Spoilers Ahead for F.E.A.R. 2 and 3 (uh, and I guess 1?)
Man, poor Becket. Like, Point Man had some crappy luck, but at least Jin didn't die and all signs point to the canon ending being him surviving with Alma's baby. This is my take on the aftermath regarding Becket's death, because he didn't even get a decent one of those.
So, the first non-Golden Sun fic I end up doing WOULD be a Becket/Alma ship… as if there could be a more screwed up relationship.
Release
He had prepared himself for it; there wasn't much he could do physically, but then again he knew it had nothing to do with the physical. Sgt. Becket had a knack for exemplary gun play, but no matter how many bullets he could shoot into that apparition – that pale girl, whose hair was the tangled roots of black oak, and whose eyes were fire incarnate – no blood would spill. There was no blood left to spill. He had tried.
So, rather than seethe and allow himself to be dragged down into despair, like her, he had sharpened his mind with every passing day he remained trapped in his little cage. Of course he had slowly grown mad, but glimmers of his sanity survived, and part of him honestly doubted he would be able to kill her and the vile spawn incubating in her womb if he wasn't insane. Given the events of the last nine months, it wasn't very hard to convince himself he was already.
His mental training had been simple, at least at first; the swine at Armacham had been stupid enough to leave him in a cell with no psychic barriers for the first two months of her pregnancy, and though that had led to her visage visiting him often enough, it had also given him the chance to test his powers. He had nearly broken out, calling Replica to himself and massacring a large squad of Armacham soldiers. After that, his cells had all been reinforced with psychic barriers, but everyday he had meditated, tried to focus and increase his psychic powers, always mindful of any chance to escape, convinced Armacham would give him another chance.
After all, the bastards still hadn't learned how to properly contain their god damned messes. That pale girl, whom he would sometimes view out of the corner of his eye in his first cell, rubbing her ripening stomach, more than attested to that.
After she had… defiled him, after she had stolen his seed, she had freed him from his little chair, and said one word: Stay. His bitter scowl had been more than enough of an answer; that she would think he would even entertain the idea of – what, living beside her? – showed how insane she truly was.
Hey eyes had blinked in harsh realization, and even though he had hated himself for it, he couldn't help but feel some pity for her. In her twisted mind, she must have convinced herself that he did indeed love her, or that she could make him. Somehow, the thought that he hadn't just been a simple ejaculation to her did make his hatred dim. At the least, she had wanted him for more than a child, though that certainly didn't mean he wanted her.
He had wondered then why she still had haunted him after he had spurned her, as they could never be together. They lived in different worlds: he in the world of the living, her in the world of the dead. Well, he couldn't even be sure of that, perhaps she was in a world of her own, or existed between both. Either way, there was nothing else she could take away from him, besides his life, and she seemed unwilling to do so, whether because of her own lust or some other reason he knew not.
He had never spoken to her, just couldn't bring himself to do it. There was no point, as he had determined his words meant nothing to her. Her eyes would fluctuate between burning red and stinging yellow, never losing their ethereal glow as she watched him. Sometimes, in those two months, their minds would touch, and he could hear bits and pieces of words, of feelings.
Love… sorry… father… child…
It had amused him in the sickest way, that she would even try to apologize. His entire team dead, his body ravaged and used as a pawn, his seed planting the fruit of evil in her womb, and she wanted forgiveness.
Of course he had felt sympathy for her… at her worst, she was a monster twisted by Armacham, and at her best, she was a scared child, who wanted a life; love; children. But everything she touched, she destroyed. He doubted she could even comprehend the difference between love and hatred, between right and wrong. All she held was raw rage and pain… and lust, he supposed.
He almost wished that he could truly speak to her, to let her know what she had put him through. To let her feel HIS rage, to let her understand that nothing she could do now would lead to anything but more destruction, more pain, more hatred. But they could exchange no words, and he had not even seen her in the past seven months. Somehow, someway, he almost missed her; almost. Perhaps she had tethered him to herself, perhaps she had planted a seed of lust within him.
Becket knew he was no match for her, for her power, for her hatred. For her fear. But, if he had cornered her while she was in labor, or immediately after… he could have ended her. Ended this fucking mess.
