Disclaimer: I don't own F.E.A.R., but I do own the name I gave Point Man.
"Echo"
It was a strange thing, to be free.
Alma slowly moved an arm; an arm belonging to a form she had only dreamed of in the past years in the depths of the Origin facility. Fingers flexed, a head tilting…it was simply…strange…to physically be able to move again.
As expected, however. All things considered, movement in a plane of existence other than what they called reality would be quite a different experience.
She stared down at herself. Blood caked her pale-white body; the blood of her father, the man who had taken everything from her for the virtues of…science. It took her all but a few days after her first son was 'born' to figure out she hated that word. That damned word. It was their excuse for everything. Science was the reason she was inducted in the Origin project at age eight, placed in an induced coma. Science was the reason her father forced her into childbirth at the age of fifteen. Science was the reason her children were taken from her – her babies, unrightfully taken to be used in…projects.
Science…was the reason she had 'died.'
Her body was not as she had remembered. Understandable – she had been in the Vault for an unspecified time, but more than likely it was longer than anyone would have wanted. The black hair which had once reached to her chest now hung waist-length, clinging to her frail and weightless body. She appeared too thin to be alive. But in all technicality…she wasn't.
And then, of course, there was the power. Power she did not recall having at such a scale, but somehow found it quite natural. Power…unimaginable. Unthinkable. And yet, here it was, and she felt as if she could destroy the fabrics of the world with little effort.
How delightfully ironic.
The victory was rather bittersweet, however. Paxton was dead. Her son…was dead. With all the love she mustered, she had shed tears. But maybe…just maybe…there was a way…perhaps with all this power…surely one's life is nothing but one of those fabrics of the world. One of two threads she would not destroy.
The second thread was, of course, standing outside. Many would think it pure coincidence that her firstborn, the one who began it all, had found his way back home. Was he even aware of the situation? Perhaps before he had blown out Paxton's brains, he had told him. Perhaps.
She had been observing him…ever since that night in which he had become involved with the execution of his own brother. Ironic still was the fact the site of the incident was that same hospital where his life began…the life that he was denied in favor of service for science.
Paxton's words echoed as she smiled. "You were born here. I was there."
She toyed with him. However much her body and intellect changed, her personality had still remained deep within the emotion of hatred she had developed over the years. Dashing across his field of vision, creating shadows on the wall…and of course, the subtle clues. She had shown him visions…the hellish nightmares she herself had endured. Even without Paxton, perhaps he had pieced everything together on his own.
Of course, over the course of events, she had begun to realize her firstborn had been denied his existence. He was a military man with no past and no other intentions but to serve and protect in the name of his country and the preservation of science for mankind.
She would toy with him some more. And with her first test of her power, her nightmares were drawn into the world they called reality. She watched in silence as the creatures her psionic visions created broke the first few fabrics of the world, and watched again as her firstborn opened fire upon them. One by one and step by step, he made his way to her.
John Davis was truly one of her sons. The talent was unmistakable.
She observed once more, watching as hundreds of the strange, vision-like nightmares tore through reality and charged at her firstborn, their intents obviously murderous. If she could have, she might have told them to let him through…but these things were pure negativity. Hatred formed from her mind in all the years locked in the Vault. They could not be controlled.
It was not a surprise when he had triumphed, however. And thus, he finally reached her. To him, what he saw was the last stretch to the outside, was the last bit of her mind she needed to show him.
And so, once again, her firstborn entered the hellish nightmare she had crafted. She wanted to embrace him – welcome him home, tell him it would be alright, that he would not have to do anything anymore. The motherly instincts, she supposed. She could not fight it, though…she loved her son. The existence he lived was not his choice.
So when he resisted, there was no expression of surprise when John opened fire into her body. As the bullets pierced her skin, blood seemed to pour out of her ghastly figure, spraying the walls, the floors, the ceilings of the imaginary hallway. And yet there was no pain. Pain was something she could not feel anymore. She was, after all, dead.
Twice the entanglement happened. Both times, there was a relentless spray of bullets that broke into her skin, only for the wounds to vanish as if they had never happened. He showed no mercy. He hadn't caught on. She showed him one last vision. The last, headache-inducing vision. And she, herself, stood walking towards her firstborn as he stood, staring.
"John…"
The voice was a whisper; a voice not used for several years of her own vocal chords. She slowly began to walk towards him. "…my baby…"
A smile formed on her lips, but the smile was not of sarcastic or ironic nature, it was sincere. A smile a mother gave a son. She was going to free him from this existence, and save him from becoming what science wanted him to be. Killing him…to save him.
It all seemed to click in John's mind at this point, as for the first time in several hours, he looked at his mother in utter disbelief. There was hesitation. Doubt in his own actions. Shoot his mother? Mother? Why? How?
Alma was close now. She outstretched her arms, weakly. The frailty of this body was indeed apparent. "…it'll be alright…m-mommy's here…you don't…have to fight anymore…"
It happened so quick, neither of them knew what had happened the first few seconds. A noise, the blood splattering onto John's goggles, the giant hole in Alma's forehead…and the AT-14 magnum subconsciously aimed at the tortured soul of a mother, and a child.
Both of them stared for a split-second. Neither had noticed the gun, and it was only when Alma vanished with a weak smile on her face, and tears down her face, that they realized what happened.
She watched him return to that reality, in the very same hallway he had been in minutes before. She watched, the sarcastic, ironic smile once again on her lips. There were tears, yes. There would be for quite awhile.
"…I know who you are…John…" she managed to whisper. The last whisper she gave him before he bolted through the doors.
In the coming minutes, she would allow him to survive that nuclear blast. She would try again…she needed to cure him…heal him…but perhaps killing him to save him just wasn't going to work…she needed to attempt…something else.
That something was bringing down his rescue helicopter. She would allow him to live…but show what it is like…to have everything taken away from him. His comrades…the one he fancies…his will to live. And only then would he understand. Perfection.
In passing, Paxton had often uttered a war he had seen in his dreams. Alma smiled again, glancing out upon the district of Auburn from her ethereal plane of existence. He was correct…the war will come. Fire sweeping the earth, bodies in the streets, cities turned to dust.
And in the end, there would be nothing left of those who took everything from her…only an echo of the tormented.
End
This is probably my first serious try at F.E.A.R. fanfiction. It being a oneshot kind of helped me practice this if I ever do a full-fledged F.E.A.R. fic. But anyway...yeah. Another one to the notch of fics in this section. Peace.