Hey, everyone! So I found some time for writing whilst I have a little break from all of the relentless work and study I've ben doing, and I was inspired by a Jill Valentine tribute on YouTube to write this fic. I can't stop listening to the awesome song on it! The video is called 'Resident Evil: Jill Valentine 17 years Tribute' if you are interested in watching it. It's well put together, and its song inspired me.
Disclaimer: I came to the unfortunate conclusion today that although I love Jill Valentine and Resident Evil I don't own either of them. I also don't own Marvel/Disney and the Avengers, including the amazing Natasha Romanoff, because not only would she kill me if I turned around and said I owned her, but because I wasn't creative, or born during her creation, at the time to make it happen. Also, the title is inspired by that Black Widow and Hawkeye scene about being unmade. Sad story, isn't it?
Unmade.
Unmade.
Such a callous word. Cruel and harsh, cutting into the very being of the person who felt that way.
Jill certainly felt it.
The former S.T.A.R.S and current B.S.A.A founder and member shivered, but did not bring her knees up to her chest and curl in on herself, like a cowering child, for she was not one. She wasn't that; she wasn't Wesker's puppet; she wasn't serving evil any longer; she… she had no idea what she was.
All she knew was that she was broken, the shards of her past, present and future, as well as her own identity scattered around her like broken glass. What could she call herself? A second thought struck her almost immediately, stabbing her - what did they call her? The others?
Chris, in his adamant and caring way, told her that she was still one of them, and that no one blamed her for her actions. But the images of her so passionately attempting to kill him and his partner, Sheva, flickered behind her eyelids whenever they closed, and Wesker's face and demonic crimson eyes would singe its way through her mind. She had been aware of her actions the entire time, screaming, willing herself to stop, but God damn it she couldn't! The damn device on her chest pumped more drugs into her system whenever she was near to regaining her self control.
God damn it!
It is expected, when one feels anger, to lash out and hurt the nearest thing to them. However, Jill didn't leap up from the crisp white sheets where she was perched, grab and throw the nearest object at the blank wall opposite her, for no ounce of rage swelled within her.
The hatred for Wesker and what he had done to her was still inside of her, mixed with the immense guilt at aiding him with the Uroboros project, yet she remained as still as a statue on the bed, showing no signs of life except for the slow rise and fall of her chest, mingled with the gentle sound of her breathing.
She wanted to throw something, needed to throw something. Anything that would allow her to unleash her anger, but she didn't. Couldn't. Her revenge had been spent, although she had not been the one to pull the trigger and end Wesker's life. She had saved her partner and friend, saving his new partner also. After that the African and American had gone their separate ways, the former staying behind to help clean up the mess that was plaguing her ruined country, leaving the latter to return to the States with his long lost friend, their partnership renewed. That one act of redemption had not been enough for her.
Despite the tranquillity she lived in at the moment whilst she recovered from the trauma of her experience, the feeling of complete numbness refused to ebb away, leaving her hollow.
As a puppet on strings she had committed numerous atrocities; spilled innocent blood. The crimson liquid was still visible to her eyes, seeping into the pores of her alabaster skin, diminishing the glow of light that surrounded her. Looking at the wall she could see the red trickle down the wall. Drip. Drip. So much blood. So much death. She had a hand in it.
She hated herself for that.
That was it. Any emotion she felt was turned back to herself, and she found herself wallowing in self torment.
No tears prickled behind her eyes. Her lungs didn't tighten in sadness; she didn't purse her lips. It was as though she had lost the ability to cry. The ability to feel anything but this chilling numbness inside her heart.
Something soft and fine tickled the side of her neck, and soft blue eyes trailed slowly down to gaze emptily at the strands of gold. Blonde hair. Another thing that reminded her that she was changed.
There was a time when she considered returning it to its old chestnut brown colour, however she had decided against it, choosing to keep it so that it reminded her of what she became, and that she would never become that person again, by her will or not.
Never again.
No one could change her again, not even herself; she was so damaged.
But she was good. She had returned and did everything she could to bring justice to her misdeeds, no matter how much it hurt. Pain was the one emotion she could feel the most now, more than anyone else.
Pain and self-loathing. That was what the agent felt.
Jill Valentine knew what it was like to be picked up and taken apart before being put back together like a small toy. She knew what it was like to have someone pick her brain, pull her out and stuff something else – a monster - in.
She knew what it was like to be unmade.
Ta-da, short and angsty, the latter being my speciality! I based it shortly after the events of Resident Evil 5, so that is why Jill is a bit 'broken' in this fic. Of course shortly after she'd be back to her normal self. So I hope you enjoyed this short little snippet of the amazing, wonderful, totally badass, epic, talented, beautiful and the ultimate female (next to Lara Croft) warrior, Jill Valentine post the Resident Evil 5 video game. If you fancy giving it a review, by all means, click that review button. Reviews are love and the food of the author! Cheers for reading! ;)