A/N: I know, I know. It's been too long. You guys hate me for not posting. I really truly am sorry for not updating. You can't see me, but I am currently grovelling on my knees begging for your forgiveness.
This is the fic I mentioned that will replace Trauma. For those who have read Trauma and deemed it worthy of following, I'm sorry but this new one ended up being very, very different from it. So if you read this one and think it's not worth your time, I understand.
I don't know if I will ever get around to continuing Trauma. That one just got stuck in a dark place at the back of my mind and I'm not sure if it will ever see the light of day again. Even so, if I ever do feel the urge to write a new chapter for it, I will, even if I have deleted that story. (It was taunting me! I had to get rid of it! Sorry. ^^')
This was supposed to be a one-shot, but then it got too long and I don't really like posting long chapters so I broke it up into parts.
I borrowed some of the characters from the RE game. I was never any good at making up names.
Anyway, thanks to all of you who read Trauma in all its unfinished glory. I hope you enjoy reading Regress too.
R&R?
DISCLAIMER: No, I don't own any part of the Resident Evil franchise.
Regress
Part 1
The alarm clock went off.
Anxious brown eyes shot open as the irritating beeping of his neighbor's alarm clock continued to break the silence early Monday morning. He sighed as he ran a shaking hand over his face in a great effort to calm his wildly beating heart, while he willed away the shadows that haunted his dreams. He peered at the digital clock on his bedside table, it said 6:00.
'How long has it been since that day?'
Reluctantly, he threw off the covers and swung his legs to the right, over the edge of his bed. He leaned his elbows on his knees as he hung his head as he remembered the events from last night. The guys had dragged him over to a bar, introducing him to a couple of pretty girls that just didn't have the right shade of yellow in their hair or that mischievous glint in their blue eyes to keep his interest. His co-workers' futile attempts to get him drunk enough to get laid with anybody during the weekend has been the department's ritual for the last six months.
'Oh, yeah. Six months.'
He was never one to admit that he had a weakness. He grew up in one of the worst neighborhoods in New York, he's broken the law more times than he could count (and was never caught, mind you), and spent a year over in Afghanistan during a time when it was more unlikely to get a good night's sleep than to stare down the barrel of a gun. So pardon his reluctance in being forthcoming when his friends ask if he was now okay after what happened half a year ago.
He couldn't blame them for wondering though. Last June was just not his month. He lost a lot then. Sometimes, he honestly thinks he lost everything.
He stood up and took a few steps to his window and drew back the curtains. He looked down to the busy streets of Manhattan. All those people, rushing in and out of their apartment buildings, driving to their respective workplaces, kissing their loved ones goodbye and making promises for tomorrow; they will never know how close they were to experiencing what he did, in a higher degree. He felt an involuntary shiver run up his spine at the thought.
It was really difficult to convince his shrink to sign him off as fit for duty. To be fair, he has been stretching the truth during their sessions, and PTSD in cops was common and never taken lightly, so he can understand the good doctor's reluctance in believing him every time he said he was doing better. He still had to go see the psychiatrist every Thursday though, but it was a small price to pay to be able to get back to work. It didn't matter if his captain had him on desk duty for the past two months, as long as he had something to wear him out enough that he won't dream about anything when it was time to hit the hay.
He got into the shower as soon as he had the kettle settled on the stove and bread in the toaster, and got out just in time to hear whistling as the water was brought to a boil. After turning off the stove and grabbing a mug, he made himself coffee before sauntering into his living room, with just a towel wrapped precariously around his waist, and turned on his flat screen. He flipped through a few channels while waiting for his coffee to cool down.
A news bit about a missing person caught his eye and he turned up the volume. The newscaster's voice filled his apartment as he gingerly sipped his morning dose of caffeine. He fixed his gaze on the photograph of the missing Caucasian male, with short dark brown hair and blue eyes. He couldn't help but think that the guy looked very familiar.
"Matthew Addison, a journalist for the New York Times, was reported missing late last night, by his sister, Lisa Addison. He was last seen leaving the New York Times Building last Friday, around 5 o'clock in the afternoon…"
He turned off the TV, walked back into the kitchen and placed his now empty mug into the sink. He went into his bedroom to get dressed and spared a glance at his digital clock: 7:00. He stepped into yesterday's Levis and then pulled out a dark purple burnout athletic fit Henley from the dresser across his bed. After shrugging on his shirt, he wore his shoulder holster and then clipped his badge on his belt. He hesitated for a few seconds, before walking over to his bedside table to pull out the drawer that housed his pistol. As he reached for it, he could see, more than feel, his hand trembling.
'Shit.'
He almost jumped when he heard This Is War playing in the distance. He made his way into the living room, found his mobile phone and picked it up.
"Oliveira."
"Hey partner. How you doing?"
