Second Chances - 2
(a Resident Evil fan fic)

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Where am I? she wonders. Am I dead? Is Chris all right?

She wants to open her eyes, but her thoughts are disconnected from the rest of her body. Her skin feels like stone, unyielding, and her joints like boiled noodles. She's suspended in something, a kind of liquid, yet she's calm. She does not fear drowning. She does not fear death.

Perhaps this is death. Perhaps this is all there is: lonely, liquid darkness.

No...wait...Beyond her lids she senses light. A halo around a broad figure. Is it God?

A tap against the glass. "How are you doing in there, my dear? Still alive it appears; remarkable. I was wise in preserving you." She discovers it's not God, but the Devil himself.

Her watery prison runs dry with a hiss and a rush. She can breathe air again. Her eyes open slowly. Her vision is hazy, but there's no mistaking.

She wants to strike him, to bury a bullet in his brain and watch it come out the other side and splash across the wall. She wants to cut off his head and stab a stake through his heart, the vampire that he is. She wants to smack the smirk off his lips or spit into his eyes. She wants him to suffer.

But her body sits as still as a statue until he tells her to rise. Then, like an automated doll, her knees bend, her weight shifts forward, and she climbs to her feet. She's helpless. He whispers and she obeys. She tries to fight. When she does, her body objects, every nerve and vein alight, as though afire with white-hot electricity.

He gives her a vial. She accepts it. He tells her to administer it. She administers it. He tells her to kill. She kills. When the pain begins to subside and her limbs begin to obey her thoughts, she thinks she has the chance to run, or at the very least fight back.

But he's monitoring her. He knows, even when she pretends, that the drug is wearing off. He's always been powerful, more so than her, and overpowers her fragile form with ease. The needle burns in her neck; she can feel herself losing control again. She's his toy, just like everyone else...only she's aware.

He's like a bratty child with a God complex. She muses that he probably burnt ants with a magnifying glass in his youth, just to prove that he could do it. Just to watch them suffer. He must've smiled the same way he smiles now: cold and venomous.

Her body is a prison. She loses track of time. Day and night, seconds and hours are all the same. Waves of more and less control. Needles. His orders. It's all become a jumble in her head. She no longer knows what are his demands and her thoughts. Somewhere, deep in her heart, she prays that someone will come and rescue her. But the months and years go by and she starts to lose hope.

No one's coming. There's no sense in resisting now. She's lost. He's won. She can only pray that something will stop him, stop them someday. She prays goodness will prevail, just as it does in classic fairytales and Hollywood movies. She prays he'll come. He's the only one who can.

Then, he tells her, he's gotten her a gift. "All women should have jewellery," he slurs and unwraps the arachnid-shaped device from inside a velvet-lined polished box. It's an ovular container with six prongs to administer his mind-controlling drug at a steady rate.

She's under his spell and cannot run away, even when he tugs gently on the zipper at her throat. His fingers are cold and smell like leather and her skin breaks out in shivers. The zipper slides lower, down her neck and between her breasts. Her face is stiff, blank, but she's crying inside.

"What do you think Chris would do," he asked, cupping his hand around her breast, "if he knew? It would be rather amusing to see, don't you think?"

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Jill wasn't in a very celebratory mood, though there was surely much to celebrate.

There'd been little change in the global biological weapons market, which wasn't exactly a bad thing. Since Umbrella's fall, the B.S.A.A. knew their samples were circulating. It had taken over a decade to reach this point and would take few more before there was any significant change in threat. But at the same time, there'd been no signs of Uroboros and it had been officially six months since the mission in Africa concluded.

Six months since the strain of Urobors in Africa had been neutralized. Six months since Albert Wesker finally met his demise. Six months since Jill Valentine, for all intents and purposes, came back from the dead.

The B.S.A.A. had rented out a country club for the occasion. The walls were covered in balloons and streamers of all colours and a hand-painted banner that read: Congratulations. Attached to the main dance hall was a window that looked into the kitchen where the club's employees sold soda and drinks. At the end close to the window and near an emergency exit, dozens of round tables had been arranged with white table cloths that glowed blue in the black light, and ceramic bowls of munchies. Chairs had been moved from table to table, cluttering walk ways and changing sitters every few moments.

At the other end of the hall was a large space for dancing in front of a slightly raised stage for a live band and DJ who switched control after five songs each. Lights above changed colours and drifted along the floor, quickening or slowing at the pace of the song.

Everyone who'd ever been involved with Umbrella's biological weapons - from Racoon City to South America - was in attendance. Claire Redfield was gyrating on the dance floor to the latest Top 20 hits in a short skirt and painful heels along with a grown up Sherry Birkin and Sheva Alomar, who'd traded a simply ponytail and combat gear for a gold dress, matching stilettos and a blonde bob. Rebecca Chambers – who may or may not have been a little tipsy – was laughing and stumble-dancing with a dark-haired man who looked an awful lot like the presumably deceased Billy Coen. Ingrid Hunnigan, Leon's go-to-gal, nursed a wine spritzer a table away from the men, though repeatedly escaped into the hall to answer a phone call or page.

Near the kitchen window, Chris, Leon Kennedy and Carlos Oliveira sat with some men Jill hadn't seen before. With them was Angela Miller – a member of the S.R.T. unit, whom Leon met the year before in Harvardville –Ashley Graham, looking every bit the president's daughter in her designer dress and glittering jewels, and a foreign girl who sat silently and glanced repeatedly at Leon as though for comfort and assurance. Close by, Barry Burton and his family were at a table with an Indian woman and her young niece, whom Jill learned was named Rani and had gotten caught up in the Harvardville Airport outbreak. Like Sherry, Jill wondered how well such a young child was coping with the effects of such a horrific episode.