Instead, he now felt his soul slip down through the cracks of reality, her bastard sons being his release. Monsters, all of them, but he couldn't help but feel some sense of thanks. The past seven months, being trapped in a cell with no contact, with no life… it had somehow been even worse. Locked away with only his memories, the things he despised the most.
And yet, as he floated down, he felt a tug. A familiar one. One he had spurned again and again, but that had eventually found a grip regardless. Alma, he thought with bitter amusement, realizing that this was his punishment for hoping he could be free from this torment.
Becket, came a sudden reply, laced with longing and sadness, and he peered to his right; though the voice had made no sound, instead speaking to his mind, he could easily tell where it had come from. She lied there, spread naked, her illusions finally giving way to the reality of whatever monster was trying to claw its way out of her. Her body was ragged, even by her standards, and red, festering marks lined her swollen belly, not unlike the orange scarring left by the beats that came from the deepest recesses of her soul.
The sight of her brought back so many emotions, the greatest two being fear and hatred, but before he spoke he met her eyes, and the yellow orbs he had grown to despise seemed to tremble at his now twirling red infernos.
He wondered how she had spoken so clearly, having grown used to her frantic mumblings and eerie childish giggles, until it briefly dawned on him that she had dragged him into her mind, into her realm. It made sense that here, he could understand her, as he had long supposed.
Becket wondered how he felt about that now, after his death; hearing Alma's voice. Her real voice, her real thoughts. He wondered what she would do if he spat on her, tried to force his hand into her womb and rip out the demon inside. Would she end him? Or suspend him in endless torment?
She broke the gaze, a look crossing her face that he was not quite familiar with. Well, he knew guilt well, but it wasn't something he expected to see upon her face. The face of his rapist.
I'm sorry, go, her mind whispered, and he could feel despair radiating from those words. I knew it. Her face turned away from him, wincing as a small foot pressed against the dome of her stomach, the sight of which nearly led him the puke. He nearly reached forward then, but hesitated. Surely this was what he wanted, to make her feel his pain, to dominate her as she had him? How foolish could she be, bringing him to her at her weakest hour?
Knew what? Becket asked, his voice neutral. He could wait a few minutes, and found himself generally intrigued as to what she could possible say in response.
Alma's eyes turned back to him, brimming with what actually appeared to be regret, but Becket wasn't a fool. She had done this before, shown him pictures of her fucking swing in his mind's eye, of her childhood, in an attempt to create empathy. It had worked up to a point; he had wanted to end her and release her from the existence she now held. As a romantic ploy, though, it had fallen as flat as her heartline.
That you would hate me, she replied, and he felt the rage well in his heart, although it was now as silent as hers.
YOU RAPED ME! He spat, raising his hand above his head, a moment away from striking. She cried out, holding her arms in front of… her stomach. In front of it. That which he hated most. You're right, I do hate you. Now go ahead, do whatever you like with me; store me in your mind so you can rape me again, send me down to the burning hells, or release me.
I would never. I love you, came Alma's reply, her arms lowering when she realized he wasn't going to strike her. I said go. Nothing here for you. You're like… them. Heh. Tears formed in her eyes, and Becket bit his lip to the degree that it bled.
This wasn't what he wanted, he now decided. He didn't want to hear her thoughts, to feel her pain, to give her a chance to sway him, as much as her weak countenance already was doing so. He didn't want to argue with her about her perverse ideas of the world, didn't want to have to comprehend her hatred any more. And yet, he remained still.
You have no right to cry, in front of me, he seethed, and she did her best imitation of a shrug, not moving much considering how large her womb was now. Who am I like? Your fucking sons? She nodded hesitantly, knowing they had caused his death. Your love is… you FUCKING RAPE ME, and then what, let them kill me? I knew you were evil, a monster, but not a liar.
What you wanted. Her face fell, and she clutched her stomach, though he could see the grip was weak. For the first time, he wondered if she truly would die from this… child. And if she realized that. Wanted to die. Wanted release. Didn't… don't want me, or her.
It took Becket a moment to realize who the "her" was, and despite the situation felt his rage slipping. What lied in front of him seemed tormented, twisted, and sad. But not evil, and something about her broken speech made his heart sag. If you knew I wanted to die, why bring me here? He questioned, and Alma laughed; it was hard and tear-choked, unlike the gentle if unnerving giggle of her youth.
