Chapter 14 | Hope Rises at Dusk

His trip down in the catacombs had left him tired. A small curl of hunger yawned greedily in his belly, but Chris managed to maintain his fragile grasp upon his cognition. That was, he managed it until the wall of delicious aroma from the kitchen slapped him crisply in the face. The effect had been instantaneous. His hunger multiplied tenfold with a painful twist. He put his hand to his stomach out of sheer reflex, his mouth salivating as he waited for the feeling to pass. It left a steady burning feeling in its absence.

Absorbed as he was in his hunger, he didn't even notice it when Wesker gently grabbed him by the shoulder and began to steer him through the doorway he had paused in and further into the kitchen. In fact, he didn't even realize he had been herded into the kitchen at all until Wesker had already guided him into a chair at the table. The realization sent a cool wave of uneasy goose bumps across the flesh of his arms and neck, but the stronger B.O.W. did not stick around to gloat. Instead, he walked over to the crock pot responsible for so thoroughly distracting the younger man. The BSAA agent just scowled and turned his glare upon the standard kitchen item. A thin trail of steam was wafting up from the pinprick sized holes in the lid, releasing the scent responsible for Chris' lapse in attention.

It was such an ordinary item. Claire tried to tell him all the time to invest in one; that it would cook meals for him while he was at work and allow him the pleasure of coming home to a ready-to-eat meal instead of heating up a plastic tray of microwaveable preservatives that he had no doubt would probably be later linked to some form of cancer or another. He had always been too lazy to go to the store and buy one, let alone chop everything up ahead of time that would be needed for any of the recipes she had collected for him. So he never ended up buying one.

The fact that Wesker had one was unsettling. It was such a commonplace item. It reminded him of his sister, which immediately made a small part of him relax, and therein lay the problem. He did not want to feel relaxed or at home in the kitchen of the man who intended to make him a slave. He briefly wondered if Wesker used the offending cooking utensil on purpose.

"As I stated before, the virus did not give you any comic book-esque super powers, Christopher. So stop glaring like you have heat vision," Wesker said simply as he walked over to the cabinet and retrieved two bowls - one smaller than the other.

Chris gave him a scornful look, but a small part of him couldn't shake the feeling of déjà vu as he remembered giving Wesker's clone a similar comment. 'Where do you get your material from, comic book villains?!' He shoved the thought away and watched as Wesker continued to prepare their meal. After retrieving a ladle, the blond poured a very generous portion of stew into the larger bowl, followed by a smaller portion into the smaller bowl. Every move he made was steady, confident, and precise. Nothing spilled. There wasn't even a tiny splash of residue on the clean rims of the bowls as he walked their meal to the table. Chris could see gray vapor twisting into the air from the steam rising off the liquid Wesker set before him, but no sooner had the bowl touched the table than the BSAA agent had his large hands wrapped around its nearly scorching edges and started drinking. He was halfway through consuming the bowl when a bottle of water was placed beside him, condensation dribbling along its sides with the promise of satisfaction.

"You are fortunate to be infected," Wesker mused. "If you had downed that broth as you were before, your throat would be scalded from the inside out, I imagine."

Chris didn't even hear him.

He had gone hungry a number of days in his lifetime. During the gap between his military career and joining STARS, Chris had momentarily gone hungry. Again during his time with the BSAA, the man had known hunger during missions. Some missions outlasted their rations, and he wasn't about to eat if one of his men was hungry. He often ended up giving his rations away. He knew what it felt like to have a hole burning in his stomach, needy and irate within him. He knew the pleasure of finally filling it.

None of that compared to now. In the catacombs, it had not just been hunger searing away at him. It had been a need so raw, a desire so primal, that it would scatter his thoughts if he didn't hold onto them tightly. Now that he was finally eating after hours of darkness, and adrenaline, and exhaustion ‒ it blurred all other worries from his mind in a warm, fluffy haze.

