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sls-60‌:

The gala was a time of gratitude and reflection, a chance for TerraSave to host its benefactors and let them know why their money was needed to keep them running, and how effectively they ensured it was utilised to the cent. It was a transparency Claire valued — even if the galas themselves set off a nervous flutter of anticipation within her, both from needing to save face, and from memories of the raid.

Security was much more prominent nowadays thanks to Kirk, even as their event became less of a small function and more of a genuine gala thanks to the expansion of their operations and support. Gone were the days of rocking jeans and leathers, though she did laugh for days after the fact when media reported her as the ‘rebel motorcycle-riding director,’ replaced now with formal attire or uniforms. Claire always felt the need to keep on her toes, and always worked boots or flats of some description dependant on the rest of her attire. 

Somehow the flats on her feet felt more constrictive than ever in that very moment. As she warmly thanked one of their newest but largest benefactors, a man by the name of Anton Albright, welcoming him to the stage to accept a humanitarian award, something in her clenched taut. 

His face brought back the ghosts that liked to lay in wait in the corner of her eyes, a stark memory of being too cold and how decay still smelt atrocious in the Antarctic. 

She passed it off at first. Then he smiled and her face faltered for a moment — enough that one of her back-stage security raised two fingers at the ready to which she signalled subtly in kind to stand down but remain vigilant. 

He dressed as formally as the others, possibly more so for his aristocratic background, his stride no longer that of an overconfident boy-soldier-gone-mad, marred by a limp as he supported himself with an ornate cane. 

Alive despite the plummet into the depths of the ice all those years ago.

“Anton,” she addressed him with the pseudonym, voice overly warm as she kept as calm as she could — tried to keep the tremor from her hand as she extended it like she had to others throughout the evening. “Your contribution was one of the largest individual donor amounts we’ve ever had.” 

Keeping her voice level was hard.

Alfred smiles, nods. Is he supposed to agree? What does one usually say in situations such as this-- so much attention, so many horrible eyes focused upon him when the only one he wanted was standing next to him. He can smell her-- reach out and touch her if he were only able! Alfred’s heart flutters as he takes a limping step forward, lowering himself to the microphone whilst channeling the kinetic enthusiasm of his sister.

It’s a complete change, his face becomes more lively. Animated. He’s channeling what he could only remember his sister as being in her early days speaking to the jealous peons of Umbrella as she announced her latest breakthrough. There’s even a slight, one might even say chillingly familiar, pitch shift, though nothing so radical as what he had once done. “That’s right, miss Redfield! It’s absolutely pertinent that those who have the ability ACT. I can only hope that those with such ability to contribute follow in my stead, in fact, I would challenge my fellow donators to aspire to ever-greater heights! Give, as though the lives of those harmed by bio-terrorism depend on it, for they very well might... Thank you for having me up here. It is an honor.” Ashford smiles to the crowd, and then looks once more to her as he leans away from the microphone. 

Does he leave? Does he stay? His father had always attended these functions with Alexia, not him. Galas. Alfred had never held much of a taste for them-- chance to flaunt his status non-withstanding. As Alexia or father spoke, the latter so often droning on about accomplishments far beyond him, he had instead sat and sulked in the audience. It was not his place, at times, to stand next to the queen.

Claire Redfield, however, was no queen, and now here he stood next to her clear as day. 

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death in the elevator clock tower ost

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disgusting.

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It’s very important to me that in any such AU where Alfred survives his ordeal in the Antartic... That he not hold any sort of superhuman abilities due to viruses or what-have you. That’s a very common trope I see in AUs in this fandom, and while I don’t mind them at all, I think it best that alfred remain one of the more... Human faces of the horrors Umbrella has enacted. 

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Alfred is the older brother by a couple of minutes! Very important.

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Alfred Ashford re-entering society like “what is up my fellow kids”

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Send “⚠️” plus a warning label for my muse.

(If you cannot see the emoji send “Warning”)

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Some of you have never hunted someone trapped on your prison island and it.... really shows.

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Claire Redfield....

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jiiandie‌:

PEDALS THE DRINKS OVER & sets one fingerful of whiskey on top of his papers, disregarding the purposely-constructed mess, feigned as though to appear waist-deep in some optimal decision-making report or two.  she sinks into the pleasure of cushioned antique the moment it touches the back of her nylon-coated THIGHS. restless when her legs are not moving & it is often an alien sensation to feel the blood flowing through her veins while stone still.  because she’s ALWAYS RUNNING  —— always in motion.  never into perpetuity ; because not long after, she throws a leg over the other & shift to a curved, yet upright line.  

balances the SHOT GLASS on one knee meanwhile he presses on, trying to chart the course of molding a more forthcoming ada wong out of her. disarmed him long enough, but he’s persistent. there is something strangely comely about the way the low lighting accentuates the nordic-esque bone structure of his features. maybe it’s in the tired little POUT of his mouth.

