Piers Nivans and Sheva Alomar
Computers were a pain in the ass—plain and simple. It was for that simple reason that Piers became a fighter—a solider of brute force with brilliant tactics and wit, just as his own father had been before him and his grandfather even earlier. He was no computer wiz. Hell, he barely knew how to use the damn thing. He came from a long and proud line of warriors, each knowing exactly what they had gotten themselves into and valiantly fighting their own respective wars. Training was training, but this—this was torture.
Thinking back on his heritage, even momentarily, had stirred an unidentifiable feeling in his chest. His father had known exactly what he was meant to do. Piers had no clue what he had wanted to be, even with his abilities he had trouble choosing what he wanted after he got out of high school. His mother cried over every single option he considered, not wanting her last bit of family to join anything. She knew he'd leave her. She was afraid—just as he had been. Oh God he had been afraid. He didn't want to die; he didn't want to leave his mother alone forever. After his father passed, she had never been the same. He was scared, oh so very afraid of the possible outcomes—scared for her, scared for his future. His father's death had caused him to fear his own demise. But death was funny that way, he supposed. Death could change even the most hardened of men, he remembered thinking. No one ever really gets over seeing a comrades life end in front of their eyes, that feeling of helplessness; knowing that those brave hearted men will never again experience the warmth of life or feel the love of their family. Edonia had changed Piers—that much was certain. Sometimes Piers had wondered if this had been how his father felt shortly before death on the battlefield, the pain of watching everyone you love die. Seeing the downfall of a life was a shame—a real pity. But the only difference from Piers and his father was that bio-terrorism has become a whole new game in an even scarier ball park.
He was sure that his father would've been proud had seen how far he had come. Just like Piers, his father had been a brilliant sniper. A top class marksman to which, through his father's legacy, Piers picked up his first and only rifle at that time. It had been his father's favorite. He still owned that gun; it was under his bed right that moment, unloaded and polished to perfection. That gun had helped Piers through the years more then he could have ever guessed it would. His father's rifle was his security blanket, his comfort during the thunderstorms consuming his life. Though he would never admit it out loud, his depression over Edonia had been getting worse and worse since the disappearance of his Captain. He hated to think about it, but repressing those memories would do him far worse than confronting them. He would bring out the rifle, talk to it as if it were his own father. It seemed silly—crazy even, but it calmed Piers. He would talk about all of his problems, all of his fears, all of his pain. He would talk until he had almost broken down to tears, trying his damn near hardest to imagine what his fathers hand would feel like clutching his shoulder firmly, warmly telling Piers how he was stronger than the tears. It wasn't until he finished his one sided conversation without any tears that he would sit there in the dim light of the room and peer into the nothingness of silence. Then he would cry; he would remember how alone he truly was, his team gone, his best friend and captain lost to the streets of Europe—bar hopping and eluding even the B.S.A.A. It was a touchy subject for Piers.
Chris Redfield. Yes, the thorn in his side he was currently toughing out the dreaded computer for. It didn't matter that it was four in the morning and Piers hadn't slept right in days. It wasn't like he really could sleep. If he would—he could miss a valuable lead. Again. The monitor was the only thing illuminating the room, empty cans of energy drinks and fatty snack wrappers littering the desk in his top floor apartment which was connected to one of the B.S.A.A's many North American branches, this one located in Washington D.C. He was about to call it a night—his energy drinks wearing off and his hands cramping from the hours of typing up reports and reviewing information. The very last thing he expected had been a call on his apartment's phone.
"Nivans here, what's the problem?" His voice held a low and respectful tone, knowing damn well it could be one of his superiors as much as it could've been the front desk. Normally he rooted for the desk clerks. After all, not all of his superiors had been as kind to him as his Captain had been.
"We need you down in the main lobby ASAP. There's a B.S.A.A. member from the West African branch here who has just arrived. She wishes to speak to you, something extremely important pertaining to Mr. Redfield's disappearance." It had been a voice he recognized. Mary-something? It had been too long for him to really remember. She had been the first to greet him upon his arrival three months ago. He was kicking himself for not remembering, these three long months had really been getting to him. He was exhausted—but if this woman, whoever she was, could give him some clues, he might just get this nightmare over with once and for all. He could wait to sleep; he'd gone without it for so long he doubted he would really bat an eyelash over two or three more lost hours.