The broth was nothing like he had ever tasted before. The base of it was thick and creamy, the taste sharp and slightly salty ‒ which was nicely complimented by the juicy flavor of the beef and familiar texture of the vegetables and potatoes within. It was the hunger that made it taste so good; the virus working within him to try and make him eat as much as possible now when food was so critical for his growth. When the virus came to its completion, it would no longer need to force such heavy handed impressions on such a normal and honestly bland broth ‒ but for now, it made everything taste as good as breathing felt after a long swim underwater.

Before he finished his first bowl, another was set before him. He didn't know how longer this continued. Minutes were not measured in seconds at this point, but in bowls. But with the emptying of each bowl, he found his thoughts slowly collecting themselves in his mind until his frenzied need to eat slowly died into a dull burning want for more. It was at this point that Chris finally came back to himself. Much like before, it was like a switch had been flipped. The span of time that had passed for Chris had not been minutes, but a blink of the eye. Just like that, he was back ‒ an unknown amount of time lost as he paused his hand halfway from bringing another spoonful to his mouth. He blinked in wonder as he took in the mass of empty bowls around him, then slowly shifted his eyes to see if Wesker was still there.

He was, his eyes sharp as he watched him; his own empty bowl set to the side. Chris hadn't seen him move, not once. It was obvious that Wesker had been responsible for filling the hungry agent's dishes, however, and Chris felt all the broth in his stomach grow cold as he realized just how quickly he had lost himself. The blond watched Chris passively. He did not smirk with victory or look at him with disdain. His expression was merely that of silent companionship and contemplation, and the BSAA agent realized with a shudder that Wesker was considering him. Trying to gauge how far along in the transformation process he was and how much further he had to go. It made Chris furious, but it also scared him.

Wesker did not look disappointed.

"You've regained your faculties, I see. Quicker than last time, too. Good."

Chris set down the bowl.

"I don't see how you consider your virus perfect when I keep blacking out," Chris growled.

"You've barely been infected for more than a few days, Christopher. The transformation process takes time and nourishment. A lot of nourishment. In all honesty, it is extremely likely that you will need more sustenance in this period of your life than you shall ever need to consume in the entire sum of your new life to come. Your blackouts, fatigue, and hunger will fade as you grow closer to completion. Though I'd say you're close now. You did not eat half as much as you did yesterday."

Dread turned the brew in his stomach to ice, but the brunette didn't let that show on his face. Instead, he pushed the bowl away (all the while trying his damnedest to ignore the faint sense of loss that the virus emitted within him at not finishing the bowl), and focused on something he could control: the topic of their conversation.

"Time for the answers you owe me."

"Answer. Singular. You'll need to impress me with far more than your work in the catacombs for plural answers," Wesker said with a sniff. Then the blond leaned forward from the feline-like way he had been draping himself across the back of his chair and set his elbows upon the table. He peered at Chris from over his steepled fingers and the rims of his sunglasses, giving the agent a good look at his blaring red irises. Irises that burned like the lava that his clone had rotted away in, and ‒ Chris realized with a sting of surprise ‒ no cat-slit pupils.

Just normal, human eyes; minus the glow. 'I've perfected the virus.' Wesker's words echoed hollowly in his head. The brunette tried his best to squash away any surprise from his face, but by the tiniest flicker at the corner of the blond's mouth, he knew he had not succeeded. Chris scowled.

"Why did you pick me?" He asked. "After all these years, I figured you'd rather kill me and be done with it."

Wesker tilted his head slightly, his gaze bored. "You were not chasing me, Christopher. You were chasing my shadows. My clones. You were hardly any nuisance to me."

"When I woke up, you said that I was the next step of your plan. That I was something you had to finish," Chris said. His skin felt so tight, now that he was so close to getting his answers. He had to admit, if completing a few exercises got the close-lipped man to spill his guts, the brunette was beginning to consider trying harder in the future. This was far easier than trying to riddle it out for himself.

"You remember," Wesker said, his tone tinged with something akin to satisfaction. Something warm curled ever so slightly in Chris' chest. He hoped it was indigestion. "Yes, you are the next step. You have been for a long time. 17 years, to be exact."

