Chapter 37: A New World

Chris thought that on some level, they'd be on even ground. He was wrong – God, was he wrong. He had landed a few hits, sure. A few good hits, too. But that didn't matter. For every kidney shot he managed to sneak in, Wesker was already behind him, nailing him with two. Blood poured from his nose, and already he could feel his body working to heal the injury. Regardless, he couldn't breathe; breath whistling weakly through flared nostrils as he tried to anticipate Wesker's next move.

He should have known Wesker didn't have one final, punishing move in mind. No, that'd be too simple. Instead, he was winding Chris up and burning him out. Every injury healed was another smidge of air let out of his tires, wearing him down one sucker punch at a time.

So Chris just worked that much harder. A hard right to Wesker's cheek – fast, faster than he's managed to move yet – managed to connect with a force that guaranteed splintered bone. It knocked Wesker back, over the counter and across the other side of the kitchen. In an endurance game, Chris didn't have a chance. His body was too young, too new to the virus to be able to endure copious amounts of healing over a long period of time.

But when it came to power – weight lifting paid off for something, it seemed. Wesker was lithe and firm in his abilities as a superhuman, but when it came to brute strength, Chris had him beat; and it was nice to finally have a leg up on Wesker on something.

Chris rounded the counter quickly, not bothering with grace as he scrabbled to deliver another blow to the man while he was down. He knelt down over Wesker, one fist raised – only to receive two boots to the gut and a free ride into the far wall of the kitchen. The blow was so fierce, he found himself a good few inches in the cement bricks that made up the walls. His body screamed in despair, brick dust and cement crumbling around him – turning in pale and dirty.

He groaned, momentarily lost; and while it only lasted for a second, it was all Wesker needed to take the upper hand. Chris opened his eyes to find Wesker right in front of him. He struggled to break free of the wall only to have a large, firm hand press in at his sternum and force him back.

"What the -?" Chris struggled, then glared up at Wesker. "You done fighting? Getting too close for comfort?" He sneered.

"Enough, Christopher," Wesker said, not even smirking at the way Chris weakly pressed back against his hand in exhaustion. "Enough."

"…What –"

And then there was a hand at his face, obscuring first his lower jaw and then, as Chris stared at Wesker with wide, confused eyes – his vision as well. Long fingers spread out to span the edges of his face, then pressed, forcing Chris against the wall. He breathed weakly, air whistling loudly in the silence as Chris struggled to be free – waiting for Wesker to make sense.

And then it started.

He screamed, nails breaking against the walls as he clawed wildly in panic.

"He's pretty active tonight, huh?" Sherry said as she entered the room, gesturing lightly in apology when her sudden entrance accidently startled Piers. She walked over to him, one slim hand gently pressing a warm cup of coffee into his. Piers looked tired – exhausted in a way that added yet another reason to Sherry's growing list of things to feel guilty about. It should be her in that chair, staying up at all hours of the night. It should be her that comforted Jake. It should be her.

But it's not.

She tried to ignore the dark circles that were growing beneath Piers' eyes despite even his enhanced state of health. She looked away when his eyes became hooded as he sipped his drink and whispered, "Thank you."

"Of course," she said, and stood beside him as she looked at the other occupant in the room. Jake looked better – almost disturbingly better. He'd gained most of the weight back that he had lost, and his skin glowed with a healthy tinge that he had been lacking since the incident. She was grateful – really. She was also jealous – jealous that Piers' presence had such an effect on him, and that made her feel even worse.

"You're right though," Piers said, "He is pretty active tonight," and gestured to Jake as he stirred yet again in his sleep. Beneath his closed lids, his eyes were rolling fretfully. Atop his sheets, his fingers twitched minutely. By all appearances, he reminded Sherry of a dog her family once owned before… well, before everything. A golden retriever – Chance. He used to run in his sleep. And bark, whine, growl, paw – you name it.

Dreaming, her mother would say to her. Chance must be chasing something in his dreams.

"What do you think he's dreaming about?" She asked softly.

Piers took a long sip from his cup, sighed and then said, "Who knows… hopefully something better than this."

She nodded, then quietly pulled up a chair beside Piers and settled in to keep them company.

"Yea… Hopefully."

Jake felt like he had been here before. In his bones, it felt true. He knew these hallways. He had spent months in these hallways. He knew the layout by heart. The pale, clinical white of the walls were no stranger to him. The tile played a familiar tune beneath his boots. He knew this place.

He has never been to this place.

But in dreams, these things don't stand out. He was aware that he had and had not been here before, but neither mattered. He walked throughout the complex regardless because anything was better than the vast, black nothingness he had come from. It had been so dark, with nothing there but the shadow of a person at the very edge of his vision – always just out of sight, but always there. He was happy to be gone from that place. He'd take creepy death lab over that any day.