 ❝ hah, ❞  ada muses over it.  smiles a little.  

tosses her head & knocks the liquor back, lustrous sea of stark black strands shifting ever so slightly.  but what or who is she amused by?  him, or the idea of him?   

 ❝ fair enough, ❞ she sighs, preps a tale on the fly.  fake names, fake cards, fake stories.  just enough to keep him at bay.  it doesn’t really matter.  her vision is now TUNNELED to the nearby window, whistling & howling while a snowstorm that’s picking up RELENTLESSLY pelts the glass.  it’ll be awhile before she can at least take her snowmobile to the nearest checkpoint.

❝ let’s see —— a few fundraisers in brisbane & malaysia, stuffy dinner parties.  hm, you ought to come.  speaking of stuffy, there is an antique war gallery at the guggenheim that i think you’d absolutely love.  we can…perhaps book a room at hotel wales. ❞  

Alfred follows suit, though does so far less gracefully than his visitor. He grimaces, wraps a finger ONCE upon the redwood of his desk, and then tries his best to smile and not choke on the burning liquid that now made it’s way down his throat. “Oh, how wonderful,” he chokes out before sliding the glass a bit aways from himself. “I’m overtly fond of dinner parties, myself. When I was a boy, father felt the need to throw them all too often. They were always Alexia’s forte-- and I was all-too content to let them be.”

It’s not much, but it’s something. He doesn’t suspect it to be a lie, though that shrill voice in the depths of his subconscious DOES seem to grumble in suspicion. “Yes, father always was fond of stroking his less than ample ego in front of beneficiaries... What a ridiculous little man.” The irony is lost on him.

“Oh, but that does all sound so fun! I wonder if they might be willing to part with any of their collection.” Pallid face turns a shade redder at the mention of a room, his eyes once more trailing across her body as he watches her-- the burning all but forgotten in the image of Ada Wong staring out his window. “A-a room. Yes, that would be something, wouldn’t it? Perhaps if I’m ever able to find the time... I would like that.”

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allwaltend‌:

The gala was a time of gratitude and reflection, a chance for TerraSave to host its benefactors and let them know why their money was needed to keep them running, and how effectively they ensured it was utilised to the cent. It was a transparency Claire valued — even if the galas themselves set off a nervous flutter of anticipation within her, both from needing to save face, and from memories of the raid.

Security was much more prominent nowadays thanks to Kirk, even as their event became less of a small function and more of a genuine gala thanks to the expansion of their operations and support. Gone were the days of rocking jeans and leathers, though she did laugh for days after the fact when media reported her as the ‘rebel motorcycle-riding director,’ replaced now with formal attire or uniforms. Claire always felt the need to keep on her toes, and always worked boots or flats of some description dependant on the rest of her attire. 

Somehow the flats on her feet felt more constrictive than ever in that very moment. As she warmly thanked one of their newest but largest benefactors, a man by the name of Anton Albright, welcoming him to the stage to accept a humanitarian award, something in her clenched taut. 

His face brought back the ghosts that liked to lay in wait in the corner of her eyes, a stark memory of being too cold and how decay still smelt atrocious in the Antarctic. 

She passed it off at first. Then he smiled and her face faltered for a moment — enough that one of her back-stage security raised two fingers at the ready to which she signalled subtly in kind to stand down but remain vigilant. 

He dressed as formally as the others, possibly more so for his aristocratic background, his stride no longer that of an overconfident boy-soldier-gone-mad, marred by a limp as he supported himself with an ornate cane. 

Alive despite the plummet into the depths of the ice all those years ago.

“Anton,” she addressed him with the pseudonym, voice overly warm as she kept as calm as she could — tried to keep the tremor from her hand as she extended it like she had to others throughout the evening. “Your contribution was one of the largest individual donor amounts we’ve ever had.” 

Keeping her voice level was hard.

Words are hard to find. This was always Alexia’s forte, public speaking. He had no problem barking orders, finding ease in issuing proclamations and tasks to those he saw as BENEATH his very bloodline-- but here he was to play a role. Start a game. Alfred smiles wide, albeit tightlipped, hobbling closer and closer to Claire with every light THUNK of his cane.

