"He just need to find it, blow the dust off the cover and open to that first page."
From a six month wait to two chapters in two weeks? You lucky lot!
Chris frowned at his feet packed into leather boots, and he flexed his ankles side to side. He pressed his calloused fingers into his thighs, his knees, his shins; he could feel all of it! He was in his combat gear, the full sleeved tactical issue of BSAA Special Operations Unit. Yes. He was Captain Chris Redfield of Alpha Team!
He groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose, crushing his eyelids together at the mild headache. Fuck. He must've nodded off, and now he'd have to nurse the post-nap headache that thrummed inside his skull. But his legs? He chuckled to himself. What a bullshit dream of losing sensation from his ass downwards, and forgetting things? How could he possibly have forgotten Claire?! She'd tear him a new hole if she ever found out he had forgotten who the most prominent person in his life was! He laughed again at the mental picture of Claire verbally abusing his forgetfulness, he could visualise her desperately angry face, but also of him unable to keep his face straight at how her anger towards him had all the threat of a wet kitten, and sighed vocally.
He looked up and took in his surroundings; he was leant against a large metal case…a cargo container? In front of him was another, perhaps three metres from his toes, and above that he could see the tops of shale roofs. To his right, the two containers met in a somewhat mangled mess. To his left, a way out from between the surrounding metal, and he could see bullet ridden concrete archways and cracked but colourful building tiles.
He heard a howling noise overhead, and looked up in time to see a fighter jet pierce through the air, the sound of it continued to rumble and rock the ground long after it had vanished from his view.
"Captain!" A voice shouted from the opening, and Chris looked back over.
"Nivans." He confirmed to himself, narrowing his eyes at his second in command.
"Captain, you of all people napping on the job?!" the blond man shouted, fury etched into his young face. Chris stood up and took in his youthful features; he remembered in his dreams Piers infecting himself with the C-Virus, he remembered his misshapen arm and many lacerations, and that he gave his life to save him. For the future, he had said. Chris blinked roughly and clapped Piers on the shoulder, but it only angered the lieutenant.
"You can't just hide and nap! We're in the middle of a bioterrorist attack, Chris!" Piers growled as he straightened his desert scarf. Chris was only half listening, and Piers could see it. He went to take a breath, probably to scold his captain more, but Chris beat him to the breath.
"Good to see you, Piers." he half whispered, and Piers' anger melted away into confusion.
"What the fuck?" Piers wobbled his head and held his arms out in sheer bewilderment, and Chris held a gloved palm out, preparing an explanation.
"I dreamed. I had a dream where…" he paused when more of his squad appeared from around the container's edge. "I lost everyone, and I lost my memories, my mobility. It felt so goddamn real, Piers."
Piers narrowed his eyes at him, still confused.
"This is no time for dreams or bullshit premonitions, Captain, Edonia is in trouble and you're supposed to be here leading us, not fucking counting sheep!"
Chris didn't respond, simply casting his eyes up and down Piers' arm. It was…normal. Not infected, no injection site, he was just, well, normal. He peered over Nivans' shoulder; Finn, still as young and timid as ever, completely alive and healthy.
"Sorry." He nodded at his squad, and all of them accepted his apology immediately.
Except for Piers.
He continued to glare at Chris, and his lips parted as if to say something, but clearly he thought better of it and turned sharply on his heels. Chris watched him disappear around the end of the container before deciding to catch up with him and Alpha Team.
He rounded the metal corner, towards the concrete archway of that building and…
"What?" he gasped.
This building…the Spencer Mansion? In Arklay Mountains? He looked back over his shoulder, but the cargo containers were gone, the bullet damaged Edonian buildings had all but vanished, and only tall, dark trees stood in their place.
"1998?" Chris whispered, questioning no one. The trees rustled in a harsh breeze and a crow shrieked out somewhere far to his 5 o'clock. He could smell the damp earth underneath his boots, his…he was in his BSAA gear still? He looked at his feet as he walked forward, closer to the mansion, twitching his nostrils at every snap and crack of twigs, bracken and pine cones under the heavy leather. He continued, on and on, he didn't think the mansion was getting any closer at first, but eventually he reached the cold, chipped steps up to the big wooden doors.
He slowly raised a hand to the handle, but not before pulling his Samurai Edge from its holster…wait, his Samurai Edge?! He held it up and turned it curiously in his hand; the S.T.A.R.S logo was very evidently embossed into the grip, and indeed it was his own Kendo custom built model from 1998. He cocked it, and slowly opened the door to sheer darkness. He gulped hard, and considered just walking away, yeah, this shit wasn't right, what was even-
"Chris…"
A soft voice weakly called out from within the darkness, and he craned his ears. Why did he know that voice?
