Those who fight

Prologue


The first thing he feels is how smooth the surface he's laying on is. It's strange. Needless to say, the BSAA didn't provide their agents with the best arrangements while they were in training on base, and while on mission, you didn't have the luxury to complain on where you took a nap. Then, there was how he researched Chris' whereabouts for months until he found him in that shithole, going from one crappy motel to another, and afterward, the whole C-Virus predicament.

I should ask for holidays more often isn't what comes to his mind first, but he concentrates on that thought intently, grasping at it for dear life. He dreads the moment he'll have to open an eye. He can feel panic slowly coursing in his body, flowing through his veins like fire, revealing its ugly head from a place he didn't know existed.

He had died.

Or so, he'd hoped he did. Apparently, life isn't inclined to grant such a simple wish to an horrible, mutating monster.

He opens his bad eye first- from which he still has perfect vision of, thankfully. The room is obnoxiously clear; bright white neon lights hang above his head and temporarily blind him, making his body tense even more in response. He can feel tubes firmly attached to him and machines whirring in the background. He fears what might lie below the covers; his head seems normal enough, after further inspection from his left hand (he pointedly avoids moving his right arm). He has a couple of heavy scars crossing over his skin, an intricate pattern of lines intertwining themselves over his cheek and jaw as proof of what he'd endured. His forehead also bears a couple of marks of war, remnants of the infection he'd willingly put himself through.

He lets his arm drop back on the covers and takes a couple of minutes to calm down and breathe. His throat hurts, parched and sore. The small room he's into is unnerving enough, with its blinding light and stark white walls, but the sound of activity outside the door sets his mind at ease. Patients, doctors and nurses, conversing through the corridors, their footsteps coming and going, leave him with a brief moment of quietness and solitude. He'd fought for these people and more, and somehow, his sacrifice hadn't been for nothing. Everything seemed normal enough. He could only hope that Jake's blood had served some purpose in the end.

His sacrifice hadn't been for nothing. He's glad.

There are no clocks in the room. He doesn't know how long it takes him to finally move his good hand to check his other arm. When he goes to get a feel at his bicep- that hopefully won't be a heap of mutated muscles and skin- he only grabs cloth. He tries again, but he merely brushes soft fabric. Nothing consistent.

Panic surges again and he sits in a jolt.

His arm is gone.

His eyes widen. He can still feel his arm there, but... it's not. It really isn't. There's only his shoulder and empty space. What should normally be coming out of the hospital garb isn't. He's not sure he should feel relief or anguish over that fact. His heart races and conflicting emotions clash in his head, making him grip tightly the hospital sheets with his one and only hand. Strange enough, he still feels as though he can still move it. He can still feel his right hand's fingers wiggling, but they're not there. They're a ghost, taunting with false sensations. The extreme pain caused by his arm being ripped off in the underwater facility by a B.O.W makes him wince internally, remembering how he'd had to keep moving despite the injury, blood spluttering everywhere from the open wound. That son of a bitch had gotten him right. And after, injecting himself with the virus to be able to help Chris out of there...

Then again, if there would've been a mutated limb in its place, he's not sure he would've been able to take it. He knows it was impossible to wish for his healthy arm back, but he hadn't been able to stop himself from hoping that maybe-

"Mr. Nivans!"

He hadn't heard the door open. A nurse, with short blond hair and a regular work outfit smiles at him , swiftly moving closer to the bed. She helps him sit up despite his protests, comfortably arranging his pillows behind his back. The name on her tag reads Dana J.

"Well sir, how do you feel?" she asks, sitting on the chair next to his bed.

He sighs, watching her right in the eye. He wonders if his scars irk her. He can't see the extent of it, but he guesses he must be permanently disfigured. "I don't know. What's going on here? Where am I, exactly?"

He almost wants to ask how did I get here, but he figures it'd be a pointless question. She probably wouldn't know.

"San Francisco. Saint Francis Memorial? Does that ring a bell?" she asks, her smile still firmly in place.

He shakes his head. He's not from around here and never has been in San Francisco before in his life.

Silence quickly takes over. He has so much to ask, so many questions on his lips, but he doesn't know how to voice them- doesn't know if she'll understand his rubbish. He stares at her, unable to speak, until he sighs again and lets his eyes drift closed. He'd like to be alone for a while. To think about things. It couldn't be that easy. Something had to be wrong, somehow. There had to be something inside of him, crawling under his flesh, waiting for its moment to strike. He briefly wonders why he's not restrained- he even feels like requesting it. Just to be safe.

His gloom quite evident, the nurse starts for the door, at which she turns around before opening. He probably would've hit on her, given different circumstances; she was pretty enough.

"You've been asleep for a long time, you know. In a coma," she says, her expression dimming just a bit. "Your vitals stabilized a couple of weeks ago, but I'll let the doctor do all the explaining. I've got a call to make."

He chances a glance at her. He wonders if that means she has to notify the doctors the bio-hazard patient has finally awoken. If that means he still has trace of the C-Virus in his system.

He frowns. "A call? Is there something I should be aware of?" His tone is much more clipped than he would've liked it to be, but what the hell.

She's unfazed by his rude demeanor, to say the least. She simply replies, "Don't worry sir, we've only all been notified to make a call to Captain Redfield once you would wake up. I'll also be calling your parents."

His expression softens. Right. "Thanks... Dana, right?"

She nods and waves him off. "No problem, Mr. Nivans. I'll bring you dinner once I'm done with this."

With a last tug of her lips, she turns on her heels and goes out the door, leaving him alone in the quiet room yet again. The steady beeps of the cardiac monitor are his only company. Somehow, food doesn't even seem that appealing. All he can see is that monster ripping his arm off, over and over again in his head, like a bad movie with surround sound and a giant screen. He absently touches the stump he's been granted in place of a mutated limb. He feels nauseous.

After a moment, he snorts at it all. He has to stop the pity party right the fuck here. His father will kick his ass if he sees him like this.

He's never been straddled to an hospital bed before, but he's alive, right? He's always been the lucky type. His mother had always taught him to look at the bright side of things. He's strong. A lost arm is nothing for a Nivans. And Chris... Well, that's something he'd rather skip altogether, but it'll come bite him in the ass, eventually. When he'd looked at him through the pod's window, he'd been certain it'd be the last time he'd see him. He can remember the sheer panic on Chris' face as he'd been banging on the metallic door from the other side. He feels a pang of guilt for putting Chris through another death on his squad, even though it had been the right thing to do at the moment. He couldn't have risked for something to happen to his Captain. Chris wasn't expendable.

Turning his head to the side a bit, he catches sight of a scarf resting on the night stand next to his bed. His plaid scarf. He takes it, slowly raising it in front of him, noticing how someone had tried to wash away the blood stains on it. Splatters could still be seen on the dark fabric, if you watched closely enough. His heart tugs a bit at that, but he decides to put it around his neck, nevertheless. He always loved that scarf. He then notices a BSAA emblem resting on the stand, which had apparently been hidden below it. He makes a grab for it- it's also been washed, but still bloodied. Someone had tried to make it all better, and yet, notwithstanding the effort, it would stay stained forever.

He plays with it for a long time with his single hand.