THE CRISIS OF CHRIS 'ROIDFIELD (A Resident Evil 5 Story)
It must have been when she and her partner were facing off against that ginormousimian, that apocalyptic ape creature that so unceremoniously crushed that Johnson fellow and received its molten-projectiled justice soon thereafter, that Sheva knew that something was consuming Chris from inside.
Perhaps, more than anything, was when she could swear she could hear Redfield softly muttering "Mother…Mother" to himself while they were battling the beast.
Sheva was sure, at the time, that the word was being chanted out of anger, or maybe fear. Now the African adventuress had reason to believe that there was more to it than just a flustered cuss.
Almost as if Redfield were addressing a maternal influence…or another kind of benefactor.
The young adventuress had read up on Chris Redfield before she'd partnered up with him. In all the visuals, he'd been spry, wiry, even lanky in some, his scalp adorned with squarical spikes, his shoulders equally edged but not brashly broad, and, holstered by his shoulder, the knife prominent but not overly menacing.
Well, the impression Sheva received was a marked contrast when she first met Chris in person. What she encountered was now a sequoia of a soldier, a fortress of a freedom fighter who was head and shoulders—and shoulders and shoulders and shoulders—above and beyond what Sheva thought he would be. She had to admit that her id was rather aroused…although her ego always remained wary.
And warier and warier did she become, as the pair encountered increasingly greater amounts of enemies consumed by Uroboros, the biological threat which caused its victims to grow mass at cancerously alarming rates.
And all the while, there was Chris, three times the matter of a man that Sheva expected.
It really bothered her, she reflected, as her jeep now just about reached the swampy areas once more. Sheva was always intrigued about Americans and how impetuous, how reckless, sometimes how just plain idiotic they were. To be sure, the States wasn't the only nation to involve itself with steroid abuse, but perhaps the U.S. of Abusers was the most infamous for it. And Sheva had watched enough cheesy American teen dramas when she was younger to know about all the symptoms and side effects.
Eventually unable to restrain her curiosity a week after her adventure with Chris ended, Sheva finessed a security clearance from Josh to read up a bit more on her beloved Western partner. And that was when she discovered it.
Something in the back of the file about anabolic substances obtained on the black market…the origin of the product a fusion of genetic material from the ginormousimian Ndesu for one, and a career-fledgling Channing Tatum, back at a time when even exotic dancing didn't pay the bills for him…
This explained it.
And now Sheva knew why Chris was acting out so much, ever since a few days or so after the volcano and the end of Albert.
She watched now, just as her jeep rolled up, as Master Redfield preened and flexed, just by the edge of the swamp, a shield in one hand and a spear in the other.
"THEY SAID WE WERE POLITICALLY-BEYOND-INCORRECT ABOUT HAVING THESE IN THE ADVENTURE!" he screamed, raving, the words making little sense to Sheva and anyone else contained on her side of the fourth wall. "SO I'LL TAKE CARE OF THAT!"
And then, before the potent clubbin' princess could do so much as raise a hand herself, Chris had chucked first the shield with a backhanded thrust, then the spear with a mighty toss, both into the sludgy depths of the bog before them. The former didn't even really hit the murky water before a crocodile came up and snapped it within its terrible jaws.
The whole scene reminded Sheva, again, of those late-afternoon, afterschool specials on TV when she was a preteen, she watching the eighties American actors with the terrible blond leonine mullets (not to be confused with blond Leon moppet hair from the fourth and most vaunted "residential" adventure—one far better received than this with Sheva, unfortunately for her), but yes, those shows with the mullets who thrust discuses and javelins while juiced, those bits of equipment reaching a similar height and distance as that which Chris just scored with his own enraged efforts now.
Then Sheva noticed Josh, basically at Chris's feet, pulling something furtively out of his sack.
Seconds later the 'roids-riled Redfield was clutching backwardly, hands hunched down on a hissing rocket whose nose was doing all it could to burrow itself between his buttocks. This was not unlike the frantic moment of weakness Wesker experienced when a similar explosive projectile dashed at his face, just instants before a serum was forcibly administered to sabotage the man from within.