"Chris…help me…"
He patted at his belt and found his flashlight. The button clicked loudly as he thumbed it, and he directed its full beam into the large hall. Directly ahead was a heavily glossed wooden desk. But…the mansion didn't have a desk? There were red carpeted stairs, no? He shone the flashlight around a little more, and it fumbled in his grip. During the brief swing of the light he saw a large, familiar crest on the floor, and he returned the beam to it, stepping in through the door.
"RPD?"
Ok, this definitely wasn't right. How could he be in Edonia 2012, then in Raccoon 1998? Did he fall back to sleep in Edonia? Piers was gonna kick his ass, for sure.
He cautiously paced further in, holding his flashlight in his left and resting his gun arm on top of his left wrist. There was near silence, near pitch black darkness, and it made the hairs of his neck stand on end. He slowly swept the light beam side to side, trying to locate the source of the voice…why did he know it?
He could hear the metallic squeaking of what seemed to be a light desperately clinging to its fixtures, somewhere to his right. Yeah, there was a corridor that way, right? He stopped and shone his light over to that familiar shutter door, half open and half snapped inside its track. He began to approach it, maybe only by two or three steps that echoed around the dark hall, but the voice he had heard again called out his name.
He spun back around, angling his wrist upwards, and at the end of his flashlight's beam he could faintly make out a second floor landing, flanked with marble pillars. The voice was coming from there.
"Help me, Chris…"
Why did he know the voice? God, it was bugging him! Why did he know it?! His feet moved on their own accord towards one of the stairs leading up to the second floor, and he swept the beam and laser sight as he climbed the stairs. He reached the top and checked off his surroundings. He was on the right hand side of the hall if one faced in from the main entrance, the far stairs from the voice. He twisted and checked the other landing; he remembered that there was a door to a waiting room on the far end, but that wasn't where he wanted to go. He slowly shuffled across more marble flooring, and very briefly diverted his attention to a large statue of a majestic lion, its paw resting on top of a shield with an indentation in the centre.
Raising his gun and flashlight again he carried on, around the first pillar, and onto the landing proper.
"Help me…"
That voice again…he thought it sounded like it was coming from this side of the building, and this floor too. A door on his right sat closed, with a glistening blue diamond set into the wood. He holstered his gun to try the handle, and it turned effortlessly. He re-equipped himself with his firearm before pushing the door open more, scanning the room for…wait?
This was the library, right? How could…
He squeezed his muscled mass between the door and frame and took in his surroundings, the lights were all on in this room, so he shut off his flashlight. Directly in front, on the far wall, were three or four desks, to his immediate left was a small office, complete with varnished oak desk, the stars and stripes on a pole, and thin metal blinds in the windows. He clicked his tongue at the sight.
Wesker's office.
That bastard.
He sighed roughly before turning his attention back to the large room. Tucked around the corner was the huge control panel for the operations of, oh! This is the S.T.A.R.S office! He shifted his gaze straight over to that familiar desk, and he half ran to it. All of these scattered discs, the CD cases, the pens and the general clutter…
He turned the chair around, revealing his guitar. His guitar! And his brown leather jacket hanging above it! The one which shared a design with-
"Chris…help…"
Shared a design with Claire's jacket.
"Claire?" He breathed. Claire! It was Claire's voice! He crossed the S.T.A.R.S office and lifted a hand to push the door, but a distant sound stopped him.
A…music box?
He listened harder…fuck, he knew he had heard this tune before. But where? He pushed the door open, unsure of what to expect on the other side, and sure enough his unexpectations were right.
He stepped out to…somewhere, but directly in front of him was a wall of some type of slime, and it had been slashed, as if to free something, or someone. The door closed behind him and he was plunged into pitch black darkness again. Clicking his flashlight back on and readying his gun, he crept by the slime, around white marble walls, and could faintly make another large door, not dissimilar to the Spencer Mansion. To his left was yet another set of red carpeted stairs, and he approached it, shining the light up, his gun also pointed to the top.
He could just make out a painting at the top of the stairs; a man, and two young children; twin boy and girl? All three had shocking blonde hair. Chris frowned, like he had many times so far. First Edonia, then the Arklay mansion, then RPD and now this was…Antarctica?
"There was a friendly but naive king, who wed a very nasty queen, the king was loved but, the queen was feared…"
Singing? It matched the tune of that music box that still played from afar. He placed his boot on the first step, but the hard surface never came. His foot sank into a thick, red gelatinous substance, and his nostrils filled with the sour, putrid smell of decay. He rapidly turned to get off the step, only for his other foot to also fall victim to this foul stenched material.
"Chris…"
He pulled a foot from the gloop with a thick, slopping noise, and turned. Claire was standing in the middle of the room, staring at him with pain etched into her features. She looked on the verge of tears.
"Claire?"
He began to approach her, but fell forward, hard, and his flashlight flew through the air, landing not far from Claire. The light beam shone over her, and her expression became even more disconcerting to him.
"Claire?" He repeated. He rolled onto his side and panicked, slapping at his legs. He couldn't feel them. He ran his hands vigorously down his body; he felt nothing below his waist!
