Disclaimer: I don't own Capcom or Resident Evil.

I don't know how long can this fiction survive under the hands of Fanfiction but I'll keep on going until it gets taken off for violation of the rules they have mentioned. You'll find it in my backup safe stated on my profile if it ever does.

I ought to give a little warning first: This is going to be a slow series (long chapters, slow updates yeah), and it will definitely cross into the Resident Evil 6 game launch. That is going to distract me for a bit... So yes, the story. It is going to sound a little monotonous and angsty in the beginning but trust me, that is not the direction I am heading for. I'm trying to pick up a light atmospheric style of writing, with a little sense of humor and sarcasm at the same time. Gonna need that pat on the shoulder to keep on going.

And lastly, if you can't take man on man, then you must have missed my summary.

Wonderland

by Seraph Wes W.

- For the desire to start afresh, know thyself all over again, be honest, understand the past, steer the present, embracing the odds, and touch the future -

/

Date: April 29, 2010 Thursday
Time: 02:13PM (GMT +3:00)
Mood: Lethargic, Hungry

It's a rainy day. The rain outside my window is really… making me lethargic.

The mood option available thing is really good for capturing the current-state-of-mind thing. Now when I look back at my older entries, I realize I'm spending most of my time feeling lethargic or angry.

The fridge is empty and I'm feeling hungry. But instead of doing myself some good by heading over to the nearest convenience store to get some lunch, here I am typing away in this cyberspace again. Months back Claire got me to start penning down my thoughts, thinking it will do me good while I stabilize myself. I remember the temper I'd blown up on her after that, told her I would never do something like that. So she doesn't know I've started this journal thing, but I'm doing it only for the love of her. Haven't actually gotten around to apologize to her yet though, needa get my ass in there and do it somehow.

Then again, is she shitting me, honestly? I haven't felt this normal than I ever was. Just because I'm weary and tired from my duties doesn't exactly make me mentally unstable. Yeah, they had those psychiatrists declared me mentally unstable for work. After all I have done for this world, this is the sort of thanksgiving they give to a national hero?

So here I am, put on infinite vacation until they decided it was time for me to go back. Well screw them. I ain't going back, not after all of this.

I'm working on my due-salary and pension with those bastards, can't be having them cheating away all of my hard-earned cash. I bled for them for Christ's sake. I deserve more than the amount they have been cashing me all this time. I put my life on the line goddammit. I don't deserve anything less than this.

I just want my job back.

I want to go back doing what I do best.

Moldova is raining everyday ever since I decided to settle down here. I figure I needed time to be alone and away from everyone I knew. Seems folly when I have just exposed where I am but truth is, nobody knows the existence of this journal. So I'm just typing away, recording bits and pieces of the things I've gone through day after day. At times, I kinda feel stupid and pathetic looking at myself typing a bunch of shit to me. I ain't lacking in my social life but something makes me feel detached from it. Maybe it's the age factor. I'm growing old and I've just lost the one thing I thought I spent my entire life fighting for. My life's been at its worst ever since the organization doubted my creditability. I mean, did they even realize they were questioning one of their very own founding members? I don't know how it'd happened but it sure didn't sound like they were going to believe whatever I was trying to explain. Even Jill and Sheva didn't appear to believe what I said.

Am I the only one who doesn't know what the fuck is going on?

Okay time out. I won't get an answer asking myself. Their decision is final and so is bloody mine. It's about time I get that late lunch.

/

Pulling the hood of a gray fleece coat over his head, Chris exited his tiny apartment after having decided to settle his lunch over cyberspace. He was no big fan of the Internet, but that online journal certainly helped kept his mind from brooding with itself. As the years kicked numbers into his age, he began thinking far too much than he ever did use to. It was not about maturity hitting his pubescent years or some debate knocking at his door, the senior fighter knew exactly who made him start doubting everything that lied before his eyes. A mentor, or to aptly describe his title, a scheming, cunning nonetheless wise captain, taught him the ways of life, that everything happened for a reason and nothing was as simple as it seemed. A life dedicated to finding truth left the man growing up from his innocence, fighting for the world and facing the man who betrayed him for a bloody vile of virus. Loathing the very same betrayal 15 years ago, he still felt the same intense amount of hurt when he thought about it. Naïve, he was stupid to have trusted a monster who would haunt him for the rest of his life. Stupid, for harboring as much feelings for that same man than he ever had for anyone else in his life. Then topping off with regret, he shot that man in the face with a pair of rocket launchers to end their episodic chapter in life for the last time.

