Flashback fic, post RE5. Contains body horror, kinky sex, drug usage, OCs, creepy crawlies, hallucinations and Wesker.
PANDORA'S SONG
CHAPTER ONE: New Player, Insert Coin
At first it had been a week. Just to get paperwork sorted out at HQ. To get information. The four of them had sat in that pokey little office and listened to what was being said and had – at the time – agreed. Because it was the right thing to do. Reports needed to be filed. Horrors worked through. No, they did not want the number of a licensed therapist. They'd been through it enough to know how to deal with it, or in Jill's case Do Not Talk About, Ever. Then, banished, they went back to their collective motels, stared at the walls and waited it out until the BSAA called them once more.
By the time the second week had finished, people were naturally starting to get a bit…antsy. Josh had to leave. He had things he needed to do. Sheva wanted to get back onto the road again. Jill's nightmares were getting worse. Chris was becoming more and more distant. Those same four walls, those same streets, this quarter of Nairobi, the officials of the BSAA were not letting them go anywhere, at any time.
Suddenly it was passport difficulties. Where was Jill's ID anyway? Could she really say she was Jill Valentine? Who could back that up apart from the immediate circle of BSAA operatives? She didn't look a thing like her picture, y'know.
And then the monsters started coming back.
They let Josh go first, but only because he knew the teams in this part of Africa. There had been a few incidents collecting the materials from each danger zone, samples and equipment, and one team had gone missing. Josh begged for Chris or Sheva to join him, but was stonewalled at each turn. They relented finally, allowing Sheva to go with him but on close watch, but Chris? No, he was to remain off duty. He wasn't…well.
The loss of Wesker had hit him harder than he'd thought possible. He hadn't realized how deeply he'd felt for his former captain; there had still been a connection there and despite the adrenaline rush during battle, he hadn't wanted the man to die. He was despicable, he was evil, but he had still protected and raised Chris in the ranks of S.T.A.R.s and looked after him. Looked after them all in some weird, unfathomable way. He'd not killed Jill. He could have; and while Jill was quiet on all fronts to do with her involvement with him (mind control didn't leave much for actual memories) there hadn't been any actual injuries. Where did it all fit together? How did it all work? And why did it feel so wrong?
With Wesker, at least, you knew what you were doing. The man had flair and had been blessedly predictable whenever he showed his face. Chris still ached from the fights since the Oroboros incident, but they were more in his mind than in the flesh. And as he retreated into his mind, growing quieter and more frustrated as the third week melted into the fourth, Jill only became more and more irritable, snapping at everything. Going cold turkey on P30 made coming off heroin look easy. At least in the first few weeks Chris had been occupied with taking care of her as the process took hold, but now there was nothing more than anger and misery left in its wake.
He couldn't even call his sister.
What was the BSAA playing at?
oOo
The office was unexpectedly bright and cheery, but nothing brought his mood up. Unshaven, tired and more than a little depressed, Chris sat down and looked across the desk to a man he'd never met before. He looked like a clerk. He probably was a clerk. He only gave his last name – Sarton. Something about that was vaguely familiar, but Chris was too tired to think.
"Mr. Redfield. Thank you for coming."
"Is this going to take long?"
There was a fraction of a jerk of the man's fingers, a faint smile. "It might, it might not. It depends on how you're going to work with myself and the team." He held up a hand before Chris could speak. "I apologize for the way you've been treated, but understand there is a reason behind everything. The BSAA are worried about cross-infection. Sheva Alomar has checked out nice and clean, but considering your – and your partner's - past history with the problem at hand, we are naturally…concerned. That is why you have been put on the bench. This isn't even going into the nasty business of visas and people coming back from the dead."
"Get to the point." Chris managed. "I have someone to get back to."
Sarton sat back, his motions quick, birdlike. "At the moment there's nothing we can do about Ms. Valentine's predicament. She is getting the medical care we can afford, but it's difficult considering what's happened. But make no mistake – she's in good hands. What we need right now is from you."
Chris frowned.
"One of our benefactors has expressed interest in the remains of Gionne's labs. In particular, it seems that her dalliance with Wesker may have uncovered some of Umbrella's…better kept secrets."