So he wandered without aim, because hell – dreams gotta end sometime, right?

He appreciated it for its simplicity. It was better than his flashbacks to his past mercenary battles, and a hell of a lot better than his nightmares. Visions of his battle with Ushtanak, only different. Versions of a life where they didn't win, where Sherry was crushed beneath the heavy ball and chain of Ushtanak's attacks, where Jake himself fell into the lava and burned away… Yeah, he'd take boring old hallways any day.

Only… it didn't feel quite as simple as just wandering. He knew this place, but not where he was going – only that he was going somewhere. Idle minutes passed. He wondered where Sherry was and if she were okay. He tried to remember the last time he saw her, but the more he thought about it – ghouls everywhere, clawing at him, a black shadow stalking them, fighting, leaving her behind, gunshots, Piers and wild familiar blue eyes, an apology and a flash – he winced and rubbed at his temples. Something whispered soothingly in his head not to worry about it.

So he didn't.

The voice was different from the black place, though… He couldn't quite pin why, only that it was. It spoke far more freely than the shadow from the black place, and now that he could hear it, he couldn't seem to shut it off.

'We've been waiting for you,' it said, as though from the mouth of an old friend. 'Follow me,' it said, and so he did.

He glanced into the rooms from time to time; he didn't rush. He passed labs and living quarters. A small room that appeared to be something like a rec room. A lot of labs. A lot of labs. He wondered how long he'd be stuck here as he finished peeking through yet another lab, only to turn the corner and stop dead in his tracks.

Blood.

There was blood on the wall ahead of him – a messy, wet hand print that scrabbled across the wall wildly. His own blood seemed to draw still in his veins, and everything around him suddenly felt cold and sharp like static. He'd seen plenty of blood before, but not like this. This was different somehow – and drawing yet another blank only added frustration to the uneasy pit growing rapidly in his stomach.

He took a step forward to better analyze the mess only for his boot to suddenly land on something hard, unyielding and uneven. It screeched between his foot and the tile beneath it – scratching oddly, like beads. He lifted his foot and blinked. Dog tags…

He knelt down to pick them up. His fingers grazed across them and –

A hand spreading across his face again – and suddenly he was there, so deep inside his mind he couldn't push him out. There was screaming, and dully he realized it was himself, his throat on fire as he howled beneath him.

The feeling of memories and thoughts being shredded away and put back in all the wrong places.

"No, no, no," he shoved him away but it was too late. He staggered into the far wall for purchase and took off. He had to get away.

Blood smeared against the wall.

Oh God, he wasn't going to make it.

Hands at his ankles –

Jake jerked back so violently he landed on his ass, chest heaving as he tried to process what he had just felt. God, they were so afraid. His own heart was slamming wildly in his chest, his breath tight in his lungs. He tried to breathe the terror away, but his eyes still felt wide in his skull – his muscles stiff with tension.

Who owned these tags? Who was he running from? What the fuck happened?

His hand ached from grasping the tags so tightly. In his terror, he had crushed them tight into his hand. Now, uncurling his hand, he froze when he read the words.

Chris Redfield.

And then someone screamed – voice so audibly ragged that it made Jake want to run. A small voice in the back of his head said to snap out of it. He was a mercenary. He'd seen worse, done worse. This was nothing. But the other voice, the voice from the shadows – it babbled so pleadingly to him.

Please run, please run, pleaserunpleaserunplea-help, oh god, please help me.

Chris' hands and boots scrabbled loudly, wetly against the bloody tile as he rushed to regain his footing. His shoulder slammed into the far wall of the hallway instead, but he didn't linger long. With one wide eyed glance over his shoulder, he vaulted himself off the wall and kept running. His heart was hammering in his chest, thumping so violently he thought it might explode. After everything he'd been through – getting infected, the mansion, the mask… After everything, he thought he understood fear.

But those experiences were not fear, not as he knew it now.

Fear kept his mind open like floodgates he couldn't close, barring him from blocking Wesker out. Fear kept him running down the hallways like an abused animal even though he knew there was nowhere to go. Fear kept him moving, because he thought Wesker had taken everything from him. He thought he had nothing left to lose. He was wrong. He was so wrong.

No, no, no, no, he thought, his voice screaming in his head as he felt Wesker prying into his vision once again. This was worse than the mask. Worse than being infected and forced into this new existence against his will.

"You can't run from me, Christopher," Wesker said, his boots calling out louder than thunder in the barren hallways.