You want to kill me, and her. Do it. She'll be another monster. All I touch, monsters. Alma covered her face with her hands, sobbing lightly. Becket suddenly held up his hand to view a pistol in it; this had to be a trick. And, yet…
How? How am I like them? He questioned, unwilling to pull the trigger. It probably would do nothing, anyway. And perhaps he was a bit more hesitant to end the child now, knowing its gender. Knowing it was an actual being, despite the impossibility of that fact.
Hate me, she gurgled in response, and now he could begin to see the details of her decay, her throat sounding harsh from her screams, the results of her convulsions. Hesitantly, Becket kneeled down, still a foot away from her, but closer than he had gone since falling into her realm. She eyed him uncertainly, before swallowing and continuing.
Everything I love, hates me. My first, stolen. Tried to end me. My second, twisted. My second is… HIM again. His son, not mine. Both want to end me, my first to protect, my second to consume. She paused, her brow straining, and Becket vaguely realized how much pain she was in. As if he could do anything to help her. As if he would if he could.
You hate me, she continued, finally staring into his eyes again, and despite all resistance Becket could muster, sympathy struck him. She was simply delusional, there was no way she actually held any feelings for him. Want me dead, and our child… even she hates. She is trying to kill me as we speak.
Becket remained silent for several moments, mulling over her words. I have every right to hate you. You stole my life.
They did. He did. He steals all, she replied, shaking her head furiously. My babies, my life, my swing. They would have done the same to you. Wanted you to kill, to be like my second. Only more violence. I love you. I hurt you, but I love.
They is Armacham, he replied, still trying to convince himself her feelings were nothing but a fever dream. But who is this he you mention? You name your sons, however oddly, but not he, or him. Who is he? Who is him? Alma shivered, and shook her head.
No. Hurts. Please, no no no no no…" She fell off into delusional babbling, and Becket could only grimace while he pondered what she could be thinking of. He had slowly grown to view her as a monster, aware of the pain she was causing, of the despair, deliberately trying to punish the world for her own torture. And that was most likely true of Armacham, but now that he saw past the specters, the illusions, the wall of hatred and psychic prowess, she seemed more like a wounded animal, lashing out in fear of being attacked herself. And who could blame her for her condition? But that didn't explain… who was…
Wait… the swing… suddenly, he remember the image she had shown him; her young hands clutching the rope of the swing as she was pulled off it by him. By Harlan Wade. By…
Your father, Becket murmured, Alam's frightened eyes shooting open at those words.
…The Creep, She hissed, wrapping her arms around herself once more. Becket frowned, and reach out his hand, halting as it hovered above her. She was… drawing him in again. This was a trap. But what would she gain from doing so? She was stronger than him, she had no reason to trick him.
Becket's hand drifted lower, until it fell and grasped her shoulder. She glanced at him, unsure, but blinked back tears when she realized the feelings behind the gesture. Her lips even curled into a small smile. He had only seen her do so before when she had held him in her grasp, her fantasies present in her glowing eyes.
Every second that passed, she became less of a monster and more of a victim. Less of an angry woman, and more of a scared child. Every second, he hated her less, and felt more pity. Every second, he understood her more and more, and cursed that no-one in Armacham had contemplated her pain, and stopped Origin from every occurring.
For the first time, Becket glanced around the realm they inhabited; from the peripheral vision, nothing had occupied it, but now, he saw fleeting glimpses of images.
Of her father, a stoic man before twisting into a hideous beast. Of her first son, a small child being ripped away from her before aging in the blink of an eye and pounding bullets into Replica soldiers. Of him, smiling; of him, holding their child; of him, holding her. And then, of him, walking away as she bled to death, a bullet wound piercing her round belly. He felt sick; it wasn't far away from what he had imagined himself.
He didn't love you, Alma, Becket whispered, finding her name odd to speak. He honestly wasn't sure if he had ever said it before. It wasn't your fault. None of it is. He said the words as much to her as himself, but she only shook her head. You have to let him go. Let the hatred go, he said after viewing her reaction. The world doesn't deserve to shoulder this pain. Please.
