Disclaimer: I don't own anything in the below piece of fiction, Capcom does.
Warning: Disturbing imagery, ANGST
Authors Note: Hey guys, sorry for the delay. I had a little message on my profile explaining why there was a delay, and I do know a few of you read it. To those of you who sent me messages of comfort and support on FF as well as other websites, I really appreciate it. Your support was amazing, and I cherish the sympathy. Anyways, here is chapter 41, and I'd like to dedicate it to Kaeari and DaggerArcadia.
Chapter 41- Rebirth
Change is the constant, the signal for rebirth, the egg of the phoenix. ~Christina Baldwin~
The first twenty-four hours of a birth is always a difficult process. Humans go through 'births' numerous times during their lifetime. Birth when you enter the world, a birth when you start school, discover your passions, gain a loved one and start a family, enter a new career field, and eventually learn of your own mortality.
The first twenty-four hours of a new birth is hard. Uncertainty, trepidation, a sense of foreboding no matter how sure you are of your direction—these all can overwhelm a person to the point in which all of those feelings suddenly go away, only to be replaced by a giant vacuum that sucks away any emotion in and around them, leaving the person wondering if this twenty-four hour process was useful at all. Did one really need to step on the jungle gym for the first time at recess when they could stay inside with the teacher—a comfortable and inviting environment on your first day of school? Or did one positively have to fall in love with the girl down the street, even though you know it will never last because she's bound to become tired of your lack of direction in life? And morality—who wanted to face such a harsh and critical concept at such a young age? That was reserved for the old and wise, not the young and excited.
And yet here was Chris, sitting on a slowly lowering helicopter, the sound of the turbines loud inside the cockpit and in his head, hands covered in blood and dirt, dried sweat sticking to his forehead, and visible bags under his eyes aging him a millennia. Here he was, contemplating these very questions as he entered the first twenty-four hours of his rebirth.
7:00 AM
The harsh jostle of the helicopter landing knocked Chris out of his daze, and he looked up from his watch to see Jill's face in front of his, her blue eyes filled with exhaustion and worry. "Come on."
Giving his blood-stained hands one last look, Chris tried to get out of it—she shouldn't touch his hands, not like this. But before he could protest, she was grabbing his elbow and helping him upwards. The pain in his side had already become familiar, and he barely felt the skin and muscle rub against the cracked ribs as they left the helicopter, the sound of the propellers being replaced by shouts and yells of RPD cops as they were swarmed.
"What happened out there—"
"We thought you guys had died—"
"—lost contact and—"
"—the others, where are they?"
Chris tried to ignore all of the questions and the gazes of the men, but couldn't help but stare at the man who asked where everyone else was. Dark blue met hazel for a brief moment, a simple flash and that was that. He tried to find the man again amidst the bustle of the helipad, but found himself unable to locate the hazel eyes once more.
'The others were gone', he wanted to tell him, but realized he probably gathered his answer from the meeting of their eyes. Chris looked like a haunted man.
"Give them room."
Irons' voice rang loudly through the crowd, and immediately the noise level was cut in half, a few questions still being asked and curious looks being sent as an emergency crew showed up, bags and stretchers in their hands. Trying to take a deep breath, Chris went to straighten up, but found breathing still difficult and his muscles unwilling to cooperate.
He didn't want to go to the hospital—he didn't want to delay. They needed to tell Irons what had happened so they could do something. They had to do something so that he could stop staring at his blood-soaked hands.
He had to keep moving, otherwise—
"He's broken some ribs," Jill said, passing him over to one of the paramedics, and for a second Chris wanted to yell at her for letting him go so easily. Wasn't she concerned about the situation? Didn't she also want to fix this as soon as possible and get the truth out?
"J-Jill," Chris mumbled, trying to protest as she passed him over, but his voice was weak, throat dry and cracked after everything that had happened. A part of him realized he was dehydrated, exhausted, and in a great deal of pain—but that part was ignored in favour of wanting to get away from the grasp of blue gloved hands that were pushing him down on the stretcher.
"I-I need to talk to Irons," Chris rasped out, trying to sit up but finding it hard as they physically strapped him down. Struggling weakly, he began to grow agitated, especially now that he was being separated from everyone else. They had to fucking stick together.
