Disclaimer: Rings bell Here ye, here ye! I do not own Resident Evil in any way, shape, or form (which is quite obvious). If I did, Mr. Coen would be in the next game, for he is awesome.
The medic of the S.T.A.R.S. Bravo team walked down the grassy slope of the cliff, the light of the newly risen dawn's sun painting her with its golden rays, casting shadows about her petite form. Her gait seemed easy, but the tenseness of her muscle spoke otherwise. Her slim fingers involuntarily tightened their hold on the handle of her S.T.A.R.S.-issue 9mm handgun, the handle clenched in a white-knuckled grip. She steeled her will, fighting against the urge to turn her head and look back the way she came—to turn her head and look at him…. Drawing in a wavering breath, she filled her lungs with the cool, crisp mountain air of the Arklay mountains, re-energizing her wary form somewhat, helping to keep her senses alert; it wouldn't do to have survived the hell she had just been through, only to be cut down by one of the infected canines or other creatures that were loose in the forest below.
Swallowing the lump that had developed in her throat, she blinked back a few stray tears and shifted her gaze towards the ancient looking Umbrella mansion—the Spencer Estate—that loomed on the horizon, seeming to cast a dark pall over all the trees that lay before it. Holstering her handgun, then Rebecca brought the now-free hand up to better support the pump-action shotgun she had been holding in her other hand, her slim fingers wrapping around the barrel, the cool weight of the weapon comforting in her hands. Billy had given her the thirteen shells he had been carrying and suggested that she take the weapon, in case any of the infected baboons or the reptile humanoid creatures had gotten lose into the wilderness.
She looked down towards the loaded weapon, idly taking a mental count of the number of rounds for it she had; the thirteen shells Billy had bequeathed to her, plus the five that were loaded into the weapon, brought her ammunition reserves for it up to fifteen rounds. Her hand strayed towards the pack on her belt, towards the zippered pocket that held the shotgun shells, before she withdrew it, deciding to reload it when she got to the mansion—if she got to the mansion….
No! Stop that! the young, brown-haired medic thought, shaking her head in an attempt to dislodge the disturbing, and slightly morbid, thought from the back of her mind, failing to do so. You made it through the training facility just fine, so you can make it through the forest in one piece, as well!
But the voice returned once more, nagging at her. But you had Billy with you then, didn't you? You don't now. You're on your own now….
Rebecca's fingers twisted against the cool metal of the shotgun as her grip tightened, and she continued her descent into the dark forest below.
Billy watched as the back of the medic's brown-haired head disappeared from his view as she descended out of his line of sight, and he stayed there for several moments afterwards, staring at the spot where his one-time partner had disappeared. He rubbed at the wrist of his hand that was now free of the dangling handcuffs unknowing, the handgun that he had gotten off of one of his military escorts held in place sideways by his thumb.
Ceasing his ministrations, Billy gazed upwards towards the sun that hovered in the bluish-golden dawn, barely peaking the horizon, staring into the still dull, golden orb. His body was bathed in sunlight yet he did not relish in the warming feel of it, despite the fact that the last time having felt the sensation was over a year ago, and even then under less fortunate circumstances. But as his gaze flicked downwards to rest on the behemoth mansion in the distant, the reason of his unease returned ten—no, a hundred fold. His eyes hardened and his fists clenched, his fingers tightening around the handgun enough to make it creak slightly in protest, as he took in the sight of the foreboding structure—the structure that was owned by Umbrella.
Images of the creatures they had faced—the giant centipede and bat; the reptilian humanoids; the leech-people; the infected dogs from Hell; the huge, hulking monstrosity with skin so pale it seemed to glow and curving, three-feet talons like steel knives studding its arm, and its tumor-like heart beating on its sexless chest—and he imagined what demons would be waiting for Rebecca in the mansion.
And a jab of fear entered his mind sharply as he wondered whether he should have given Rebecca the magnum as well, as he had opted to keep in lieu of giving her the shotgun, not sure if she'd be able to handle the powerful recoil of the .50 hand-cannon. But now he was starting to wonder whether he had made a mistake—a mistake that might cost Rebecca her life. What if there was another of those pale skinned giants stalking about the forest floor? What if there was another eight-foot creature that could conceivably kick the ass off all the other monsters they had faced?