They are trying to destroy him. He will end them. Take them away again, she sputtered, shaking her head, her dirty locks growing wet from her constant tears. Can't let it go. All that keeps me here. He is all that keeps me here.
Becket had always wondered how something— how someone could hate so much, and now he saw. The fear lined in her face, the pain lined in her face. And to cheat death and curse the balance of the world because your sheer hatred was too great…
It's not worth it, he said, trying to convince her. If you bear this… our child in anger, in hatred, it will be the same. It will only destroy. Let go of the hate. Release it.
Our… child? She whispered, shock on her face, but he couldn't meet her gaze. Stating the truth didn't make him any happier about it. Don't understand, she continued. Hate is love.
No, it's not, you have to see that, Becket said fervently, grasping her hand without thinking, an action that drew another gasp from her. Hatred is not the same as love. He didn't love you. Your sons… I'm sorry, they don't—
He said he did, she replied feebly, her hand shaking in his. At night. Said I was his… little girl. He loved me, so why? Why… why so much pain… why so much darkness… why couldn't he only love? Why HATE?!
Alma screamed, her convulsion erupting a wave out from her. As the wave lit the abyss around them, Becket glimpsed something propelling itself toward them; a writhed creature with the skin of rotted flesh, a gap where its stomach should have been and a ghoulish mouth. The ghost of Harlan Wade, moving to haunt his daughter at her weakest.
They love me; my first wanted me to rest, to end. To help, but I tried to destroy. I couldn't stop. Couldn't stop hating, Alma spewed out words quickly, glancing in fear over Becket's shoulder, at the Creep. My second wanted to help me destroy, but became like him. Wants to be a god.
Alma, they're coming here to end you, and if they do… you can end it yourself. Let it go. Let the hatred go! Becket urged, knowing that the monstrosity that was nearing them was more than a figment of her imagination. It was very real, very fearful, and very much so filled with hatred.
And you, Alma sputtered, her energy waning, her eyes meeting his. I love you, and I hurt you. I wanted you… wanted… wanted my child. But I hurt you. You didn't want me, so I hurt you. I wanted you, wanted my child. Didn't want him… didn't want him to take it, he always has, and now he wants to. He's coming. Run! He'll kill you! I can't… can't…
Why me, Alma? Becket asked, serenely calm, the last nine months of pain and despair coming to a head. Why? Why me? Was it only my signal? Did they put something else in me?
Alam's eyes paled, and for a moment, the hatred, the anger, the walls of both peeled back, and pure blue stared back at him. The fires in her eyes had been doused, replaced with pure fear. I thought I could trust you, she whispered, her other hand latching onto his. You felt… nice. I thought you wouldn't hurt me. I thought you could… love, without hate. She closed her eyes, trembling at the advent of the monster approaching them, and as she spoke with another human for the first time in what must have been twenty years. I thought you could understand.
Becket's heart fell as an inhuman scream came from behind them. This was not his fight. But he would not let her father torture her any longer, lest it led to the birth becoming more dangerous than it already was. LEAVE! He shouted, turning to face the Creep, who tilted its head as it stared at its pray. You're hurt her enough!
Nothing more than an angry child! Came the beast's retort, slowly beginning to walk toward him. She thought she could destroy me, that she could hide her third. I will make it my own. MY GOD.
With inhuman speed, the Creep lashed out, and though Becket had no true body, he felt his chest slice wide open. And yet, he stayed standing, despite Alma's pleas to run from behind him. This entire time, he had been trying to destroy the wrong monster. He had been willing to risk his life once, and was willing to do so again.
The Creep had other ideas, and it quickly became clear that he was no match for the twisted replica of Harlan Wade. He felt flashes of pain after pain, only staying conscious from willpower. The beast enjoyed the sport, often glancing over to its eternal prisoner, making sure she was watching.
Alma… you have to stand up to him, Becket whispered, his voice ragged. Behind him, he could only hear a frantic whimper.
HA! You beg for her help?! See how she cowers! She doesn't love you, fool, and won't protect you. She's too weak to protect herself! Becket stumbled backwards, hatred once again burning his chest.