Fighting against all that, he ended up here, in Moldova, as a suspect of whatever the B.S.A.A. was suspecting. To hell with this bullshit if that was all the thanks he was going to get for killing the one man who knew him better than this world ever did. How many goddamn years was Jill captured and they did not even begin to suspect her. So what was it on him that led to all these accusations?

He touched the stubble on his chin, grazing the prickly touch as he grasped both center fronts of his coat together, eyes cascading the quiet street of the suburban side. At least life here was easy. Quiet but easy. Slow but easy. He took a rent for one of the bachelor apartments available south of town with the existing savings he never had a chance to use and settled in quickly. There was a small kitchen beyond a tiny counter, a bathroom along the short corridor with the only bedroom at the end of it. A patio extended to the side of his living room where he often spent his quiet nights smoking on. The ready furniture was old but usable, simple but sturdy. Chris quickly grew fond of the backward town as cloudy sky loomed over him, sun hiding behind cloaks of gray, warming the cool atmosphere lightly. People here never questioned more than they needed. If you needed butter, they would tell you it is in isle three and let you be. Back in Portland, the cashier girl would always tell him the different flavors of butter he should try in his culinary, when all he needed butter for was a spread on toast, a condiment on pancakes. Oh but he definitely missed the pancakes, pancakes on a Sunday morning with Claire over at Sally's.

It was the usual routine. About twenty steps he would be right in front of the café bistro where he would purchase his morning coffee, if he wakes up that early. Across that store, he would follow the scent of freshly baked bagels from the bakery two shops away. Chris secretly thanked the heavens to be staying close to such wonderful delicacies; he had been cautious he was addicted to their blueberry bagels that were only available on Tuesdays, particularly only before eight in the morning. Any later they would have been all gone and there goes another week of waiting. For lunch, if he decided to skip the kitchen chores, it was always a ride downtown to a specialty store that served both local and American food. It was tough trying to speak to the other storeowners who only spoke in Romanian or Moldovan, especially when he tried ordering a local dish from their local menu. Chris often thought his tongue was going to roll off on its own if he tried any harder than he had been doing. He had become acquainted with one of the waitresses earliest and his fame gradually spread among the entire crew, so much so that even the chef knew Chris was fond of his Sarmale*. However, what made the restaurant best was their weekend menu that served Surf 'n' Turf with meat that reminded him of Colorado steak. For a moment, he would enjoy his weekend as though he was back in States, a nice cold beer accompanied by outdoor grill for the Saturday evening. The only missing element would be the beautiful Portland sea view, but the river view generally does just fine. All in all, that was what made Simţire generally one of the places you would have the senior fighter spending a regular Saturday evening by.

Today, after locking up the apartment, it is decided he would have that forgotten pasta he promised himself two weeks ago when he realized he ran out of cheese at home the other time. Home to some of the finest cheese much to its exquisite brewery, Chris found himself appreciating the art of eating more than he did with the fast food he had back home. However let truth be known that he was no expert in tasting cheese despite the variety, often did he find himself wincing at a Brie as much as he had choked on a piece of lemon. Wine, on the other hand, communicated with him just fine. It felt closer to the sibling of beer while Brie was the long-forgotten distant relative of Mozzarella. He also found a distinct liking for one of the rare wines still available in state, Plavai** it was. Thank Yurkov the Russian chef of Simţire for that, the latter found love for the crispy white wine and introduced its charming flavor to the fighter. The chef never fails at surprising Chris with his new creations, discoveries and wittiness but to speak of his true attempts, it would be his public displays of affection towards the man. They led the senior fighter in one too many occasions having thoughts if he was serious about courting him. It was funny however, the attempts Yurkov drew, had often brought an occasional smile to Chris' face unknowingly. Even amusingly so, such subtle experiences comforted his present state of loneliness. As he lost old friends, he gained new ones. Losing his job had some fair trades in his life it seemed, and the aged man was determined to make up for lost years in the luxury department.