"Will you be asking me that same question for the rest of our lives?"
"Yeah. For as long as we both shall live."
"Fuck you, Nicholai."
"Haha. I'm flattered, but you know I don't swing that way."
"Since when?"
"Asshole."
"Right back at you. Now you didn't call just to insult me did you?"
"Captain told me you're back on board today."
"Yeah. So?"
"…"
"Hey."
"Just called to tell you not to freak out when you get to the station, okay?"
"Why?"
"Just don't."
"…"
"You hear me, Carlos?"
"Yeah, yeah."
"Now get your ass here. We've got work to do."
Carlos stared at his phone.
'What the hell was that about?"
He pocketed his phone and went back to his bedroom. He quickly put on a pair of socks and black sneakers. And before he thought too much about it, picked up his gun and shoved it into its holster. He grabbed his black leather jacket and his keys from the kitchen while chewing on a piece of toast. He took one last look around his apartment before walking out and locking the door.
The drive to the precinct was quick. It was not enough time to make a good list of possible things he might freak out on. Because of that, he was a bit jittery as he jogged up the steps into the building and straight to the elevator to get to the fourth floor.
As soon as he got off the lift, he saw the captain talking to a woman. He walked towards the pair and heard the last part of their conversation.
"We're doing everything we can to find your brother, Ms. Addison."
"Thank you."
Ms. Addison abruptly turned away and headed straight for the elevators, bloodshot eyes framed by pale skin, with thin lips drawn into a frown. It was a pity to see a pretty brunette in that kind of state. His gaze followed the young woman until she disappeared behind the elevator's closing doors.
"Oliveira."
He turned back to see his captain motioning for him to follow. He was soon led into the captain's office, Capt. Victor closing the door promptly behind them. The captain walked over to his desk and sat down.
"How are you feeling?"
Carlos resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
"Better."
"Good. God knows you're good at your job and we need you back on the field."
"Thanks, Captain."
"Here is the file on Matthew Addison."
"The missing journalist? Since when did Homicide work Missing Persons cases?"
"Since the missing person became the suspect in a murder case."
"Does the sister know?"
"She claims that neither she nor her brother knows the victim."
Carlos flipped through the file. Underneath a few pages, he found a photograph and froze. Nicholai's words about not freaking out swam in his mind.
"Captain, who'd he kill?"
A knock on the door broke the trance Carlos found himself in.
"Come in."
The door opened and revealed Nicholai.
"Hey captain, the-Oh. Carlos, you're here."
Carlos nodded.
"What is it, Gino?"
"Oh. The fiancée's here. I'll put her in IR1."
"Okay. I'll let you and Oliveira handle her. I need to make a few calls."
"Yes, sir."
Carlos and Nicholai walked out the captain's office. Carlos glanced at his partner.
"So…"
"Shit. I forgot something. I'll be right back, the fiancée's in the lounge. You guys go ahead to the interrogation room."
Carlos raised an eyebrow when Nicholai hurried away from him. Brushing off his partner's abrupt exit, he made his way to the station lounge in search of the journalist's fiancée.
"Carlos!"
Carlos turned to face the source of the voice and almost didn't recognize her because of the blonde hair.
"Jill?"
"Hey. How are you?"
Carlos rushed over and gave Jill a hug. He pulled away a few seconds later to look at the brunette-turned-blonde woman before him.
"I've been good. You look… weird."
"Wow. You really know how to make a girl feel good about herself."
"No. Sorry. I didn't mean it like that."
Jill laughed and stepped out of Carlos' embrace.
"It's a good weird, really. It suits you."
"Well, thanks. You look weird too, in a good way."
Carlos shrugged. He looked straight at Jill, and asked the question he knew Jill knew he would ask.
"How is…"
Carlos hesitated. Did her really want to know? Jill noticed his distress and lightly touched his elbow.
"She's good. Actually, she's the reason I'm here."
"What? Why? Is she in trouble?"
"No, nothing like that. It's just-"
"Jill! You're here. I-"
Carlos' blood ran cold as he recognized that voice. It wasn't her fault, he knew that. He didn't really blame her for leaving. How could she have known what would happen? How could she have known that as soon as she left, his week would turn from bad to worse in a matter of hours? How could she have known that she left just when he really, really needed her most.
He slowly willed himself to turn to his right and caught his breath. There she was, in the flesh, looking positively beautiful with a new hair cut and color. She looked different, and yet utterly familiar. Her pretty blue eyes bored into his brown ones. Carlos was afraid to say anything for fear that if he so much as breathed; she would disappear, just as quickly as she did all those months ago. He could see Jill smile softly, albeit sadly, in the corner of his eye. Swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat, he forced a name to roll off his tongue.
"Alice?"
At the sound of her name, Alice smiled.
-End of Part 1-