She killed you… I saw it, he whispered, lifting himself off of a knee, the memories from the video screen in Aristede's bunker flashing through his mind. She ripped you to shreds, ripped the flesh from your bones. The only reason you exist is because she fears you; you can do nothing on your own. Don't flatter yourself by calling her a monster, you're the only monster here. You are nothing to her. She destroyed your body, she can erase your memory!
SHE WILL NEVER LET ME GO! I AM HER PURPOSE! The Creep scream, its tendril arm stabbing forward, and piercing Beckets body. Why do you protect her? She has no use for you. She knows not the difference between love and hatred, creation and destruction, impulse and control.
You love me, and hate him, Alma. You created your children, NOT him, and you can destroy him. Your hatred for the rest of the world is impulsive, control it and end him! Becket shouted in retaliation, sliding to his knees as the Creep dugs its arm deeper into his chest.
Love and hate is the same… love and hate is the same… Alma whispered over and over, Becket turning to see a small girl in a red dress rocking back and forth, rather than the pregnant woman he knew should sit in her place.
No… it's not… Becket breathed, nearing his mind's end. I hate you for raping me. But I… I love you, because you need it. Because no one else has. Because we're the same, we're outcasts. Because the only way you can defeat him is with someone else's love.
LIAR! The Creep scream, ripping its arm out and grabbing Becket by the head, forcing his face into Alma's, who had morphed back into her true form, and whose face was wrought with indecision; painted with love and with fear. You do not love her, you despise her!
I do love her, Becket whispered with strain, desperately trying to convince himself of those words, knowing they were the only hope for not just him, but possibly the world he had left behind. The world he and his squad-mates had vowed to protect.
No, you don't, Alma suddenly spoke, having reverted to a child once more. Her eyes were wide and yellow, and Becket could feel her immense power radiate through the air. But I love you, and I won't let him take you from me.
The Creep raised a scream in protest, only to drop Becket and rear back a moment later, hunching over and breathing terribly. Before it could speak, she raised her hand, and its mouth snapped shut. I don't fear you anymore, father. I only hate you… but that hatred is not enough to keep you here. Only my fear is, which makes you no more.
Becket blinked to find Alma's pregnant nude body in front of him, and his chest healed; the Creep was nowhere in sight, flickering orange ashes hovering in the air where it had last been. Thank you, she whispered, breathing slowly now, the birth inevitable.
A few more seconds past before she forced out words that confounded him: Will you stay with me? Becket hesitated, his mind and heart conflicted. He had saved her… but then again, she had saved him. Did he do it because she held his child? Or had his sympathy overflowed, after he had been so close to ending her? Could he actually… care, about her? His words had indicated as so, but he wasn't sure.
Frowning, he took a step backwards, only to hesitate again as her face crunched into misery. Then, despite all logic he knew, he moved over to take her hand once more. She wrapped her own frail fingers onto it tightly, and he found no words were needed between them, as their minds melded, rather than collided.
She had done horrible things, and a good deal of them to him, but it was his child. Their child. And for once, Alma seemed to be concerned with something other than hate, than fear. He couldn't deny it was a nice change.
He tried to sort through things in his own mind, but had little time to do so before her sons emerged into the chamber, causing it to shift slightly in setting. It took Becket little time to realize that he had no power here; just as Alma had done with him, she was giving her sons their chance to end her, for the pain she had caused them.
He suspected they would, though silently wished they wouldn't; she seemed at peace, now. Or, at least, about to be, once her daughter was born.
In a family built from violence and betrayal, it did not surprise Becket when the brothers turned against one another. He was happy to view Fettel being the one to die, however, and watched with bated breath as the other made his way toward Alma's side.
A few moments later, and he held the newborn in his hand, and watched as Alma turned to ash; to his eyes, anyway. The son left carrying the child, while Becket moved over to Alma, who had kept him from the illusion, and was lying down on the ground and panting.
He'll… raise… her good. Show what love and hate are, Alma whispered, sweat covering her body, her stomach still bloated; Becket could tell that she was near death. Good… son. Loves… me.
Becket kneeled down, lifting Alma up by her knees and back, and set her down on the floor, in his arms. It's over, now, he whispered, stoking one of the stray hairs out of her face. You did it. You let the hatred go.
Made me… happy… she forced out, her breathing slowing. When you lied. No one… ever said it, since him. No one ever meant it.