The BSAA agent felt like someone had just poured a sheet of ice down his back and arms. Every hair on his body stood on end as he digested that information. He had been a part of Wesker's plans for 17 years. His brows furrowed momentarily as he broke down the time difference. Whatever had started Wesker's interest in him, it had happened sometime after he had joined STARS in 1996 and before the Arklay Mountains in 1998. He fingered through his memories, trying to pin point exactly when that could have been, but stopped when Wesker's chuckle interrupted him. Chris glared at him. This was amusing the blond far too much. It made something twist angrily inside him ‒ he didn't want the blond to enjoy giving up his answers.

"Explain."

Wesker's smile widened then. If Chris had asked him to explain instead of demand it, the B.O.W. could have denied his request. After all, he only got the answer to one question. Demanding it was the only safe course of action.

"You've caught on. Good. Then let's begin. Tell me, Christopher," the B.O.W. purred as he leaned forward. "What do you remember of October 13th, 1997?"

Leon stepped forward as shrieks and the wet sound of splitting cocoons pierced the air. The sun was descending before them. Light streamed through the fog and cast the man into a silhouette, making his form starkly resemble an eclipse. Piers stared at the man's back, momentarily stunned by his unshakable drive. The American agent wasn't even trembling.

"We're the only ones standing between that thing and the rest of Africa. We're the last wall until help can arrive," Leon said as he checked his weapon, then aimed it ahead in the direction of the newly formed B.O.W.s. "I won't ask you to be brave and pretend like you're not going to die. Just make it count."

It was in that moment that Piers officially added another name to the very wrinkled, scratched up, and worn list of people he called 'heroes'. When the young man then took two steps forward to stand beside him, he could have sworn it was his captain standing there for a minute. Chris Redfield and Leon Kennedy didn't share a lot of traits. In all honesty, the only things they did share were their love of country, their passion against bioterrorism, their ability to inspire their men, and Claire Redfield. But it was enough.

"We're beside you," Piers said. One by one, the others followed. The grim nod of camaraderie that Josh gave them felt like the final nail in the coffin to Piers. They were going to die.

As the smoke cleared and a dozen plus eyes glittered murderously at them. Heavy feet pounded on the ground, scratchy howls shrieked, and all the while the Lepotitsa watched them with a look in its eye that looked curiously like glee.

If Sheva Alomar hadn't climbed the wall that stood behind the creatures and separated the base from the city at that moment, Piers was sure they would have died there in the bloody dirt of their fallen brothers. But she did arrive. With the flaming African sun at her back, she was a shadow on the horizon ‒ but with the falling of sun, Piers and the others found that their hopes were bolstered. Sheva Alomar had not come alone.

On either side of the African Branch Director, a dozen plus men climbed the wall and took a knee at its top. Once situated, each and every man then reached behind them to retrieve something that soldiers on the other side of the wall were no doubt raising up to them. The long, red barrels that then settled upon their soldiers were quite distinct, and the young American B.O.W. recognized the weapons immediately. RPGs. A lot of them.

"Find cover!" Sheva shouted to them. Between all the noise and the shouting, the B.O.W.s had diverted their attention. Where there murderous eyes had once targeted the few remaining men that had survived the lobby attack, they now turned to shriek rudely at the new arrivals.

Piers had just enough time to see the smug and naïve glare of the Lepotitsa before Leon had him by the shoulder and was leading their men at a sprint to cover. Piers always found it odd at moments like these ‒ how time would slow. His feet felt too heavy, the air too thick. Smoke and smog curled thickly all around them. Leon stopped at the gaping hole in the window to push each and every one of them through first. Piers had barely stumbled through before he realized what the man was doing. He turned back to grab for Leon when the explosions started.

The first set came in a group of three, one impacting right after the other. The resulting shockwaves shattered the remaining glass in the lobby wall, and sent Leon and the last soldier trying to hurry through tumbling into Piers. All of the men were thrown to the ground and sprinkled with glass as the B.O.W.s in the courtyard howled in agony. Then there was a second set that hailed down upon the creatures at Sheva's call. Stone and rock showered down upon the men sprawled across the lobby floor. Piers felt a small stone strike his head and suddenly the world was a brawl of swirling, inverted colors and the dull roar of explosions. At one point, he was aware of a large slab of smoldering meat landing with a loud, sick slap just beside him. He looked at it dazedly. Smoke was curling off of it.

