This is my interpretation of a post-RE5 Jill. Based on her reactions to giant tentacle monsters, I see her being more likely to hide any emotional pain. She's really more shocked/dazed in this chapter then fully realising her situation. At any point she could wake up and not be surprised, so she's proceeding business as usual until it hits her. Jill's ability to survive mortal injuries is something that fascinates me about the series. Capcom has typically handwaved it as 'she got better', but my headcanon places it more along the lines of her being a human Tyrant.

Notes:

-Jill is labelled as former Delta Force, which is impossible because Delta Force do not allow women. However, I've written her as a member of the American Military in the early 90s. The peacekeeping mission in Somalia, specifically. She'd be 18 around the time of the conflict, old enough to be a member of the military and giving her five years between that and Raccoon City.

-I've put Kijuju and the West African BSAA branch in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Why? Because it's the farthest west African country that still speaks Swahili. Once again, Capcom's knowledge of geography astounds.

-Chris shows up in the next chapter, but this is really a Jill-centric story.

There are a few OCs in this series, but they're around to serve a minor purpose, not be Princess Sparklypants married to Wesker. Carter, Wu, Samson, Dodds, and Kenei are all mine. Others belong to Capcom of course.

Obviously, I own nothing. Reviews fuel my writing, so let me know if you want more.

They drag you -all of you- to a pair of decontamination tents. You can't see their eyes through the heavy plastic of their hazmat suits.

Once in the tents, your clothes are tugged and cut away from your body. You expect them to be burned or sealed away in bags marked 'Biohazard'. No garment is spared. They even cut away the black briefs worn for modesty. Your eyes loll blearily and you catch sight of Sheva in no better condition. She looks a little too shellshocked to be uncomfortable. You'd pat her on the shoulder, but you still don't trust yourself to not try to murder everyone due to some evil back-up chip.

Still, naked strangling... there are worse ways to go. You would know that after all.

That thing has you in its grip. You smell its disgusting breath, hear it groan "Staaarrrs." It's going to impale you just like Brad. You brace yourself as one of its twisty slimy gross disgusting stabs your stomach. You're vomiting up blood in the church, hearing voices as you collapse.

Breaking glass. Inertia. Your organs explode and your bones shatter upon impact. His body does nothing to shield you. Yet, raspy breaths continue to inflate your collapsing lungs. Eletric synapses fire through your brain.

You are dead, but still alive all the same. It saves you from becoming worm food. It gives others your fate instead.

You're a snake eating your own tail.

He cuts away the pieces to see what grows back.

The splash of lukewarm water and chemicals on your face snaps you out of your morbid flashbacks. Sheva is next to you, shivering like an excited chihuahua. Being able to wash your own body without the little voice in your head saying "now lather for exactly sixty seconds" is fuck-awesome. Not smelling like decaying flesh is also pretty awesome.

You take a moment to just revel in the spray. Your eyes trace the lines of fat and muscle on the younger woman's body. Sheva either doesn't notice your scrutiny, or doesn't mind. She's lean -thinner than you'll ever be- and the small thatch of hair between her legs makes you miss your own pubes.

P30 doesn't cause hair loss, Excella just felt the weird need to give you bikini waxes.

The spray sputters to a stop and you look around for some kind of towel. You follow a sealed passage to a better lit room and see a pair of towels and some blue-green scrubs. The terrycloth is threadbare, probably because they're going to have to throw it out. It doesn't matter to you, the scratchy sensation is refreshing as you pad yourself dry.

They've provided you with cotton panties, but no bra. You never thought you'd miss the confines of an underwire. After two years though, it would be nice to not be stuck to the inside of your shirt. The scrubs feel floaty and quasi-itchy. Speaking of your breasts, they don't seem to need the same amount of wrangling to get in this shirt. It must be the weight you lost. This is the first thing that really upsets you since you got off the helicopter. Your eyes water a little, but you brush them off and step into the shower sandals stacked under the clothing.