It had been cold outside earlier, a coat would be a good idea, he thought. He bet he looked like a train wreck while staring at the bags under his eyes, his coat seemed to magically appear on his body without his recollection. He almost drunkenly stumbled over to the door, slapping himself in a less than perfect attempt to stay awake. Women had never been particularly terrifying or intimidating to him, but he couldn't deny that felt a little…well, gross at the moment. At least he showered earlier that day, and at least he was finally talking to someone who knew a thing or two. It wasn't until he got into the elevator and felt the machine slowly descend down did he fully feel the nervous twist in his gut. Six months of nothing, and this was it. Everything he had been waiting for. Thank God.
Getting off of the elevator had been harder than Piers thought it would be, but his resolve had become stronger then ever. He saw her; she had been talking to Mary before glancing over towards Piers. A warm smile found its way to her lips, even into her eyes. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen person with such an obvious spark of life. Her skin was dark and sun kissed from her time in the sun, her dark hair was pulled back into a semi messy ponytail, most likely from the long plane ride she had taken to get here. She wore a grey business suit with a white button up underneath. Her skirt was short, but even Piers couldn't deny that she pulled it off perfectly. She was very beautiful.
"Hello—urm, Piers, may I call you?" Her accented voice asked. He nodded, grinning back softly from the warm aura she seemed to radiate. Her kindness seemed almost infectious. "Right, my name is Sheva Alomar of the B.S.A.A. West African branch. As you've been told, I have some information regarding Chris Redfield," She paused, adjusting her rolled up sleeve and looking up into Piers' face, all hints of warmth gone as she pressed her lips together tightly, thinking about her words.
"Immediately after I heard about his disappearance from the hospital I offered to help out with the search. For the past six months I have been aiding in the efforts, hoping to find some clues to his whereabouts. For the past six months you've been on trips to many various countries, submitting your reports and narrowing down possible places of residence. From looking at one of your last reports combined with countless of others from the different countries around the world, we've narrowed it down." Piers was silent, slowly absorbing the information presented to him while at the same time trying to figure out where he recognized her from. He sure as hell hadn't ever seen her in his life. Her name sounded familiar.
"You've found him? We've finally done it?" He couldn't help but to let his voice quiver. After five months of searching through Europe, one month of typing reports from Europe, had they finally found him? They had sure been to hell and back to get him.
"He's in Serbia." Piers hadn't even realized he had been holding his breath until he let it out.
"And you're sure?" He gained his composure quickly, taking the tone of voice and stance he had grown used to, comfortable in. He was done being the depressed little kid he had been acting as. He was a solider for Chrissake, not some girl scout on holiday.
"Ninety-nine point eight-nine percent sure, Mr. Nivans—and we leave Thursday." It was Tuesday, he would leave in two days. That was plenty of time to prepare for the trip, gather and polish his weapons and sleep.
"We?"
"I'll be accompanying you for part of the plane trip before hopping on a different plane back to my bases headquarters." Piers was confused, couldn't this have been done over the phone, an email? Not that he minded the woman's company, but it just seemed so strange—so unnecessary.
"Couldn't there have been a better way to contact me than to come here and tell me all that in person?"
"I wanted to meet the future of this division myself." She smiled knowingly, her words confusing Piers—but he brushed it off once she started talking again. "It's been a pleasure Piers Nivans, I will meet with you tomorrow to help with you and your teams debriefing. You had better get some sleep; you're in for a rough month." Yet again she smiled, this time sadly. It was like she knew everything, really knew. He had a feeling he was receiving her pity. Normally it would've offended him, but he just accepted it. He was too tired to feel anything but numb. She knew what he was in for, he would find out tomorrow. Sheva nodded her head once before beginning to walk off, seemingly done with the conversation.
"Wait, Sheva!" He finally remembered where he had recognized her from, his face shifting in an instant as his mind clicked on to the answer. "You're the woman who aided Chris in the Kijuju incident, weren't you? Sheva Alomar?" He remembered Chris' tales of Kijuju, of Albert Wesker and his madness. He remembered Chris talking about a young African woman who turned out to be one of the greatest friends he'd gained. She stopped briefly, her smile dropping as she solemnly answered,
"Yes..." She kept walking, lowering her voice to where he could barely hear the last part before she disappeared into the staircase, "I suppose I am."