"Chris…help…"
He looked up at Claire, and the entire floor around her and himself had turned to reddish pink mush. He stared at the goo that glistened in the beam; God, it was entrails. Intestines and organs and, oh fuck, was that a piece of human bone fragment?!
"Chris…why did you forget me?"
"Claire…"
He tried to find a grip, tried to push his hand through the human remains to attain purchase on the floor, but his hand just kept going and going, further and further into the smelly, hot soup of entrails. Something hot, something wet touched his cheek, and he looked up in time to see a long thin…tentacle? Tongue? It vanished into the darkness above his head, and a low breathy hiss moved away from his position, closer to Claire.
A gurgly hiss made him look back at Claire, but she was gone. He heard a crunching noise that made his bones tremble underneath his muscles. He heard spattering noises creeping ever closer to him, and his hands slipped and slid as he attempted to move, why couldn't he feel anything from the waist down?!
He heard another grotesque crackling, crunching noise, and something hard smashed into his head. He rubbed frantically at the sensation, and could feel slime in his hair, fuck, what was this?! He patted the sludge and grasped something metallic; a zippo lighter. He frantically flicked at it, the flame flashing several times before finally becoming alight.
He regretted lighting the zippo.
He startled himself awake and slapped a hand on his chest. Jesus, he had to, it felt like his heart had tried to vacate his ribcage! Sweat soaked his hair as he searched for the bloody piles of gunk, the lullaby songs, the cry for help. Instead there was dark grey carpet, a black and beige rug of a geometric pattern, pale coffee coloured walls and silence. Chris tilted his head back against the soft, fabric back of the sofa and slowly breathed to the ceiling, counting the slow, deliberate seconds as he deflated his lungs. He listened to the blood coursing and pounding through his ears, and took another deep breath.
It was dark, the only light came from a tiny lamp on a sideboard in the corner. Chris stared at the soft glow, at the simplistic design of the lamp and its little black stand. Next to it sat some indoor plants; the names escaped him. Aloe vera? Yeah, that was it. Next to those were some flowers; he had seen a few pots here and there on his tour of the house. Claire had told him that she wasn't the aesthetic person in the house, nor did she know a lot about flowers, but recently she had become attached to the different colours of roses and their meanings. She had told him that most of the decor in the house was of his choice, and he was surprised to find that a lovely collage of framed photos above the sideboard was actually created by his hand. The woodwork, the paint, the gloss, all of it. He had made it special, she had said.
He could faintly make it out in the dim light on the wall above the lamp; their lives over the decades, their very first photos after birth, all swaddled and chubby in the face, their milestone birthdays, their high school graduations, Chris in his smart uniform after passing his entry tests for the United States Air Force, Claire's college graduation. But the centrepiece was of their parents. Smiling, half embracing as they cut into their wedding cake, they paid no heed to the cameraman. It would still be several years before Chris would arrive to expand the family.
He smiled, but frowned immediately. Where was Claire, anyway? He looked around, looked at the empty sofa to his right, looked to his empty wheelchair on his left. He heard the sweetest, softest sigh from below his chin and looked down.
No wonder he didn't know where she was. He couldn't feel her head resting on his lap. His heart began to race at the thought of his dream, and he delicately traced a finger along the width of her neck. He tried to blink away the image of…oh Jesus…something had…the crunching, splattering noise was…
He blinked harder to fight back a tear. Thank God that her head was still completely attached to her body outside of his dreams. He swept his finger back along her neck and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, watching her sleeping face. How could he feel like he wants to care for her and keep her safe so goddamn much when he doesn't remember her being his sister? He tousled that strand of hair behind her ear as he looked back to the photos. The clock behind him above the doorway ticked and tocked endlessly as he journeyed through the archives in his brain.
Like a vast library but with no orderly numbers and nothing but blank covered books with barren pages, he was still missing so much, but somewhere…somewhere, on some untidy, uneven shelf, there was a book. A fully printed, fully worded, well labelled and well cared for book.
He just needed to find it, blow the dust off the cover and open to that first page.
He thumbed her cheek, but his thumb very gently stuck to her skin, and he looked down. He brushed his thumb again and traced, first down her cheek, then back up, to where the tiny trail met her eye.
"Oh, Claire…" he whispered. She had been crying. He didn't know why, he didn't know when, but her streak of tears had dried recently. He gazed at her face, tranquil on the outside, but no doubt barricading her nightmares within. She was pretty, very pretty. But even in this light he could see her physical charm was aching from her past lack of sleep and worry. He ran a finger around the edge of her face.
"I'll remember who I am, Claire, who you are. And we'll be who we were again. I promise." he barely breathed the words for fear of waking her.
Though…a portion of his ass was becoming somewhat painful from retaining his posture; maybe he should wake her up after all so she can help him get into bed.
Ok.
Ok ok.
This dream sequence was never a part of RMRY until a few days ago, but I fucking love it, and I hope you did too!