So the first thing he filled in his list of luxuries was his recent purchase of a 2007 Wrangler. Mint condition, low mileage and the sleek black car paint were worth every penny for a secondhand purchase. Although his primary intention was to reinstate his classic 1996 jeep, the antique sellers were ripping the price off even with its exhausted mileage. Besides, Yurkov was the one who got him a deal too good to be true; he could hardly resist his goodwill and the savings in his wallet. The Russian has his fair share of communal involvement it appears; it was only about a month ago when Chris found out his celebrity status throughout town that he had slowly begun to regret being involved with the man. Not that the latter already has secret admirers showing hostility to him, one can never be too sure if he might be caught up in some complication that he has no desire to be in. With all the ambiguity building, Chris only wished for a quiet piece of heaven. And that heaven rests in the distant woods due north of his stay, some gentle mountain climbing and camping sites allocated for the civilians, where a quiet lake slumbers. This is where his Wrangler plays an important role in his life in Moldova, apart from Chris' undying love for jeeps. He made a promise to himself to take time to explore the outskirts of town, seeking solace in nature for his aging heart. As he ignited the engine in his seat, he blankly stared at the steering wheel while feeling age taking its toll on him. Alone in the driver's seat, he stared at the empty passenger seat to his right, recalling the times he drove his friends back home from a baseball game, a drinking session or even a late-night movie. Friends naturally included his captain, who later became his lover-turned-foe. How times have changed since then, the events happening over the last decade molding the senior fighter into who is now. Trust weakened and faiths destroyed, even the closest of comrades were perhaps, a façade. But since dwelling over history would seem too heavy for a perfect day to waste, Chris thus punched into the accelerator heading for the nearest supermarket to gather his shopping lists.

In the green trolley sat a dozen of eggs, two cartons of milk, two jars of pasta sauce, three packets of linguine, microwaveable pizza, a loaf of bread, a slab of butter and the misfit, six-pack beer. The thunder roared into the store from the rain, causing some kids to shout and cry from the sudden shudder. The rain had barely subsided; in fact, it felt like it had only gotten worse than before. Staring at the columns of instant coffee, Chris regretted coming out in the rain to run his shopping. Couldn't he have picked another day or another time during the day to do it? Then he felt the rumbling in his stomach and remembered the commitment he made to the pasta he promised in his mind, which brought him to another thing, energy bars. If he wants to avoid last minute shopping like the one he is doing right now, he needs to make sure he has a museum full of energy bars, like every single flavor or label or types of energy bars stocked up in his apartment so back up supplement is always ready for consumption. Grabbing two packets of the instant latte mix, he left the beverage isle with some bottles of mineral water before hunting for the energy bars, keeping in mind to grab the Almond-flavored ones first. Oh right, cheese. Not forgetting the cheese this time, otherwise it will be just the same as before.

"If it's pasta, I will have to say Parmesan out aloud, my darling!"

Sometimes Chris really believes that someone, or everyone, is reporting his status or whereabouts to the one man who actually bothers finding out everything about him.

Staring at the packaging of pre-packed cheese in the fridge, Chris noticed an aged left hand grabbing his right hand, leading him to put the cheese back to its position. As soon as he returned the dairy product however, he quickly removed his hand from the touch, flinching from the cold metal worn around the intruder's ring finger. The thick heavy gold wrapping around a sturdy carat of emerald protruded from the circular smooth surface of the accessory. This piece of jewelry has Chris unwillingly acquainted to it as compared to the diamonds and shimmers other ladies decorated themselves with from what he could see on the streets. Gold, the senior fighter is no fan of its luminosity. He prefers the quality of silver and its purity, which explains why he actually bothers purchasing silver kitchenware other than the fact that silver is cheaper in Europe. As for gemstones, he has no desire for its fanciness so to speak, but if he had to pick one in the event of a TV show or lucky draw, sapphire was quite the cut he recalled. Now reverting to the reality at hand, Chris realizes the predicament he is thrown into with the infamous celebrity standing beside him for he could see ladies casting their attentions in his way.

"You really have to stop this darling thing, Yurkov." Chris warned in a manner similar to a kindergarten teacher telling a child off. Even if they were meant to be amusing, chances prevailed that this time the endearment ticked the wrong side of the aged man's tolerance mildly. He made no attempts to turn to his intruder and simply continued searching through the fridge for the Parmesan cheese that was mentioned, quickly loading the ingredient into his shopping cart once found.

"But darling, I've told you time and time again how serious I am about you to become my darling!" Yurkov followed his object of passion to the isle filled with canned products, watching him selectively reading through the information contents on the labels. "And please, call me Alexei, darling."