You don't check to see if Sheva's all right when you leave the tent. It's selfish, you know, but comforting has never been your thing. You're the master of unlocking, not the master of motherly concern.

That's Claire.

The harsh setting sun hurts your eyes. You wonder if this is how kids who live in their parents' basement feel about going outside. Hiss.

A pair of fresh-looking jarheads seem to oogle you, but stop and salute instead. Oh yeah, you're kind of a hero in these parts. You nod to them and adjust your spine to fit a woman of your ranking.

You continue strolling through the throngs of people all caged in by the chainlink fence of this compound. Someone grabs at your arm and you whip around, fists raised. The woman holds up her arms in surrender. In one hand, she holds a penlight and clipboard. That and the homely figure plus lab coat makes you recognize her as a on-site doctor. She has short red hair (dyed to cover grey probably) and glasses. Her smile is shy as she gives a little wave.

"I'm Dr. Carter. I've been assigned to do your physical check-up." She turns and gestures to another woman.

This woman is tall and elegant. She has salt-and-pepper hair and is wearing a thin coat of dark brown lipstick. Her hair is scrunched and pinned into a military-code above the collar bun.

"This is Dr. Wu. She'll be doing your psychological evaluation."

You nod and follow them like a mindless doll. The act isn't hard after two years of playing dumb. Rather, being forced into having no will. Semantics.

Carter does everything routine. Blood sample, mouth swab, vagina swab. She takes your blood pressure and checks your retinas.

The eye checking makes her pause.

"Odd." Is all she says.

Chris used to describe you eye-colour as 'beach glass' or 'the colour of the bottom of a creek'. Now they're more of a flat slate blue. You've been staring at them in the mirror behind the good doctor's head for the past ten minutes.

"Your hair seems to have discoloured right down to the folicle."

"Will it ever change back?" You ask.

Your voice sounds a little shaky and uncertain. You steel yourself. They will not see you upset. You are a soldier who has survived (and inflicted) much worse things.

"We'll see."

Carter gives you a lollipop and it excites you more than it should. Wu just keeps making notes on her clipboard. Or maybe she's doodling. You bet she's drawing nasty porn images. Wu's probably freaky like that.

A man is waiting in the hall outside of the examination room. He's in a brown suit and balding. Pockmark scars line his cheeks. You mentally decide he is like a less likable version of Kevin Spacey. When you exit, he inspects you. His eyes linger on your chest too long for your liking.

Oh wait, there's a scar.

You look down. It's not visible through your scrubs. You raise your head and puff out your cheeks. You're used to having your breasts stared at. Still, having it be an official who'd rather look at your tits than your eyes does not bode well.

"Ah. Agent Samson." Carter greets stiffly.

She grips your pale wrist in an almost bruising grip. Wu appears behind her and seems to shoot the man a death glare over your shoulder.

"I'm here to get Ms. Valentine's report."

"Captain." You say.

He stares.

"Captain Valentine. I am a decorated military officer and will be treated as such."

Samson sneers at the correction. You want to punch the look off his face.

"You were a decorated military officer, Captain. We'll see if that title stays."

"Captain Valentine has been under a tremendous amount of stress, Agent Samson. Interviewing her at this point would not be wise. We are still unsure if Wesker programmed any failsafe procedures into her during her imprisonment. For all we know, leaving her alone with anyone could result in death. I recommend giving her a guard at all times for the next forty-eight hours." Doctor Wu speaks up.

It's enough truth and speculation to make him back off. You look to the woman gratefully. She just makes a call.

A pair of guards escort you through the lower levels of the base to an elevator. You turn to inspect their uniforms for nametags. Nothing. They both seem nervous though. You feel it radiating off the younger one in waves.

"It's such an honour to meet you." He finally says in the elevator.

It brings a weak smile to your face.

"What's your name?"

"I'm Private Terrance Dodds. This is Agent Haki Kenei."

Kenei flashes a brilliant smile your way. You like these guys. You don't dare ask how old they are. It will just depress you.

"Kenei, like the runner?" You ask.

"No."