"Not right now you don't," one of the EMTs said as she shone a flashlight in Chris' eyes.
Chris continued to struggle, and managed to catch a glimpse of Rebecca being led away with two people supporting her on either side, her legs having finally given way on her. He wanted to call out to her and see where she was going, but a sudden pressure in his arm snapped his attention away from her. What the hell was going on?
"We've injected you with a sedative and you should feel the effects soon," said the female EMT as they began to wheel him away. Again, he wanted to protest, but the medication started to kick in faster than expected, the aches and the tightness in his body suddenly disappearing, leaving him feeling even more empty than before.
"P-please… I just… I don't want to sleep…" he tried to say, but his vision became tunnelled, the lights above him becoming dim, and no longer did he feel the jostle of the medical stretcher as they wheeled him down towards the bus. But it brought no peace. He didn't want to sleep—he didn't want to close his eyes because if he did then he'd see them. If he slept then he would see him again.
So many soulless eyes would greet him in the dream world.
"Please don't make me sleep," he said, but no one heard.
**XX**
Thin hands were dragging him down and darkness was all around. He couldn't feel anything; couldn't see anything; hear anything; he couldn't even smell anything. All he could feel was the cold, controlling grab of those once beautiful hands, pulling him down.
"This doesn't feel right."
He should have known. Should have seen it all and yet he let himself be blind to the truth.
"I'll see you later, all right?"
If only he had done something, maybe he could see them all again. Instead, they were dragging him down as well, their cold touch sending shivers through his flesh, making him recoil and try to pull away—but where could he go? All there was was darkness.
"He's been working for Umbrella."
His nose became filled with the stench of death, and he felt like he was drowning in it. It was thick and sat in the back of his throat, making him gag. But the hands wouldn't let him go, and despite seeing nothing, he knew he was being dragged further down with them.
"I feel nothing for you…"
If only he had said that months ago. If only he had said it… If only he had listened…
"Stay away from me."
It was too late. Too late. Too God damn late.
"Shoot me!"
He couldn't do it, and now, here he was… lying with the dead as they pulled him under. One of the hands was now covering his mouth, preventing him from even breathing. He tried to fight it; tried to push the hand away, but to no avail. Others locked around his wrists and shoulders, keeping him still as his breathing became harder and any movement was impossible. He was paralyzed once more… Paralyzed because of his own weakness and fears.
"I love you."
I still love you.
"Chris…"
A voice… He could hear a voice that didn't ring around him like the damned. It was real—solid and tangible. He clung to it like a lifeline as the voices in his head screamed out at him, their words full of hate and vengeance.
"…Chris… Chris, wake up."
There it was again, louder this time. And suddenly he could move his fingers, the icy cold grasps of the dead no longer controlling his movements. Wriggling, Chris tried to shake them off as the voice became louder and began to give him a newfound strength. Finally, the hands broke free and Chris pushed them away as he tried to walk?—swim?—run?—from them. He didn't know where he was going, but he needed to leave—needed to get up.
But the voices continued to scream at him, and his mind began to replay images from the past. Dead eyes and rotting flesh, menacing roars and haunting moans. Oh, no… No, don't come back—don't do this don't.
And for a second, it all stopped. There was nothingness and he was simply suspended until…
Gasping for air, Chris woke with a start, body jerking upwards as he tried to sit. Bright lights shot through his vision like a thousand little needles, and Chris went to close his eyes before his side screamed out at him.
Feeling hands push him down, Chris once again opened his eyes to make sure he wasn't stuck in some fucked up dream loop, and looked up to see Jill standing over him, as real as the pain in his side.
"Don't move—the painkillers only do so much," she instructed, and Chris was about to reply before he started to cough. It was wet and loud, and his ribs protested the action despite there being no way to stop it.
Trying to control the fit, he was about to curl up into a ball of pain before Jill's hands once again found his, and a cold cup was pushed into his broader ones. Taking the water, Chris chugged it quickly, not minding how it hurt his teeth and burned his throat.
"W-what's going on?" he rasped out, still hunched over like a frail old man on the bed as Jill took the glass back from him. Grasping his side, Chris felt the tender skin underneath the hospital gown, and he pressed into it experimentally to feel it stab him in the side once more.