The other man closed his eyes, stifling a chuckle. Of course. Damn him for inheriting his mother's intuition, that should have been Claire's issue. This mess with TriCell wasn't over. It was never over insofar as Umbrella was concerned. "Go on…"
"At the moment Josh and Sheva are investigating one of the areas, but let's face it Chris, you're the go-to guy when it comes to Albert Wesker." He flushed, and Sarton's grin was fleeting, but accusing. "If anyone knows where he's going to hide something away, it'd be you."
He stood up in disgust, but it was hard. His body was sluggish, cold. Shock, he realized. All over again. "No."
"I had a feeling you'd say that. But let me sweeten the deal for you. The benefactor has their hands on some pretty important stuff. Stuff that can…help your friends. You want to see your sister again? This might be the fastest way of doing it."
Chris shut his eyes, the fight playing over in his mind again. The heat of the lava. The fumes. "I can't."
"Then do it for Jill." Sarton leaned forward, eager. "For Claire."
For a moment he couldn't believe what he'd just heard. Chris studied the other man intently, feeling the blade of reason cut cleanly through his unhappiness and let him feel…alive…for the first time in what felt like an eternity of arguments, sleepless nights and too many beers. He sagged, defeated, but wary. "…Okay."
Sarton nodded, relaxing back into his chair. "I suspect it will be Ms. Alomar who will meet you back at the motel. I've given your frequency to the relevant people; wait for Ms. Alomar to make contact and go from there." He waved down Chris' motion of concern. "I'll send a medical team over to keep an eye on Ms. Valentine. Just focus on the task at hand."
"But what is it? What are we looking for? If this is going to be another Tyrant, or some new kind of mutated monster…if they're after Oroboros-"
Sarton stood up. When he smiled, he looked predatory, far from the spindly, long-nosed clerk he'd been once Chris had walked into the room. "Christopher Redfield. All you're looking for is one little box. That's all I know. And I think, considering the circumstances, that's all you need to know as well."
oOo
Three blocks away, the sunlight glinted off a camera lens that clicked and whirred as the highspeed shutter flickered, catching Chris' progress through the squat, nondescript BSAA headquarters. Lost for a moment as he entered one of the access hallways, the young man watching him waited patiently until he reappeared on street level, noticeably worried in that tiny view screen.
Another succession of whirrs and clicks. The car driving up, flash against the downtown market sprawl. License plate recorded. Facial expressions. Beside the young man a laptop hummed away, processing the images from the camera, the firewire cable entangled in his free hand. He caressed it like a lover, as he sucked on a mint, squinting for more movement.
Behind him, a door opened. The soft thump of well-kept shoes and the slosh of water bottles. "How is it?"
"He took the bait." The young man moved aside to let his companion take a look. It was only a fleeting glimpse, but the older and darker-skinned of the pair took in a startled breath. The younger one sighed. His profile has several psychological triggers." He wiped the sweat from his brow, short, golden-brown curls lank in the heat. "Family is one of them."
"Sounds familiar." Came the glum reply. "I didn't think he'd say yes to it though."
"Of course he would. He's Chris Redfield." Hazel eyes, almost golden in the light, shone as he took the water bottle, unscrewed the lid and took a long swig. "And if anyone has a more fucked up idea of family than us, it's him. Poor bastard."
"Don't swear." The older of the two chided.
The car sped away, the occupant completely unaware he'd been watched throughout his journey and orders. Unaware that his every move had been predicated and planned.
"She's going to eat him alive. And the worst part of it?" Golden-eyes got off the bed and walked to the door. He looked ill. "He's going to let her."
-To be continued.
Okay, I know what you're thinking. You're wondering why I'm in your fandom. You're wondering what I'm doing with your toys. You're wondering who these damn OCs are. They're going to feature heavily, and I'm sorry about that, but they kind of need to. It has been years since I played a game, so I apologize…um I will update as this comes, the fic's all over three files in different parts. Har. This is irritating, but considering this is actually two stories, it might work? I don't know.
A lot of the ideas have already been covered in the archive as far as I can tell, but I'm trying to put a new spin on the whole survivor issue, looking at the virus itself and people's motivations. I'll try to keep to the horror/squick aspect the games and series are noted for, and that the OCs remain either ridiculously underpowered or overwhelmed.
I promise to warn for trigger material as it presents itself. I'm sort of writing this as it comes. Ugh! Will try to keep the OOCness to a minimum, please shout out if I'm mucking up, ok?