It went on like this for an indefinite amount of time ‒ one explosion after another ‒ and then there was silence. The young man was suddenly keenly aware of the shrill ringing in his ears as hands grabbed his shoulders and turned him over.

"Pi‒ ... ‒iers!" He blinked slowly. A soot smudged face with blue eyes swirled nauseously above him. "Piers!"

"Is he okay?" A female voice shouted from a distance.

"Head injury, but he'll live," Leon called back as he brushed his thumb against a wet spot on the young man's temple. Piers hissed, then settled when the subtle feeling of static eased the pain. As soon as the feeling started, it stopped when Leon pulled his hand back with a confused yelp.

"Are all of the B.O.W.s disposed of?" Someone asked before Leon could ask Piers what had just happened. He could feel the American agent's attention divert from him.

"I don't see how anything could have survived that barrage of RPGs, do you?"

"No, I guess not…"

He recognized the voices to be those of soldiers.

Hot hands held him steady, anchoring him to their conversation. They were on his back and at his shoulders, easing the muscles and seeping good feelings into him very slowly. It felt like a balm, and he felt as sluggish as he ever got whenever he had a chance to sunbathe on the beach.

"He doesn't look too good, though. I'll go look for some spray," the owner of one of the sets of hands said, and then two hands were gone. He bit his lip before he could whimper for the loss. Then there was the sound of thundering feet, and Piers opened his addled eyes just in time to see the masked troops from the wall jogging to them with Sheva at the lead. Josh met her halfway and hugged her tightly.

"Took your time there, Director," Josh said with a breathy laugh of gratitude. "It's damn good to see you."

"We would have come sooner, but we had to double back for the masks. Thankfully we got your message about the gas before we came here without them," she said. Then she looked from Josh to Leon and Piers on the floor.

"Agent Kennedy, Agent Nivans." She smiled tiredly. "Welcome to Africa."

"Quite the welcome party you threw. Next time, a hand shake will do just fine."

She laughed. "I'll keep that in mind."

She took a step forward as her men spanned the area around her, guns raised and searching ‒ whether for survivors or more B.O.W.s, he didn't know. Either way, they were looking in all the wrong places.

Up above on the ceiling behind Sheva, a lipless grin seared into him mercilessly. There was no time to shout, no time to think. Before Piers even knew what he was doing, the was a sudden and moderate hum of energy that left the hands at his back and sent him forward. He could hear a small, sleepy whimper come from Leon's direction ‒ the man who had been holding him on the floor ‒ as he barreled the African Director to the ground. Had he done so a second later, she would have been in the exact spot that the Lepotitsa pounced upon. The ground was shattered where its deceptively strong hands had hurled into it in fists into the floor.

When Piers turned around to face the creature, he took in several different observations all at once. Beside him, Sheva was trying to claw her way back to her feet and to a RPG sitting halfway across the room. Around them, various men turned to face the commotion, mouths open into startled shouts as they prepared to face the unexpected threat. Josh was waving towards the men and shouting orders. And behind the Lepotitsa, Leon was unconscious.

He had no weapons except for the knife in his belt, so he pulled it out. Every move he made was from instinct. He ran forward just as the Lepotitsa twirled on its nimble ankles, arms outstretched. One hand clipped the odd angles of his gas mask as he ducked beneath the arm, throwing him momentarily off balance and causing his mask to be pushed into an awkward position on his face. It left his mouth and nose exposed.

Piers regained his balance and rolled a small distance away. The giant gas creature reoriented itself, eyes furious as it glared at him.

From the corner of his eye, he could see Sheva scrambling to set up the RPG. The momentary distraction cost him. When he looked back, the Lepotitsa was already rearing back, small sacs twitching as a huge cloud of gas spurted from it in an abrupt burst. By the time Sheva turned to aim, the cloud had already obscured the Lepotitsa and Leon, and she barely recognized Piers resituating his mask before it engulfed him, too.