Unlike Albert, though, Chris could not contain the miniscule missile for good, and—
(HSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS)
The BSAAer soon found himself launching into the air on the power of a rocket rammed into his rear end. Anguished oversized extremities splayed in vain as the overly built figure seared through the ether only to splash seconds later into the morass of the marsh meters away.
In the ensuing moments, as Sheva helped Josh to his feet, even at that point the two could already begin to hear frenzied whappings and zappings in the swamp as Chris crushed his electrified baton against the beasts that assailed him, the monstrosity of a man cracking the crania of crocs with his terrible prod.
"Sheva," said Josh, with much urgency, "we need to regroup, gather all of our forces before…"
"NNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGHHH!"
It was all Josh could do to scatter, taking "little sister" Alomar by the arm with him, as another instant and a crazed Chris crashed down in the place where the African enforcers once stood. The force of the hormonally-enraged Redfield caused a (literally) Guile-less sonic boom which Sheva withstood, as Josh's insistent tugging tossed her into the air somewhat before Chris hit; her "big brother," however, was not so lucky, as Josh now lay prone and unconscious in the grass nearby.
"That's it, Chris." Sheva said not another word, but simply looked her partner straight in the eye and gritted; a second later, she with a wondrous flourish shucked off her standard purple-top-and-white-pants default getup, revealing her inner tribal fashion essence underneath.
The sight of this would arouse nearly any man into submission, on any ordinary day. But this was someone infused with Ndesu-cum-Tatum-level-anabolics; Chris's most intimate, nether spheres, in other words, were not just shrunken—they were basically sucked up into his intestines.
Okay, his righteous opponent said to herself at that moment, If I can't seduce, Chris my man…you will nonetheless submit.
With a bellowing rebel yell, Sheva darted towards her partner, then leapt towards a lofty tuft of grass off to the side at the last second, vaulting off of it to land squarely on Chris's shoulders. The girl knew that that Valentine operative was able to gyrate her hips in such a position so as to be able to snap an enemy's neck, and at this point Sheva was so desperate, she knew she had to put the roided threat of Chris Redfield down.
But then, as she now drew closer to the man with whom she shared all those close-for-comfort battles, the images flashed in her brain, all the enemies they took on together, these two, all the barrels they smashed together and the treasures that they raped from the land, all the hair-trigger quick and timely events they experienced. And she hesitated.
This was when Chris reached behind him once more, but not to snatch at a missile this time but rather the magnificent mistress of dramatic horror mayhem who was perched atop him. He scored Sheva by the sides of her torso, and hurled her over his head and forward.
Luckily for the lady, she landed on her feet, consciousness completely intact. Before she could figure another assault tack, however…
"SHEEEEEEEEEEVASHEVVVVVVVVVAA AAAA…!"
Damn it, she thought as she felt the brute frame of her partner crush into her a moment later, then take her flying back against a wall, you're reverting to that crap again? You must be regressing.
(She was referring specifically to those times between the chapters of their adventure wherein Chris actually dropped his boner schtick to mock her first name. "I thought it would be pronounced 'Sheeva,' actually," he said snarkily as they moved out via hydrofoil between sections of swamp at one point. "How does…SheevaSheva sound to you, as a name?"
"Sounds like someone needs to get certified in pronunciation, not peacekeeping!" She said it sharply, but flirtily as well. Yes, he was far too many muscles…but there was certainly cuteness in this.
"Ahh, SheevaSheva…")
And now "SheevaSheva" was not in the midst of the intimate embrace she always wished to have from Chris, but rather a much more lethal bearhug, which would imminently lead to a quick end to her terrorist-trouncing career. She had to do something, and fast. "Ssssshhhhh…sshhheeeee…" the psychotic ex-STARS still foamed as he now aimed to smother the girl to smithereens. Sheva could now feel the awful brunt of Redfield's heaving breasts as a result of the gynecomastia (in English, man-boobs) brought on by the adulterated agents known as anabolics that the soldier took into his system. People have sniped before that massive mammaries on other videogame characters could cause back pain; the way that Chris was squeezing Sheva, with his obnoxious knockers pushing viciously against her, the girl's back might be broken—but in this case by large breasts which were actually not her own.