And he abruptly shook his head, moving his hand, which had gripped the handle of the magnum sticking out from the waistband of his jeans behind, and he tucked his handgun the band alongside the other weapon. He knew that the chances of there being another one of those creatures—a "Tyrant" he thought, according to one Marcus's report—were nonexistent. He was just making up excuses to go after her.
He promptly chastised himself. If circumstances had been different then maybe things could have turned out differently. But the facts were that she was a member of S.T.A.R.S., an elite law enforcement taskforce, and he was an escaped convict wanted for the murder of twenty-three villagers in Africa. They were each other's enemies as far as society was concerned on the matter. And yet despite that, they had banded together in a truce, to survive, and, against all odds, became friends, became—well, he didn't know what they became, but it was unique. Besides, she had given him his freedom, taking his dog tags and declaring that lieutenant Billy Coen was officially dead.
He turned around, about to begin his trek away into a new life, leaving the identity of Lieutenant William Coen behind—but not forgetting by any means. That would mean forgetting her, which was something he refused to do—no matter what.
He didn't know how long he just stood there, gazing into the distance as his mind went over the series of events that had transpired—from the botched-up mission his unit was to in Africa, to his transport to Ragnithon for execution, to meeting Rebecca and surviving the horrors spawned by a seemingly benevolent international pharmaceutical company with her. When he finally did break his revere, the sun looked to be close to noon—perhaps eleven-thirty-ish—and he begun his foray into the hostile territory of the woods, slightly surprised at how fast time had passed him by.
A number of noises filled the air: birds chirping; the sound of his footsteps crunching the blades of grass beneath his feet; and the faint jingle of the spare 9mm Parabellum and .50 caliber magnum rounds clinking together against their kin in their respective pockets of his jeans. But before he got far, a small flicker of movement among some nearby bushes got his attention. Pausing, he turned his head to see what it was.
There, low to the ground, strung among some bushes, was a spider web, and in it was a butterfly, adhered to the sticky thread as it fluttered it silken wings in vain, trying to dislodge itself.
Walking over slowly, Billy knelt before crisscrossing gossamer strands, inspecting, the sight eliciting a strange, uneasy feeling of dread in his stomach as he regarded the ensnared winged insect to free itself from the bindings. The ex-marine's brow furrowed as he regarded the sight, feeling a strange feeling of pity for the poor creature, but more so trying to figure out why the sight of it disturbed his so. His eyes strayed to the Spencer Estate for but a second, and they widened, realization hitting him suddenly, causing him to reel back as if physically slapped.
That old Umbrella mansion was a deathtrap—a web—and Rebecca was the butterfly wandering into it, into her death.
And abruptly, his shoulders squared, his jaw clenched, and his eyes steeled with determination. He was currently officially "dead" as far as the world knew—or would soon know—but even if he did leave, the guilt of letting Rebecca go into that mansion, and possibly to her death, would gnaw at his conscience for the rest of his life.
Reaching down to the ground, the light from the sun playing across the intricate tribal tattoo that adorned his left arm, Billy grabbed a stick and set about prodding the webbings around the trapped butterfly, freeing it. He watched as it fluttered off into the sky, strands of silky webbing still clinging to its fragile wings.
Reaching behind him, he removed his 9mm pistol, reloaded the clip, and cocked the slide back to chamber a phantom bullet, as he held at it ready, the muzzle hailing the sky.
And the ex-lieutenant started down the gentle sloping incline of the cliff, preparing his mind for whatever freaked-out shit might be lurking in the forest below. And as he ventured into the shadows of the thick underbrush, Billy Coen returned from the precipice of oblivion, not content to fade away into memory—at least, not yet.
As Billy walked into the forest, and Rebecca navigated its thick maze of tree trunks, neither of them noticed the beings that gazed at them from the shadows that surrounded them, watching them with a multitude of watery eyes, singing out a silent tune of vengeance that only could hear.