Chris rolled his eyes inwardly.

If reading the distribution address on a canned soup was not enough sign to tell the outsider the reader is disinterested in the outsider's conversation, then the reader must be seriously dealing with some self-absorbent guy which in this case, Chris knows is what he is dealing with. Yurkov can be a great guy—friendly, loud, outgoing, warm and sincere but he is as stubborn as any Russian he has heard of is. The first time he tried to send Chris home, he had gone all out to make the latter reveal his address otherwise he was going to lock them both in his restaurant for the night. Tipsy and fuzzy then, the ex-fighter thought the gesture was rather cute and had indulgently played along with his little act of sincerity. He even let the chef stayed over at his place for the night and bunked onto the same bed with him as if two brothers would. But before anybody starts speculating, clearly no sex was involved. Although, some cuddling and rubbing could be said otherwise. So judging from there, what Chris really did not expect was the spontaneous flirting turning into a long chase to where he was now: stalked on grocery shopping. Way to go, Chris Redfield. Way to go.

"Yurkov, you do not ask someone to be your darling when you are clearly," the ex-fighter took a deep breath as he stood up from the floor, staring at the blinding golden ring on his wedding finger, "married."

"But Alexei is divorced! I wear this only because it looks nice on me. Even you said so, darling!"

Or maybe not.

"I was drunk then Yurkov and besides, I'm not into you. You're a great guy, a great friend. You even got me a great ride. But this doesn't mean that I am interested in you, you have to understand that."

Advance-Delay Tactics 101: Day 58, verse 43.

It was like chanting a sutra over and over again, the art of stalling a stalker who is head over heels for you. It would not be a problem to exercise the notion if it works…

"It's okay darling. I know it takes time for you to adjust to a man liking you but this is not a problem for Alexei. I can wait, until you are ready to accept me. Because I really like you, I will be patient. Now, let me help you with the grocery."

Except, it doesn't.

Sweeping the trolley from Chris' hands, Yurkov pushed the trolley slightly away to recommend the different brands of canned products, which he later stopped to suggest that he could just come over to cook for the ex-fighter if he could. Barely hesitant, the latter politely declined his goodwill and implored him to use his sincerity on the grocery shopping instead. Chris knew this would eventually end up with Yurkov insisting to come over to his place to make dinner with him especially since today is Thursday, Simţire's day off. What made it worse was Chris also knew that he was going to lose this battle if he tried to stop the chef from coming over. Therefore, if this was going to happen, he had to begin strategizing a contingency plan to help his ass remain molest-free the entire time while the Russian comes over. If you thought the reason why the proud ex-B.S.A.A. member did not retaliate against the seven-foot tall, 250-pound chef was due to fear, then you must have most definitely mistaken his gratitude for cowardice. Chris was well aware that he had things coming easy and convenient through the hands of Yurkov. This chef had been smoothing paths behind his back in more ways than he was told. Yet, he wished to remain grateful towards his hospitality, with no means of wanting to take advantage of the 45-year-old man either. It wasn't like he was going to lose some flesh from ass grabbing, he just needed to devise an alternative to distract the chef from doing it. Then again, Yurkov is really intense with ass grabbing. He once kneaded his ass too much that he began grinding against it. Chris had to pull the brakes when he threatened to knock the lights out of him and made sure he would never see him again after that. Yurkov frantically apologized immediately and kept his hands to himself that very night, though the ex-fighter knew it was going to be a one-day-thing only. Hence, the plan.

"Could you bring me the salt and pepper please, Chris?" Any woman, or man in certain rare occasions, on the street who knows Yurkov would kill to have him in their kitchen cooking for them willingly. Safe to say that Chris is definitely not one of them. He handed the condiments to the expert chef as he kept his stocked-up groceries away, the scent of tomato and basil spreading through his kitchen. Mission Ass-Protect is a go.

The chef continued to whip dishes over the stove, stir-frying tomatoes with thyme, feta cheese, garlic and capsicums in preparation for the baguette grilling over in the oven; a signature Italian appetizer, Bruschetta. Over another flame, he stirred the rich chicken broth as it simmered potatoes along with sausages and onion in it. Tuscan soup he recalled, simple yet elegant to serve. Straining linguine over a pot of boiling water, the chef dropped the pasta into the tomato puree broiled with onions, basil and sliced chicken meat. Then grabbing a handful of the Parmesan cheese they bought earlier, he melted the cheese into the tomato-based pasta, strings of its stickiness forming in the heated pan. Familiar with the apartment, Yurkov opened the cabinets attached to the ceiling to retrieve the porcelain dishware, overly satisfied with his presentation. Today is the day he intends to wow his darling.