The awkward silence that follows is saved by the ding of the elevator reaching the main floor. You step off without your escort. They scramble after you.

"Captain, what are you doing?"

"I'm hungry. The cafeteria's on this level, right?"

They nod, albeit dumbly. You feel like you might have to hold their hands. The layout of each BSAA base is pretty much the same. The main floor is more open than the others, as this is typically where the press hover for details. You thank whatever non-deity that there aren't any reporter types looking for a scoop. Instead you follow the French-Swahili-English signs to the 'Canteen'.

Holy shit they have a milkshake dispenser.

You grab a tray and hum the Kellis song under your breath. Your fingers drum the invisible keys as the machine whirrs you up a frozen confection.

They have cookies and cream. You may be a little weepy at this new information. Milkshake on tray you make your way to the greasy fried food. You haven't gorged yourself on junk in over two years, salad can go to hell right now.

An apple added to the mess is the compromise you're willing to make. Dodds and Kenei trail after you as you select a seat by the window. It's well into the evening by now.

The milkshake is delicious. It's a mixture of thick, fatty cream and hunks of stale chocolate cookie. It was made with a machine and not with love, but it's just so beautiful. The burger is equally processed and instant and oh so delicious. You make obscene noises as you eat. Dodds shifts uncomfortably in his seat and you can see heat radiating from Kenei's face.

You finish your meal and take the apple with you as you continue on your way upstairs. Back in the elevator, Kenei explains that you're to be kept in a private hospital room for the beginning of your stay.

It's quiet and clean. The sheets are white (easier to bleach) and the itchy blanket a creamy yellow. The hum of machines permeates the air. Carter is in here, she looks weary and beckons you over. You don't even flinch as she stick the IV in you.

"This is just saline with a mild sedative to help you sleep. Your body is dehydrated from all the rigorous activity you've been up to. Goodnight, Captain Valentine."

She exits and you hear the door's lock click shut. Her low voice joins several others before fading off. Once again, you are alone.

The small clock on your bedside reads 1:55 AM. It's mocking you, little bastard.

Exhaustion tugs at your limbs and eyelids, but with each blink you see screaming faces. They've given you a television set in your room. Nothing fancy, but it gets satellite TV from South Africa. You click through the channels, theyr're mostly limited to international news broadcasts, but you manage to find some scripted programming.

A woman with an axe is fighting robots on a submarine. You are instantly grabbed. Wait, isn't that River from Firefly? You reach for the forgotten apple and bite out a large chunk. River fires a gun in the submarine she's in (typical Hollywood) and grabs a young man. She calls him 'John'.

It goes to commercial and informs you that you're watching 'The Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles'.

They made a Terminator TV series? You're pretty sure you hear angels singing. One year you went as Sarah Connor to the STARS Halloween party. No one got the costume except for Chris and Kenneth. Chris only because you had been excitedly telling him about it all week.

Chris.

He's never been good at coping with the job. You wonder how he's doing. He probably needs a hug... and some morphine. You wonder if he's started smoking again.

'cause even you're jonesing for a smoke.

Irving's nasally frantic Italian voice beats inside your skull. At least you have a degree of control when keeping an eye on him. Wesker looses your leash just enough to make the occasional murder he commits with your hands that more terrifying. Ricardo is unsure of you, he has not seen your face. He doesn't know your true voice.

Thus, it surprises him when you hold your hand out when he smokes.

"What? You want one?"

Mechanically, you nod. The cigarettes are long and filtered. Camel brand, you thought they discontinued these.

You keep the heavy hood up and instead just remove the mask. Il Medico, the plague doctor. (Excella has a great sense of humour like that.) The fastens click and hiss as you disconnect it from your suit.

The harsh sunlight feels good on your skin and bad on your eyes. You hear Ricardo's little gasp and look to him. Like most men, his expression is hungry as it traces your features.

"Careful Irving, you might catch flies." You rasp.

He lights the cigarette between your lips and you inhale the poison. Maybe the slow creeping fingers of lung cancer will kill you.

I am Jill's shuffling corpse.