 “Thank you,” he stands, facing the crowd for but a moment before turning back to her. She has his attention, the object of obsession. “Thank you, Miss Redfield. It is the highest of honors to aide organizations such as Terrasave however I may, whenever I may. What can I say that hasn’t been said already tonight? Truly, you are, all of you, modern day knights.” A bite to his voice, he mocks them with a small titter that ‘ought well send nightmarish memories racing through Claire’s mind.

How she’s grown, that precious little rat that once ran his labyrinth and dodged his bullets! It’s almost a disappointment to see her now, after all these years. Older. More matured. Wearing the regalia of a businesswoman rather than that of the street roving AMERICAN she had worn on his island. In his mind, she had never aged. Stayed the same. While disappointing, it was nonetheless titillating to see her again. Gaze caught on her’s, he extends a hand to be taken. He was, after all, the largest individual donor.

Let the game begin.

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jiiandie‌:

SHE PREFERS THE QUIET to the buzz of the day-to-day city crowd. it’s therapeutic & remote here.  ada stands from the desk, peers at the snowglobe sitting inert with its faux frost & rime settled & unstirred. at the lonely man’s bones melting into calf leather & cashmere, simmering in LUCID thoughts that happen to crawl up the delightful length of her pantyhosed legs like a thousand little spiders.   

watches him, the glow of burning embers on her complexion  —— & she does watch ever so closely, or his expressions ;  in which the corners of his watery eyes crinkle in time for the crooked little smile that makes him look more boyish, speaking his aggrandized doublespeak.  AVOIDING the unavoidable.  the painful fact of the matter in her flightiness she seems to wear on her skin like a fragrance you just couldn’t put your finger on.

❝ it’s a story not worth telling —— i’m parched, ❞ straightens the skirt of her dress & walks the mini bar, heels clacking,  ❝ let me fetch myself a drink. ❞ 

thumbs open the cap of a CRYSTAL DECANTER half empty with some old vintage.  

❝ say, do you like your whiskey neat? ❞  she asks, offhanded.  despite what has been said, ada pours it into two glasses.  no fun drinking alone.

“I--” There’s not much time for him to answer before his glass is poured. He never was much of a drinker, had merely kept a bar for show and guests-- having at times hosted both foreign dignitaries and Umbrella brass alike on the island. “Oh, but I must insist.” A pointed look at the back of her head as he waits for his drink, features pressed with a budding scowl of growing impatience. 

Her flightiness wasn’t lost on him. In fact, he often found it to be harrowing during the long absences. Ada Wong was an enigma even to him-- a man already given to so many flights of fancy. More assertive, Alfred would ask once more...

“As Commander of this base I am not at liberty to simply leave upon the slightest whim. In fact, I often find it to be all-too easy to forget about the world beyond the ocean-- were it not for the constant stream of RATS made to fill up my camps, of course. Heh, they have to come from somewhere, after all...” Fingertips steeple, tapping against each other absentmindedly. “So. I would very much enjoy hearing about exploit you’ve experienced, worthless or no.”

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Alfred Ashford collects: 

Butterflies - most of them are Alexia’s Guns War memorabilia Dolls - most of them are Alexia’s

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❛ I hope you drive better than you shoot. ❜

“You wound me! I’ll have you know that I’m an excellent pilot...” The automobile, not so much. Sir Ashford was one to be driven, not drive, and automobiles themselves had been scarce on Rockfort-- the facilities only ever requiring trucks and carts for personnel and cargo transport. He had thought to have a track made for his tank, but such a priceless antique was hardly meant to be taken anywhere. 

“That said, I don’t trust the civilians to mind their manners. You will drive us while we’re on the mainland, as I’m sure your experience far surpasses my own... On the mainland, that is.”

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@allwaltend

Itchy.

That’s how it felt to be amongst a crowd. Itchy. Alfred had never been a people person, obviously, but to be around this many of them in so tight a space? He could already feel the perspiration on his forehead, his hands grow clammy and warm. However, this was a necessary evil, one required should the game stay afoot. Ashford had waited, watched as SHE went down the list of charitable donors, even bounced slightly on the ball of his good foot as he waited for his name to come up, waited to see Claire in person once again.

And then it happens, and she looks for him in the crowd, not yet meeting his eyes until he’s cleared them all. Alfred looks around, nervous, and then catches her gaze with his own. A wry smile tugs at mouth’s corners.