One hand, which was gloriously still free, grasped at the air, thought to bring it down on Chris's face…then stopped. Sheva thought fleetingly of one of the other side effects of steroid use, and she reacted accordingly. Wresting a couple of the tribal teeth from her most alluring outfit's necklace, she hasped the implements into her usable fist and raked it down across Chris's clothed back.
"AAAAAAGGGHHHHH!"
An even-more infuriated Redfield now dropped Sheva from his deadly embrace as he grabbed at his back in vain. Sheva clutched at herself, trying to make sure she was all intact, as inwardly she rejoiced; blessedly for her sake, Chris also suffered from the side effect of massive back acne, and his partner just exploited that fully.
Tragically, traumatically for Sheva, it wasn't exactly pus that emanated from the open wounds in the man's back. The African adventuress could see the beginnings of writhing tentacles issuing from Chris's back…
"NO!" Sheva cried as she reached for a syringe—one filled with the same debilitating substance as what initiated the beginning of the end for Albert Wesker—the sterilized item hanging from the side of her tribal girdle. She didn't want to have to resort to this, but the kid gloves and tacky purple-and-white togs were off now.
But just as she reached with the needle for the space between Chris's new breasts…
(SHWACK…SHWACK)
…she felt the force the funbags that opposed her, teats not as titillating, but much more terrifying than anything from Tecmo, as one mammary knocked the syringe from her hand, then the other from beneath as it uppercutted the girl a couple of stories high, not unlike what would occur in the toastiest of fighting game franchises.
"SHEEEEEVVVAAASHEVVVVVVAAAAAA !"
This last shout made the girl come to a second later. She didn't know it, but she was out for a full minute—during which time the man she once knew as Chris Redfield had most Excella-lently elongated, elasticated, then exploded himself into a huge mess of oily tentacles and amorphous flesh.
This was a horror to defy the worst of the Uroboros unfortunate. It was terrifying, towering over the aghast Alomar. She opened her mouth to scream…
…then realized the foolishness of it as she instead dove a second later to the place where Josh lay. She managed to score one more weapon, one more last resort before one of the slick Redfield tendrils wrapped itself around her slender frame.
And as the corporeally-ubercombobulated Chris hefted Sheva directly towards a horrid, fetid maw where his own human mouth once was…
"FLACCID ROUNDS, FUCKFACE!"
…Sheva let fly with several salvos from the grenade launcher she'd wrested seconds ago, the weapon locked and fully loaded with amalgams of flame-and-acid rounds—with the nomenclatural designation a creative contraction and also more than appropriate for the occasion—the baneful bullets designed to literally burn away the excess mass from Chris, if absolutely necessary.
And, sure enough, the flame-and-acid…Flaccid Rounds worked their ordnancey magic as they settled, churned, detonated deep within the abominable entity that was once Chris…
…and, some minutes later, was miraculously Chris once again, given that the projectiles were efficient enough to actually, fully reverse a brand of biological horror on this planet for once.
For sure, Sheva soon found herself face-to-face with not only a human Chris once more, but the skinny Chris, the one about whom she read originally, the lanky one with the dapper frame, the sharper vest, and the smaller knife.
(She hoped that the thrusting object that mattered most was not at all diminished, though…although the sensible part of her sadly knew better).
"Th…thank you, Sheva," he said to her, the man now looking guiltily down at the ground, then at Josh (who would be just fine for the future), then at the ground again.
She said nothing, but just took her turn to hug the man hard. Sheva was more overjoyed than she could imagine to have her partner back. Chris was more than overjoyed to have the favor returned of sizeable breasts crushing against him.
The two shared a mutual, loving stare in the next moment. She was certain he would ask if he could make up the terror he represented by taking her on a nice, relaxing cruise, or at least a few lavish dinners. Anything to take the taste of dramatic survival horror out of her mouth.
Then he opened his own mouth.
"I'm not really a fuckface, am I?"