Fully aware that his lunch was going to turn into a dinner with the introduction of Alexei Yurkov, Chris had previously stuffed two energy bars down and half a pint of milk with it. Finally comfortable with the disposure of the new shopping, the owner stood beside the charming chef as he garnished the pasta arranged in his serving plate. Yurkov is what you would call the epitome of manliness, not that Chris fell short of the expectation. A fine quality that sets the Russian brute apart from other men, and this is not in comparison to the alluring charisma he possessed. Set of deep dark brows, growing thick and luscious towards the nose bridge while prim and sharp at the opposite end. Not to mention his deep eye sockets, intensifying hazel irises clearly seen from short tidy lashes. A pointed nose, smart and triangular to the likes of Englishman in the 18th century. Thin rosy lips complimented by the mild tan evening throughout his complexion, enhancing rigid jaw lines from the corners of his face with weak wrinkles forming across his forehead and eyelids. Similarly brunette much like himself, his hairstyle known as the Pompadour, an old-fashioned cut that fitted him to a T. His body well trained and refined, contours definitively cut at his joints and ribs. Perhaps the Russians forced male citizens to train and build up during their army service; Chris could barely accept the fact that perfection actually existed. Correction, he is probably only reluctant to accept perfection hitting on him that's why. The last perfection he remembered hitting on him was the mirage of his perfect captain, only the man turned into a blasphemy in strives to become a God. One experience with perfection was bad enough to consider it a second time.

"Darling, could you bring the plates over to your dining table? Dinner is served." Exasperation followed the owner as he lent a helping hand to sit up the table. Mean would be to discredit the luxurious spread the chef had prepared for Chris and cruelty would be to lie that the food was barely fantastic because they were absolutely scrumptious. Capable of neither both, the owner settled in his seat before his personal chef served the appetizer and soup to his table. The small dining table comfortably fits four on each side of its shape, allowing Yurkov to sit right next to the owner if not opposite him. Pulling up closer to the younger man, his eyes followed the hem of the tank top Chris put on to its sleeveless cutting, then to his shoulder joints and collarbone. Oh, how much time he had spent dreaming about sinking his teeth into that exposed sexy piece of flesh, nipping along its deep setting to his nape back around as he ravished the remains of his body. Falling into the night where he touched the younger male at the most intimate of places, fingertips trailing the contours of his masculinity and lips brushing over his quivering. He would hear the soft breathing in the silence, visualizing his chest rising and falling from gasping while he continued kissing every inch of skin. If he could, he would stop to tease his hardened nipples, tongue flicking over his sensitivity to elicit the sweetest music to his ears. Then he could also perhaps, push his luck a little further to his lower half, where beneath his pants contained a raging hard-on yearning for his attention as he licked his lower lips, ready to engulf its eagerness and…

"Your food's turning cold, Yurkov."

Stare at his own erection, at the dining table.

Mild, but definitely awakened.

Chris had started on his pasta when he realized that the chef was still staring at his plate, imagination telling him that he might have seen a string of drool sliding off the corner of the latter's mouth. The latter must have gone daydreaming again. The younger male found the chef having tendencies to do so as of late; eyes locked deep into space, leaving reality behind and dreaming of a dream. And each time he asked what the chef had been daydreaming about in his fantasies…

"Nothing, Chris. It's really nothing." The answer is always preset.

Then Chris' response would always be preset as well, "Alright."

"Sorry if I looked distracted, darling. Maybe it's just tiredness catching up with Alexei." The follow-up was new however, experience told the younger male he was not going to buy that as the real answer either. Feigning convinced, Chris nodded to accept the explanation given, not that it was really needed to begin with.

"It's okay. Restaurant business must be wearing you out."

"Ah yes… but the restaurant is what made Alexei meet Chris. I am happy that Chris enjoys eating at my restaurant. As long as you are happy, I will be happy too."