"You're in the hospital—you've been out for hours," she said, and Chris glanced at the clock ahead of him on the wall.
4:00 PM.
"Why?" he asked, disoriented from the drugs and the nightmare. He felt like the hands were still reaching out for him, and shivered just thinking about it.
"You've broken two ribs, cut open your head which required stitches, and you've been without sleep, water, and food for almost twenty-four hours. That's why you're in the hospital," Jill said, pushing him gently back down on the bed so he was lying down. Going with the motion, Chris decided he would give up his struggle and resign himself to the fact that he was a useless lump right now.
"Where is everyone else?" he asked, rubbing his eyes. He noticed with slight annoyance that he had an IV stuck in his hand, no doubt pumping him with liquids and antibiotics of some sort.
Sitting down beside the bed on an old hospital chair, Jill ran a hand through her knotted hair before replying. "Rebecca and Barry are both being treated for minor ailments—mostly for exhaustion and dehydration. Rebecca is staying the night as well, but Barry's going home."
"As well?" Chris mumbled as he began to inspect the room now that his conscious mind was returning. It was just a regular hospital room—although he was lucky enough to get a single room. Too bad he wouldn't be staying very long.
"You're staying the night."
Shaking his head, Chris sat up slowly, his side burning but no longer stabbing. "No, we have things we've got to do." They needed to talk to Irons and sort this out. People needed to know the truth as soon as possible, and he was not going to sit by and see more people pass away because of his idiocy.
"Chris, stop moving," Jill commanded. Standing up, she pushed him down onto the bed once more, and despite the strength she used, she looked exhausted. "You're useless right now. We need to… we need to just sit for a second and think things through. We need to gather evidence, collect our story, and we need to heal."
But Chris didn't want to sit around and collect his thoughts—he was trying to fucking run away from his thoughts right now, couldn't she see that? If he thought about what he had seen, heard, done, then he would never be able to function like a normal human being.
He felt like he was losing his mind right now. The stench of death still seemed to sit on him, the blood still coated his hands despite having been washed off, and dear God, the guilt was weighing on him like a ton of bricks. He felt like if he didn't keep moving—if he stopped to think—then he would lose his mind.
Perhaps it had already been lost in the labs underneath a destroyed mansion, though…
Giving up, Chris collapsed back on the bed and stared off at the wall to his left, avoiding Jill's gaze. "Are you really fine with just staying here when we know the truth?"
"Chris… A day. A day is all I ask."
Twenty-four hours.
"Fine," he whispered after a minute of silence, his jaw clenching as he tried to push back the frustration and anger. "We'll fucking wait."
He could hear her sigh, but didn't turn to comfort her despite the remorse he was feeling for being so rude to her. He was the one who said they had to stick together, and now he was already pushing them away. Not hearing her leave or move, Chris continued to stare at the off-white wall before slowly turning to gaze at her. She looked exhausted, frightened, and close to tears… but there was a strength there. A determination that he wished he could take hold of and use for himself.
"What happened in the labs?" she asked after their eyes locked, her bottom lip wet and swollen after chewing on it from nerves.
And just like that, it slammed into him once again—that incredible pressure and tightness in his chest that prevented him from breathing or forming a coherent thought. Don't ask him about that—anything about that. He didn't want to even think of that name.
"Nothing."
"Chris… Chris, what happened?"
Swallowing thickly, Chris kept his eyes locked with Jill's, determined not to break it in fear of what that would tell her. What would he tell her, though? That Wesker was working for Umbrella, used them all as pawns, and threw them away? Those were the easy things—the cold, hard facts about Wesker's ultimate behaviour. It would be easy to tell everyone that… It would be easy in time.
But what about the part about how he had seen it all happen and yet did nothing? That he was the one who could have made a difference—stopped blinding himself because of his connection to Wesker for just one God damn second to see what he really was… This all could have been prevented if he had just opened his eyes. But he took the selfish route and chose to love than to question; chose the embraces and the tender kisses in exchange for the truth. How could he tell her—them—that what had happened down in the labs was his ultimate downfall, one that he brought upon himself and everyone else?
Most of all, how could he explain that one of the many, many reasons he was so distraught was because despite it all, despite everything that had happened, the sight of Wesker's dead, lifeless body lying beside him brought an unprecedented amount of pain and sorrow—so much so that he felt he would crumble into a million little pieces if the image of the body flashed through his mind once more?