But instinct was already driving the young man forward, and the gas had just barely begun to creep into the lobby when he flung himself toward the body heat he felt nearby and plunged his knife deep into it. Something shrieked ‒ the Lepotitsa, Piers noted with merciless satisfaction ‒ and then the gas was coming out in thicker streams. Blood and mucus oozed thickly around the hands that held the knife, and he could feel the creature shuddering in agony through the blade, but still the creature lived. This close to it, Piers could see that he had managed to wedge the knife into the thing's chest ‒ right through the bone that divided the Lepotitsa's ribs. Nimble hands pulled at his shoulders and ripped at his uniform, but Piers couldn't feel it.

He was too absorbed by the wonderful, sharp zinging feeling that kept sparking through the blade and into his hands. Much like when he tackled propelled himself off the floor, it gave him strength. He could feel warmth entering his body in large waves, like the ocean crashing on a beach. The feeling made him feel human again, energy leaking into him and healing the various wounds he had accumulated since stepping foot in Africa. It also made him weak. Because the feeling made him greedy, made him want more ‒ and although a small voice in his head gibbered, he instinctively pressed the blade in deeper and tried to take in more.

He had never heard screaming quite as agonized or terrified as that of the Lepotitsa's in that moment. It scrambled, its knees buckling as its bright eyes rolled. Piers didn't realize how exhausted he was until now. It felt like a long, cold drink after ages of running in 104 degree weather. It felt like finally laying down after a endless mission of running for cover and surviving fire fights. It felt right.

It felt right until it changed. Until the ceaseless tide of electricity became faint wisps of static. Until a dull, thick throbbing pulsed through the knife and into his hands. Until he felt the last, final heart beats of the Lepotitsa struggling within his palms. He knew instinctively how much energy was left, how much the thing needed to pump another beat. It was dying.

The realization burned him, made the knife feel molten hot, and Piers stumbled away with wide eyes just as the Lepotitsa crashed to the ground, its skin pale and withered. Bits of goo and hardened skin had formed on its skin ‒ the beginning of a chrysalis ‒ but he knew it didn't have the energy to complete it. The hum of commandeered energy buzzing beneath his skin confirmed that.

Moments later, the cloud of gas dispersed, the Lepotitsa no longer able to uphold the steady stream. Sheva saw her chance.

"Piers! Grab Leon and get to cover!"

He looked over to see her RPG shouldered, aimed, and ready. He pushed his terror aside and quickly ran around the Lepotitsa to grab Leon and drag him to safety, but not before he saw the absolute horror in the creature's eyes when he drew near.

He had just pulled Leon behind a marble column when an explosion rocked the building. Dust sprinkled down from the ceiling and air whizzed by the column in a stream, sending Leon's bangs into a flurry of movement. In the moments that followed, the silence was a heavy weight upon the room. Piers kept his back to the marble pillar as he waited. Seconds passed and footsteps made their way to the steaming crater that marked the Lepotitsa's passing. He didn't need to look to know that all that would be there was a smear of charred blood and shattered marble.

"It's dead!"

The soldiers hollered, bolstered by their victory. But despite all the energy he had consumed, Piers could not muster up the energy to face them. Instead, he pressed his head back against the marble and kept a firm hold of the unconscious body he was holding up. He could feel Leon's heartbeat, could feel the electricity that fueled each and every beat. His skin burned where he touched the man, eager to be free of him before it was too late. But he didn't. He couldn't.

Instead, he held him tighter; if only to prove that he wasn't as lost to the virus as he suddenly felt.

[A/N] I'm so sorry, guys. I wanted to get this chapter done tonight, but editing took longer than expected, so I don't have time to respond to reviews in the a/n note like usual (gotta go to bed so I can wake up tomorrow for work). I'll try my best to respond to all reviews from the last chapter and whatever reviews come to this chapter throughout the weekend! I hope you know I love you all and deeply appreciate all of your feedback and support!

I look forward to hearing from you!