiki for re8 and finding out that there are a number of bullshit things connected between re7 and re8 and even extending back BEFORE either game, to the point where the BSAA was aware of certain shit meaning piers probably was involved to a degree at some point:

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reblogged
lasplaga
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memeasaurus-promptus

Captured Sentence Starters

May contain some uncomfortable scenarios.

  • “Thrash all you want, you can ever escape this cage.” 
  • “I’ve finally caught you.” 
  • “Aw, is it too tight? Good.” 
  • “You will never leave this place alive.” 
  • “You are a marvelous creature, trapped in such a small little cell.” 
  • “Let me go!” 
  • “You think you’ve won, huh?!” 
  • “Quit struggling, you will only make it worse.” 
  • “You seem rather calm for being in your position.” 
  • “You can’t keep me in here forever!” 
  • “W-what are you going to do to me?” 
  • “I’ve been looking for something new to experiment on…” 
  • “What a fine specimen! Yes, you will do just fine.” 
  • “I won’t become some lab rat!” 
  • “As soon as I get my hands on you, you will regret trapping me in here.” 
  • “What…what is this place?” 
  • “Where am I?” 
  • “If you keep struggling, you may lose a limb.” 
  • “Please! You got to help me!” 
  • “I’ve done nothing wrong!” 
  • “If you answer a just a couple of questions, I may let you go.” 
  • “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for something like you?” 
  • “You’ve hit the end of the road, ___.” 
  • “Do you really think bindings and bars will keep you safe?” 
  • “I will kill you!” 
  • “You are not quite reacting like I’d assumed…” 
  • !?+ add your own!
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ccrruption-blog
“forget? he never forgets. he doesn’t forget the ghosts in his lungs or the skeletons in his closet. he doesn’t forget when he wakes up screaming and he never forgets as he falls to his bloody knees finished to the bone. don’t ask him if he forgets because he never forgets. he’ll never forget this.”

— night terrors. (via alleyspat)

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me @ me: why can't you just choose a fandom that doesn't drag your sorry ass back every year when new material releases

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reblogged
mensinfecta

mensinfecta‌:

His own pulse began to race, his steps following. Piers was making a run for it, and Leon certainly could catch up- at the expense of outting himself in the middle of a crowded city street, endangering his mission and himself, and blowing the whistle on the hidden secrets of their own government. That would certainly earn him a bullet in the brain.
He kept his eyes on the hunched figure, following every step the other made. His .45 was safely nestled beneath his leather jacket, and he silently prayed he didn’t have to use it. Six years, who knows what the time had turned Piers into, Chris had made note of his forcible infection in the incident report, and going unchecked for so long, one could only wonder what it’d done in the meantime.
Piers took a sharp turn, and Leon remained on his tail. Mind the dog, he told himself, prepared but not entirely keen on facing off with an animal working on instinct.
“Piers Nivans.”

His heart stops dead at the name, a name he hasn’t heard in such a long time, and his dog starts growling lowly, baring large fangs. His steps slow, only to stop and cock his head slightly, a hand resting between her ears. Calm. Her hackles lower, eyes glancing up at him before she remains locked on Leon with a deadly gaze.

Without turning, Piers glances over his shoulder, throat dry. “Don’t know that name, sorry. Would appreciate it if you stopped following me, though, my dog doesn’t like it.”

#mensinfecta
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reblogged
mensinfecta

mensinfecta‌:

It was only a tip, unconfirmed, by a mostly reputable source, but he wasn’t sure it was any more than a whim. No sign had been noticed, not since the last incident, and the source then was certain he’d died. Either way, he was off-grounds, on his own, with only a tracker in his cell to tie him back to the good ol’ White House. His first time off the leash since the Spain incident, over ten years ago. Had to admit, it felt awfully good.
Track the subject down, make contact, extract, return. Those were his orders, and the extraction came with a very ambiguous definition.
He knew who the target was, though he didn’t know the target. He’d only seen the target once, the barrel of his rifle pressed to his back, while his own .45 was carefully trained on Chris Redfield. Six years, it felt like a lifetime ago, but he still remembered the face. Young, determined, with the eyes of someone who very well could shake the planet if given the chance. Sort of like himself, before the shit hit the fan. He’d actually felt sorry when he heard the kid had died in action. That hadn’t lasted long.
He was alive, or suspected to be. Keeping himself off the radar for nearly a decade, living on the fringes of humanity and blending in just enough to go unnoticed for six years, color Leon impressed. 
Harper had given him all the intel, which state, which city, which neighborhood, the rest fell into his hands. And so, there he was, milling about the streets, gritting his teeth and trying to tune out the ungodly noise of countless voices around him, scanning faces but avoiding eyes. He knew what to look for-
The one face whose eyes he instinctively met, what a small fucking world.

The hold of familiar eyes with his own unaffected eye had Piers’s breath freeze in his lungs, his chest tightening and pulse racing. It was hard to forget the face that had prevented himself and Chris from capturing their target, even if there had been so many circumstances that spoke to it being harder to recognise it.

Contact was broken immediately, and a short whistle was all he gave to the dog beside him as he turned, ducking his head. A bandaged hand pulled the hood of his coat up, hands shoving into his pockets as he moved in the opposite direction; a small mercy was that he was about the same height, if not slightly smaller, than most of the people that surrounded him.

As soon as he could, he was going to make a mad break for it. He knew these streets, knew these alleys, and when he turned off the main road, he had every intention of disappearing.

#mensinfecta
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Every day went by in a blur, same as the last, and yet Piers couldn’t really tell anyone what occurred. And then, one day, he saw the date. Six years since then. If the virus hadn’t been keeping him alive, nulling any aging his cells did, he’d look like he was 33. Not that it mattered; he’d never looked his age, anyway. So maybe it was a blessing, with a curse mauling half of his visible features.

Life wasn’t about living anymore, it was just about existing. And he supposed that was how he’d not even noticed the passage of time. A nudge to his hand, a soft whine, and he glances down at his dog, who sat on the sidewalk and stared at him quietly, ears perked. She knew he’d zoned out, looking at the newspaper.

“..I’m fine, I promise.” He smiles faintly, hand brushing over her head before he puts the paper back, tugging his scarf closer to his face and disappearing into the crowd. Faces that came and went, some familiar, most not. He knew a handful of the shop vendors around, but didn’t care to really want to. The city was nondescript, and as long as he lived a mundane existence, so was he.

@mensinfecta

#mensinfecta
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