Thread: Resident Evil 2: Redux (BlisteredBlood & Miss Macro)

From !-- e --a hrefmailtodavid.bryceraccooncitynews.orgdavid.bryceraccooncitynews.orga!-- e -- Sent 03 July 1998 23.48.13 To !-- e --a hrefmailto ascale.nguyenraccooncitynews.orgpascale.nguyenraccooncitynews.orga!-- e -- Re fgiotjgtgbwtg Itchy. Hungry. Pascale blinked at the screen and the internal mail displayed thereon. It was of course not the first time she had been on the receiving end of spam, much less the distorted sense of humour of Bryce, and now it seemed as if he had found a way to combine the two. She clicked delete, as any other sane person would have done, without bothering to reply or think more of it. Hey, Nuhgooyen! She looked up from her computer at the ritual mangled mispronounciation of her surname, and into the face of Carter. He had no second name that she was aware of, and the boyish good looks of a man half his age which she put to be around 45, his actual age - not the half. N'win, she said. It's pronounced N'win. What do you want, Carter? Grab your gear, we've got a shout that there's been another murder, excitement on his voice, looking for all the world like an over-sized schoolboy in his dark blue suit and permanently off-centre tie. Downtown this time. There was a map pinned to the chipboard cubicle wall behind Carter, and Pascale glanced at it over the man's shoulder. The recent murders, at least the sites in which the bodies, what was left of them, had been found, were marked with pins. Carter added a new one as Pascale fumbled for her bag, which had somehow become tangled up with the wheel supports of her chair. Inside was a very expensive camera, a gift from her parents, and a selection of lenses and other strange artifacts of the photo-journalist's art. The two reporters headed out of the Raccoon City News building. One was tall, male and boyishly good-looking with an old-fashioned trilby perched on his head at a rakish angle, a press card stuck into the band. It was only one of many affectations Carter adopted and discarded on a regular basis, but this one seemed to have struck a chord with the man, and he wore it at every available opportunity. Which was every time he had to step out of the office. The other, shorter of the two by no small margin, all of five feet nothing, slim and female with a helmet of dark hair, was struggling with a large black bag bulging with camera equipment. They were arguing, although bickering might have been a better description. Don't hesistate to help. It's your own fault. You don't have to take absolutely everything with you every time we get called to a crime scene. I might need it all. It's overcast. It might rain. Granted, but a tele-photo lens? It's not like we're going to be so far away that you need something you can use to take pictures from a mile away. It's like a condom. I'd rather have it and not need it than need it and not have it. Are you propositioning me, N'win? In your dreams. And so on. Eventually, the arrived at an alley cordoned off by black and yellow crime scene tape. Several RCPD officers were in attendance, and none of them looked particularly pleased to see either Pascale or Carter, but one sauntered over anyway, obviously relegated to the role of dealing with the press and other nosey buggers by someone further up the chain of command. He did not look happy, but in Pascale's experience not many cops did. There was a brief exchange between Carter and the officer, but Pascale had already fumbled her camera out of her back and fumbled to lens-cap off and started to take pictures of the crime scene techs, all anonymous in there white overalls, doing whatever it was they did to dead bodies.