The needle leaves your vein easily enough. That and the hair clip you stole from Dr. Wu is enough to disable the alarm and lock they have on your window.

Your room is on the eighteenth floor. Zero fucks are given about this fact. Your bare toes are brushing the window ledge when you feel a shudder hammer throughout your body. Cold sweat breaks out over your paler skin and your grip slips with it. The dark ground below blurs and you think for a moment of falling.

That would complicate things. Label you suicidal, also, the whole 'not dying' thing isn't something you want to explain right now.

Still, falls aren't so bad. You've died in worse ways. Your body's reactions seem to lean towards survival as you collapse backwards onto the floor.

The tremors are worse now, your hands shake and your bleary vision catches the light streaming through your door. Somewhere you hear an alarm go off. Light fills your vision once more.

Floating. It feels like you're floating. Voices buzz around you and you are in your tank again. Drugged and pathetic, you watch the world through a tiny, yellow-tinted window.

Wesker spends a lot of his time hand-wringing or bickering on the phone. Other researches come and go. First it's a tall, shaggy-haired asian woman. It's more than once that you see her green eyes peering at you through the glass. She bites her lip and steals files when Wesker isn't around. The more Wesker performs tests on you, the less she's around. Eventually, you stop seeing her.

Her replacement is curvacious and young. Much too young for Wesker in your opinion. She looks like she should be in college. Her shiny hair is often twisted into a tight bun and she follows Wesker around, begging for approval. Daddy issues, you label it.

The new woman takes you out of your tank. They don't realise that you've been slowly fighting through the foggy failsafes they give you. Seizing the opportunity, you lunge from the tank. Your muscles scream at the sudden strain, but you're going faster than you ever have. The metal grating scrapes at your bare feet. You keep running.

You have to get out. It doesn't matter if you run into someone's yard ass-butt naked. Getting away is your priority.

Wesker tackles you and you feel cold steel dig into your shoulder blades. You scream and bite part of his face off.

"Clever girl."

He crushes your windpipe.

That's worse than falling out of a window.

Everything is hazy, but there's weight on your legs and warm light against your face. Your mouth feels scratchy and dry. Moving your eyelids is a herculean effort, so you keep them closed as you ask your visitor a question.

"Where am I?"

"The hospital, Lieutenant Valentine. You went through heavy withdrawals last night. It could have been much worse if one of your guards hadn't come in to check on you." It's Dr. Wu.

"My mouth tastes like barf."

"Vomiting is a common symptom of physical withdrawal."

"How come Carter isn't here if we're getting physical?"

"I'm here to discuss as to why you were trying to jump out the window."

"It was too hot." You smirk.

"Your room is air conditioned."

"After being in a cooled bunker for the past two years, do you really think I want recycled air? Nah, fresh oxygen is the good stuff."

"Why did you take out your IV?" Wu sighs.

"To jimmy the window open. I know what type of security I'm under. The window was alarmed." You shrug.

"Then you were going to stick it back in your vein?"

"Ohh yeah, what's the worst that can happen? A little infection isn't too bad after the whole 'mind control thing'. Hell, I'm not even sure I'm really here. This could just be another fantasy. Infection isn't too bad. I once got stabbed by a rusty knife back in Somalia, around '93. Hot sun, stuck in a concrete hut with nothing but some brandy and dirty bandages to keep myself clean. Maggots eat the rotting flesh nice and good. Fuck, that smelled nasty. Worst thing I ever smelled until the mansion. This guy was taking a bath when the T-Virus kicked in. I was checking the bathroom for extra health sprays, aspirin, shit like that. Boom! Zombie pops up out of the water. He was already half soup by the time I shot his face off... yeah."

You're having a fun time imagining the look of horror spreading across Wu's face at your casual overshare. You vividly remember losing everything you had eaten that day into the fancy toilet at the mansion. Your hair was short then. Better for barfing.

"Can someone cut my hair?"

Wu is silent for a minute before asking, "Why?"

"Proof this is real."

Your blonde hair is sheared into the bob by the end of the day.