And if I did? Becket asked, watching as Alma's body morphed; not into a child, nor into the form she had used to seduce him, but a mix of her true body and the latter. She looked worn, and thin, but human. He wondered if it was an illusion, or the truth. Whatever that was. Would love, or at least feelings similar, be enough of a reason for you to stay?
Alma glanced at him oddly, trying to decipher his words. There's nothing left… here. She had let go of the hatred, but seemed perturbed at the idea of finding anything else.
Your daughter is left. And you could stay, and protect her. Keep her safe from Armacham, Becket suggested, now stroking her stomach. He didn't want her to go, not when her demons had been exorcised. Maybe it was just the feeling of success: knowing that the world hadn't ended, that in the end, he had stopped Alma, though not by destroying her. Or perhaps it was her.
My strength… was hatred… Alma whispered, and Becket shook his head with a smile.
No, it was fear, he replied. And Armacham still fears you.
Do you? She asked, her strength seeming to grow as every moment passed, rather than wane as it had been, her hair turning from black vines to fair locks, her skin from rugged leather cursed with jutting bones to smooth silk.
No. I don't think you'd hurt me, now, Becket replied, and it was the truth. And I won't hurt you.
Alma stayed silent for a long while, curling into him and pressing her head against his shoulder, making no sound though he could feel tears through his shirt. She had been through enough to have a good, long cry, and for all he knew it lasted days. He could feel it all, which is why they remained silent; he watched the reel of her life, of her every waking moment.
From the small happy moments of her childhood, pushing gently on the swing, to needles similar to those that Aramacham had used to scar him slicing her deeply, to her father's hatred slowly shrinking her smaller and smaller and smaller while her own hatred only grew. From the stealing of her first child, to the day she connected with her second, to the moments where she stalked him.
When she finally released, and looked into his eyes, he could see life; neither of them should be alive, yet they were, and they both found some comfort in that fact. I know you don't love me, she whispered, holding him tightly. But I think you can.
Becket smiled, and nodded. I'm in no rush to go to the afterlife… I probably don't have a good shot at heaven, considering how many people I've killed. I'd say the same of you, but I could vogue for you. Alma laughed at his attempt at black humor, and he found himself pleasantly surprised; it didn't sound so different from that childish giggle after all.
She leaned forward and kissed him. It was different; he could feel her everything, unlike when she had raped him, and he distantly wondered if she even had kissed him that day on Still Island. Or maybe then she had been so filled with hate that he had blocked it out.
Is this real? He asked, for the first time realizing this could be another illusion. Another dream. A trick by Armacham. The final crack of his mind, falling in love with the ghost of a ghost who had raped him.
It's release, Alma whispered into his ear, her lips hesitantly lining against his neck, and Becket allowed himself a small smile. He could live with release, whatever that entailed.
Did… did I… there's no way I… did I just write an Alma/Becket fluff fic? Is that even fucking possible?
This one was kind of weird: I woke up at 6 am and could not go back to sleep, because somehow this had ended up in my head. Don't know if I had been dreaming about it (I HAVE been playing a ton of F.E.A.R….), but I just had this story and I compulsively sat down and wrote it, and have been editing it the rest of the day.
I could never bring myself to hate Alma, I always felt terrible for her. All the horrible things she went though, I just couldn't bear to despise her. I always wondered though, how she felt about Becket and how he felt about her: you definitely saw his reaction, but I honestly thought she did feel something for him, from the moment when she placed his hand on her pregnant stomach.
I honestly think that, to some degree, she saw his signal as more than just an identifier as someone who could bear her a child, and as a possible sign that he could understand her: really, the only person in the series who she talks to besides Becket is Fettel, and we all know how that turns out.
I wanted the end to be cryptic: is he broken, is she manipulating him, or is it real? At the end of F.E.A.R. 3, Alma finally seemed free from her hatred and fear, which was kind of the basis behind this fic, the other one being the fact that Becket had a really terrible plot role in F.E.A.R. 3, and I wanted to explore a possible better end for him.
Overall, I had mixed feelings about some of the story, but I liked it. Becket and Alma are such an odd pairing, and I really wish they had been seen together in the third game, rather than just have him destroyed. Thanks for reading!