"Stop it, stop it, stop it," Chris whispered weakly, hoarsely as he clawed at his eyes, fighting against the pressure of Wesker's intrusion into his mind. In his momentary blindness, he stumbled. He clipped his shoulder against the corner of the hallway, sending him tumbling across the floor. In his panic, he clawed at the floor to stop himself and regain his bearings, but his blood slick knuckles and fingers just squeaked uselessly against the tile – red, scrawling trails left in their wake.

His head knocked harshly against a parallel wall, his vision spinning as he lay limply on the floor. 'Get up, Chris, get the fuck up!'

Another barrage, stronger than the last one – coming faster and faster like labor pains. Chris twisted onto his back helplessly and arched up against the pain, driving his shoulder blades and heels into the floor – screaming until veins pushed painfully against the thin skin of throat. It felt like fire behind his eyeballs, like bleach inside his skull – burning, burning, burning everything away.

He reached out to the precious things he was losing – mentally or physically, he couldn't tell. Sheva grasping his hand, telling him she wouldn't leave him behind. Partners? Partners. Finn smiling, excited to take advice from his hero. Thanks, Captain! I won't let you down! Leon on a rare night out, smiling at him from over his beer. You got one hell of a sister, Redfield. Piers telling him to go home once again, refusing to leave until Chris did. Shouldn't leave before the CO, even if he is a crazy workaholic bastard. A wry grin.

Fading, fuzzy, disappearing like sand between his fingers. He couldn't remember who he lost this time… Only that he lost them.

The wave had passed.

His heart shuddered weakly in his chest, overwhelmed and frustrated and so fucking sick. He brought trembling fingers up to his face and clawed, red welts coming and going in mere seconds as he dragged angry nails down and struggled to breathe. Each wheeze came out harsher, wetter, more panicked than the last until finally his pressed his thumbs into his eyes, pulled at his hair and screamed.

Distantly, he heard the footsteps coming. Red hot tears burned in the places where crow's feet once dug into his skin. Slowly, he dropped his hand from his face and turned to look at the man responsible standing a few feet from him.

He expected a smug grin, a cruel sneer, a snide remark. Instead, Wesker looked down on him with nothing in his eyes but observance.

Chris licked the dried blooded from his once torn lip – no doubt bitten threw a dozen times now – and wheezed…

"Why won't you just let me die?"

Wesker stared at him for a long time, watching the man he had created shatter on the floor before he slowly stooped himself down and kneeled beside him.

"Because, Christopher," Wesker said, his voice gentle – neither kind nor biting. "You are proof of the impossible."

Wesker raised one hand out to him, his glove gone and his fingers pale and reaching. With the last of his strength, Chris caught his hand at the wrist and stopped him.

Wesker looked at him expectantly.

"Please…" Chris said, and he couldn't find the strength to hate himself for pleading. "Please don't take her."

A hand descended.

"It'll all be over soon, Christopher," Wesker said as a cool hand obscured Chris' wide, frightened eyes.
"Then you'll be ready for your role in our new world."

Chris' chest heaved in the throes of hyperventilation as his world turned black once more. And in the darkness stood his sister, framed in a halo of light. She turned to him there, in the shadows, and upon seeing him she smiled as though seeing him for the first time in ages. She reached out to him, eyes warm and full of home.

"Claire!" Chris screamed and ran for her, hoping that if he could just reach her first, she'd be spared. That Wesker would leave him just this one thing. He couldn't remember what he had lost, but he knew what he could lose. He reached for her, eyes closed in his desperation – too afraid to watch her hand turned to dust like…who? He couldn't remember the face; only that it hurt to watch them go.

But her hand didn't slip away, nor did her memory. He could feel her slender fingers in his hand, fingers tightening in response to his terrified grip.

"Chris. Look at me," she said. And he did, a weak, hopeful smile on his lips that quickly bled away.

They were in a hospital room. Her hand was suddenly frail in his, pale and trembling between his fingers. Her veins were dark against her skin, and there were far too many needle marks along her arms. She looked tiny in that hospital bed – engulfed by blankets. She needed pillows to sit up. She was wearing the blue wrap today. It hid her baldness the best, she always said with a smile. She didn't say it today.

"Please don't go," Chris said. "Please."

Claire looked up at him with a pale, watery smile. "I'm so proud of you."

He tried to speak, but couldn't get past the sudden burn in his throat. He dipped his head down so she wouldn't see how scared he was. They were so young. They were supposed to have more time. How was this happening? Why didn't anyone have a cure? Claire didn't deserve this. How could she be dying? How could her own body be killing her? She wasn't even done with college yet… How…?

He just didn't understand.

He rubbed her thin skin beneath his thumb to ground himself as she reached up with her free hand to pull him closer. She wasn't as warm as she used to be, he realized as he hugged her. He buried his face into her hair and tried to memorize the smell of her. They told them they'd have years. They told them…

"Please," he whispered.