Yurkov gently placed a hand over Chris' hand, kneading his fingers with his own as he tried to thread his fingers through his. But very quickly, the younger male withdrew his hands from the table, looking away from the Russian chef whom he figured could now be wearing a slightly pained look on his face. The ex-fighter did not leave Portland in search of new romance in his life but to find solace in a foreign land to start afresh, begin anew. He had never thought of him being sexually appealing towards guys, or guys being sexually attractive to him. There had only ever been one exception in his entire life, one blonde who had captivated all of him, making him surrender to his possession, binding him with the love he harbored for the said blonde. The relationship they had, or if they ever had, were some of the most precious memories he would hold onto for life, carving the imprints of his hands embracing around his body for they remained possessive even in death. However even with that being said, Chris knew memories in the mind were like the photographs sitting on his bed frame, they were meant to be a phase, history to be engraved in the vast storage of the human mind. Life continues to move on after that.

Even if any part of your mind wishes to stay at standstill, it has to go on.

"Sorry. I can't." Chris' reply was blunt and cut to the chase. This is not the right time.

Yurkov knows none of this is Chris' fault. He was the impatient one. His darling was the benevolent one who had repetitively forgave him of his impulsions. He was an angel, sent from heavens above, here perhaps to serve a sentence for a wrong deed he had done, to endure suffering for the sins he had committed, or maybe to have been banished for loving someone he could not. There is nothing more sinful than love itself, and it is the very same kind of love Yurkov longed to shower his angel in. If only he was given a chance to prove this love to him, he would take him away from all the pain and suffering he barricades himself in, end the misery he lives with. There are many variations of the ex-fighter's life conjured in the chef's mind, the lifelong chapter of his life spent in France had absorbed him in many ways, explaining the dramatic melancholic interpretation of Chris' life as seen from above. Patience is virtue, patience bears fruit to those who wait.

"It's alright, darling! Come, let us go to the kitchen to prepare dessert." The Russian chef cleared their dishes from the table as he brought them into the kitchen. "I have previously refrigerated the raspberry Bavarian cream in your fridge and I can smell the chocolate tartlets ready from the oven! You are going to have to help me fill them up, darling."

As Chris turned into his kitchen, he could not help but bring a smile to his face watching the back of the giant squeezing around his tiny kitchen, washing the dishes up in the singular sink. He personally assumed that the size of Yurkov's kitchen back at home should be the size of his entire apartment. It simply would not justify a chef to have a miserable kitchen, much like the one he has, back in the comfort of his own home. Quietly he stepped to the fridge, opening it to find a porcelain bowl sitting in the middle deck, a clean wrap covering its peak. A whiff of the chocolaty aroma filled his kitchen this time as he turned to the source of the sweet scent; a dozen of freshly baked chocolate tart base sitting on the baking tray, courtesy of Alexei Yurkov once more.

"Come over here, darling! We'll have to wait 'til these bases cool before we can fill the cream in. Otherwise they are going to melt and spoil the taste."

So the assistant placed the bowl next to the baking tray and headed over to the kitchen counter, observing the Russian chef melting a small portion of dark chocolate in a glass bowl over boiling water. Yurkov signaled to his assistant to give it a try, that he could learn to melt chocolate the next time if he needed to. Accommodating, Chris leaned towards the counter, holding the wooden spoon previously used and stirred the mixture. The chef disappeared for a moment and returned with a small bowl of chopped Almonds, somehow discovering his angel's preference for its distinct taste. He poured the ingredient in and watched him continued stirring, instinctively placing a hand on his assistant's hip when he leaned into his back, head aligning above the other's shoulder. This was what Mission Ass-Protect was prepared for.

"I'm just going to check on the tarts, why not you stir it?" Chris tried to slip from his touch, but he could feel the pressure planted firmly on his hip sliding down towards his ass. Yurkov brought another hand down onto the kitchen counter, blocking one exit while he pressed closer onto his assistant. He grinned playfully at his subdued, his molesting hand rubbing circles around the firm cheeks behind. He had learnt the art of being French well it seemed, intimacy was a brilliant form of art to express desire. Unfortunately, the American did not pick that up well for he pressed his rear hard into the kitchen counter behind him, inflicting a wince on Yurkov's face from the objection. The chef quickly retrieved his hand to nurse the sting, which in turn allowing his assistant to flee the scene.

"Oh I'm right. The tartlets have cooled, Yurkov."