There were others that Jill hadn't seen before – an African American with blonde hair (natural, unlike Sheva's party store bought wig), a bald man who must have been in his sixties, a quiet man standing in the corner, a young Japanese woman who seemed more interested in her laptop and a blonde middle-aged lady who's perpetual scowl assumed she was somehow better than everyone else. Then again, knowing everyone here had lived the same nightmare as she made it seem like, though she didn't know their names or their life's stories, they were all…connected somehow.

Jill stood in the corridor outside the dance hall, where the music was muted and a far enough distance that she wasn't imposing on Hunnigan's privacy. She thought about escaping into the bathroom until a flustered voice called to her.

"Jill!" She half-turned and watched a tall man with a brown mullet looking dashing in a brown jacket and jeans, standing outside the entrance and swing is head from side to side. He combed his fingers through his hair and flashed a crooked smile. "I thought I saw you slip out here."

She stood with a slight lean and drew up the corners of her lips. "Carlos. It's been a while."

"It has," he agreed, sounding slightly winded, as though he'd been frantic in his search for her. "You look good."

A warm flush rose to Jill's cheeks and neck. She'd selected a navy blue cocktail dress for the evening, accessorised with a pearl bracelet and matching necklace in an attempt to hide the vicious scars on her chest. "Thanks. You clean up well yourself."

He chuckled briefly and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, scratching the back of his neck for no reason other than he had to do something with his hands.

Jill sighed to herself. It'd been years since they'd seen one another last; he'd changed somehow. He was older, certainly, with wrinkles around his eyes and mouth that hadn't been there before. The stubble beneath his nose and chin was dark and thick without being full and she could see silver hairs starting to crop up among the brown. He was only in his thirties, but it appeared time had not been kind to him; time hadn't been kind to any of them, she decided.

"It's good to see you. I hadn't heard from you after Racoon City, so I…"

He laughed as cocky as she remembered. "Did you worry about lil ol' me?"

She frowned with an underlying smirk and poked him in the chest. "Of course not! You should have gone down with all of the other Umbrella scum."

Quicker than she expected he would, he grabbed both her wrists in one of his and brought his face close enough that she could smell the light aroma of beer on his breath. His eyelids dropped with his brow, and he asked softly, "Do you really think I'm Umbrella scum?"

Jill listened closely, but couldn't tell if his inquiry was serious or a joke. Her response was a stuttering, "I...I just…uh…" She wished he would let go of her arm.

Then he smiled and pinched her chin with his other hand and for a moment Jill thought he was going to kiss her, he leaned in that close. The heat of his breath on her mouth made the hairs on her neck raise and a tremble coursed through her. "I'm joking, Chica."

Inside, couples were assembling on the dance floor. Carlos raised his brows and tugged gently on her wrists. "Would you like to dance?"

She was still reeling and it took a moment before she heard what he said. "Uh…I don't know."

"I'm sure you're not much of a party-girl, but I don't know anyone else and you looked so lonely here all by yourself." The corners of his mouth stretched until they looked like they were going to split. "Just one. Please?"

Feeling her comfort come back, she sighed heavily and rolled her eyes. "Fiiiine. But only one. I need a few more drinks before I agree to make a fool of myself."

They stopped in the center of the dance floor, among other couples. To her right, an American and his Chinese girlfriend swayed with their faces close together, whispering something she couldn't make out. A bubbly blonde giggled every time her awkward, professional-looking partner put his hand on her hip. Rebecca's mysterious stranger seemed more to be holding her up than dancing, and Josh, she noticed, hadn't taken him a moment to hook up with Sheva. Even Leon abandoned his drab vigil and – to Ashley's dismay – in a series of gentle laughs following tangled feet, danced with Manuela nearest the DJ.

By the first note, Jill recognized it as her favourite song, and immediately discovered her body responding to the music, swaying and drawing closer to Carlos' tall and firm form. They didn't speak as they danced; so instead, she let him take the lead, his hands on her hips and hers on his shoulders, and guide her in slight circles. She closed her eyes and set her head on his shoulder and felt every muscle, from her brow to her toes, let go.

"For twelve years all I've ever wanted to do was tell you that I love you."

"Chris…" she slurred. "I love you too…"

Carlos blinked out of his own stupor. "Hm? Jill, did you say something?"

Her eyes flew open, as though from a nightmare and she stood up straight, bringing their dance to a haphazard stop, and stepped back. "What?"

"What? I thought you said something, but the music's so loud."

"I…" Jill's head turned about erratically. The swinging spotlights made it difficult to see, but she was sure Chris was still at the table with the other men, brooding over plastic cups of booze. And he could see her – see them – together like some sort of couple.

"I'm sorry Carlos, I'm not feeling too well," she said, and before he could get a word in edgewise, "I'm sorry." And she bolted from the hall and into the first available bathroom stall.

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Disclaimer: Resident Evil and its related characters belong to Capcom and all respected creators.

Author's Note: Every character mentioned at the party was a protagonist in a Resident Evil game (not necessarily the cannon series) at some point with an alive status. For details on who everyone is – especially those who hadn't any contact with the main cast – refer to the "Protagonists" page of the Resident Evil wikia. Others include side characters who appeared in the games on the side of the good guys and survived their ordeals (as in the case of Manuela and Rani).