"It's going to be okay," she said. She sounded tired. "Chris, I need you to promise me something."

"Anything," he said, pulling away to look at her milky eyes.

"Promise me," she said, suddenly winded. "Promise me…" Her breath whistled around the nasal cannula. "Promise me you won't let this stop you."

"Claire."

"Promise me," she demanded the way only the dying could – weakly, selfishly and with abandon. "Promise me you'll take that job in the city. You'll find a pretty girl and earn medals. Be a hero, have a big family, retire… Maybe name your daughter Claire," she joked.

Chris' laugh came out more like a wet gasp between his clenched teeth and forced smile.

"I don't..."

"Don't lock yourself away, Chris," she said, pressing her trembling hand from his face to his heart. "Promise me… you'll keep living."

"…I promise…"

He was there when it happened. He held her hand as she slipped away. He felt it the moment she became just a body between his fingers. As though someone had flipped a switch, she was gone. Her monitor blared a long, sullen note. In the corner of his eye, he could see nurses scrambling in the hallway. Not that it mattered – not with the DNR signed and filed away.

"Claire?" he whimpered, suddenly feeling small in the cold, empty room. "Claire?"

A large hand at his shoulder, warm and firm and solid.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Christopher. I understand if you'd like to take some… time, before you give us your answer about the position," Wesker said as he rounded Chris – and as he passed, the scenery changed. He watched the man as he took a seat behind the desk in his office. He was clad in STARS blues – a pair of familiar shades in front of him and folded neatly. Chris knew he wasn't exactly the picture of emotional turmoil – not with his back rigid and his shoulders straight, his face a solid mask of composure. Emotional turmoil, no. But he was cold. Cold despite the summer sun and record setting heat outside. Cold so far down, he could feel it in his gut as he looked at Wesker and said, "If it's all the same to you, sir, I can tell you now. I'll take it."

He watched the man quirk a brow that slowly melted into a miniscule but approving smile.

"I think we'll get along quite nicely, Mr. Redfield," Wesker said, one hand extended.

Chris shook it.

"I think so, too."

His hand was firm, Chris thought, and suddenly he wasn't shaking his hand. He was pulling Wesker up from the ground after the man had taken a knee to readjust his equipment.

"What?" Wesker asked. Chris blinked and shook his head, trying to wake himself up. They'd be in the mansion for several hours now, and he was running on fumes. He could've sworn he had been somewhere else…

"I said, I think so, too," he said, thrusting his chin toward the door. "I think this is it."

Wesker looked at the door and sniffed disdainfully.

"You ready to confront her, Redfield?" Wesker asked, eyeing Chris with careful calculation.

A pang of anger and heartache and self-depreciation fluttered in his chest. How had he not known Jill was a traitor? How could she have done this to them? Setting up this mission for some unknown agency – plotting their deaths, testing their abilities, testing what outbreak would be like… And Chris had asked her out, too. God, how did he not see it sooner.

"Yea," he growled, chambering another round into his shotgun. "I'm ready."

Moments of history flickered in fast forward. Fighting Jill, watching her dip away with the Mansion on self destruct and a monster on the loose – but not before infecting Wesker with something on her way out. Rushing to the hospital, going through all kinds of military labs and testing and medical facilities trying to get Wesker back on his feet. Building the BSAA, hunting Jill down to Africa at Wesker's side. Leading a new group of recruits. Losing them. Getting drunk in some back ally until Wesker dragged him back. Leading another team to China. Finding out Piers was working for Jill and Ada all along. Meeting Wesker's son, who was then brainwashed and abducted by Birkin's daughter. Finding out that Wesker's DNA could be used to cure cancers, diseases, illness – God, if only they had known while Claire was still alive... To prevent future bioterrorism breakouts and prevent infection. To create a new mankind, stronger – better – impervious to any new virus Jill and her organization could come up with next. No more Umbrella. No more Tricell or any other knockoff pharmacy from hell.

They found a way to access Jake, to use his DNA to build a genetic bridge and make the human body more receptive to the virus. They had passed testing just as Jill began ramping up on attacks again. And just when they thought they'd done it – Ada tried to assassinate Wesker. Chris took the bullet, but the lab – God, they lost everything.

And now, with the promise of more attacks – worse and more violent than ever – they had only one choice. Launch now or lose humanity forever.

Chris would be damned if he lost now. Not after everything he'd been through.

He would see the dawn of a better world. Even if it killed him.

[A/N] I didn't forget about this, I swear! Work has been a killer - videos and videos and more videos. BUT FINALLY I have updated. Hopefully you all find it worth the wait. As always, bless you for continuing to read this after literal fucking YEARS. Bless you. Bless your cow. Bless your lucky cricket.