After a couple of tartlets and a small drink, well small being a glass or two of Cabernet, Chris walked Yurkov to his door and reminded the latter to board a cab home immediately. Rosy and warmly, the friendly chef threw a big hug around the owner's shoulders as he greeted him goodnight. The latter returned the embrace, one arm patting the back of the chef who nuzzled in his shoulders.

"Maybe I could stay—"

"No. You have to open the restaurant tomorrow. Good night, Yurkov."

"Urgh… Well then, noapte buna darling." Relentless, the Russian chef leaned towards the side of Chris' in attempts to kiss goodnight but was expectantly met with the owner's resistance as he turned away from his approach. Tonight he had spent time with his angel, cooked for his darling, and made desserts together sharing over a few glasses of wine. He realized he should stop pushing his luck for the night. Throwing a half-drunk smile, he bid adieu and made way to exit by the staircase. Weekend is around the corner, he can see his darling again until then.

Refreshed after a warm bath, Chris found himself sitting at his desk loading his laptop to retrieve some emails. The time difference is about 10 hours apart, the senior had hoped to receive some response from the ingrate organization. Tapping the enter key on the keyboard, the white screen loaded a couple of advertisements into his email, but none was what he waited for. Just as he was about to log out, a surprise came in most recently from a sender namely Claire. Soon after he clicked into the message, he briefly read the contents from his beloved sister. She generally summarized her attempts to investigate the whole ordeal her brother had gone through previously, determined to find out the cause for what had happened. Jill on the other hand, as informed, seemed to have been sent outstation to another location, not once seen after Chris' departure. I will definitely find a way to clear your name!, was Claire's way of reassuring her brother that his efforts would not go in vain. Sometimes they work, sometimes they don't; tonight, they sure did. It no longer mattered as much as it initially did whether if Chris could return to B.S.A.A., he was more concerned to clear his name in order to reunite with his sister. Even if Claire knew her brother had done nothing wrong, the reality slapping hard was quite the opposite. The last thing he wanted was he being court-martialed out of Sally's on a Sunday morning while having pancakes with his sister.

The thought of that made him sick. Damn those son of a bitches.

So quickly, he thought about writing those upsetting feelings in his online journal to prevent them from corrupting his mood. However, as soon as he logged into his account, he noticed a notification blinking on the top right hand corner of the page. Months of journaling and this, this was the first time Chris saw something like that appearing. The mundane cycle broke its chain as the pop-up sprung into life, informing the author that he has received a comment on his most recent entry, which was just this afternoon. Curious, the said man hovered his cursor over the URL displayed, waiting the transfer to his entry page.

He stopped and forgot to breathe once he scrolled downwards to read the comment.

Unbelievable.

/

Anonymous said on:
April 29, 2010 Thursday 08:48PM (GMT +3:00)

I do not see what you have to complain in life, Mr. Red. You said yourself that you are a national hero leading a promising career who was stabbed right in the back by your comrades. In my honest opinion, you are just too full of yourself and too caught up in your own dissatisfaction. Have you truly ignored the good your sister is trying to justify for you, or have you hurt her as much as you have hurt the others when you decided to silently depart to god-knows-where? Oh right, Moldova you said. Does everything only revolve around you?

Did you expect a victory parade in commemoration to your recent heroism?

A mental check-up after a recent exposure of missionary work is only a standard procedure to certify that you have not been overly expended in the course of your job. This is just a godforsaken measure to make sure you are still sane after witnessing whatever you might have seen in the line. Instead, you would like to think that the organization that you are working for is taking you for a lunatic. If they thought so, I'd be sure that they have you locked up in a straitjacket and sent straight to the nearest asylum. Does that make your infinite parole sound much more enticing now? Or are you now more convinced that you are really mentally unstable?

Why do you have to question everything that you are not aware of? Has it ever occurred to you that the only reason why you weren't informed could be as simple as the lack of need to do so?

You don't want your job back, Mr. Red. But neither do you want to lose it either. Confusion leaves you only wanting justice, which you have no use for it either.

This is not what you are best at performing because this is not what you are fighting for.

Until you recognize what you truly want in life, you will never be happy.

P.S. Never go empty on your stomach, it makes you grumpy easily.

/

The chocolate tartlet slipped from the author's hand onto the floor.

* Sarmale (Sarma): A Romanian dish, usually made of minced meat stuffed in vine leaves.
** Plavai: A Moldovan white grape wine once popular in the 19th century.

There we have it, chapter one. How did you find it? Reviews deeply appreciated.