She would never understand—he didn't even understand it himself. If that was the type of person he fell in love with; if Wesker was the type of man he would throw everything he had, including his morality, away for… then what did that make him? What did his love for Wesker say about him as a person?
Sighing softly, Chris closed his eyes, breaking their intense gaze in favour of darkness once more. "A monster happened…"
**XX**
1 AM
Staring at the clock on the wall, Chris listened to the seconds tick by, his eyes straining in the low light that was emanating from a small bedside table lamp. Fiddling with the corner of his blanket, he just continued to stare at the clock, letting his mind go blank.
He didn't want to sleep because every time he closed his eyes, they were all sitting there—waiting for him. So he sat by himself in the hospital room, hands fiddling and twitching, betraying his seemingly relaxed attitude. The nurse who had the night shift had come in a few times and offered to give him some sleeping pills, and every time he refused. The first two times she offered, he just told her no thank you and fought her on it kindly.
The third time she arrived, he decided to tell her why he did not want to sleep—detailing the images of his dead friends and loved ones who tried to pull him under into a dark abyss every time he so much as closed his eyes for longer than a minute. He told her about the sounds he heard and the smells he could feel on the back of his tongue, choking him.
She had not returned since then, and Chris preferred it that way.
Letting out a soft sigh, he grimaced as his side let out a painful little twinge, its own way of protesting the expansion of his lungs. He had been given medication to ease the pain, but with two broken ribs not much could be done until it healed properly. He would just have to wait on it. The crack in the back of his head was also painful, but only if he touched it—something he did on occasion when he forgot about it.
Watching the minutes go by could distract him well enough that he even forgot about his physical aches and pains for a time.
But watching the minutes pass by also made Chris grow antsy. He was all too aware now of how much time was going by without him doing anything. He had promised Jill that they would wait a day before they did anything, but waiting around could hurt them. They needed to do something, anything!
Growling softly, Chris finally tore his gaze away from the clock to glare at his IV. It was only recommended that he stay the night, it wasn't an order and they couldn't make him stay if he didn't want to. Peeling away the tape on the back of his hand, he pulled out the IV and tossed it off of the bed so it dangled from the metal hook.
Rubbing the raw skin, he got out of bed carefully, mindful of his side as he ventured towards the dresser where his clothes had been placed. Pulling them out, he pushed past the disgust he felt looking at the STARS patch, and placed the dirty clothes back on. He would worry about the dirt, sweat, and bloodstains on it later—right now he was not leaving the hospital in a fucking gown.
Taking off the aforementioned hospital gown, Chris tossed it on the bed before dressing with care, ignoring the large bruise on his side. Slipping his combat boots on, Chris searched the room for his other belongings, but realized most of his things had been taken away for security reasons. Going to the sink in the corner near the toilet, he ran some cold water and washed his hands and his face, scrubbing away the weariness and exhaustion if only for a moment.
Looking up from the water running out of the tap, Chris caught his reflection in the cheap mirror above the sink, the left corner cracked. Staring at the crack, he did not want to turn his attention to his own reflection, but eventually lowered his gaze to stare at himself.
The first thing he saw—the only thing he saw, really—was a set of haunted eyes staring back at him; haunted, weary eyes. Bringing a hand up, he rubbed the bags under his eyes gently, feeling the puckered skin under his touch. He looked dead.
Shaking his head, Chris pulled away from the mirror, sick of looking at himself even if it was for only a moment. Giving the room a once-over, he was satisfied that he wasn't leaving anything behind, and left the room to enter the quiet hospital hallway, the lights dim save for the end where the nurses' station was. Heading towards it, Chris paused at the station, eyes blinking a few times to adjust to the brightness.
"Can I help you?" one of the nurses asked, her voice soft as if she was afraid she would wake a patient up.
"I'm checking out," he said, approaching the desk with confidence, despite his side yelling at him to stop stretching the muscles.
"Are you sure?" Chris nodded in response, and waited patiently as she grabbed the required forms, although she looked less than pleased. "You'll have to come back tomorrow for your belongings, Mr. Redfield. We've locked them up in security and we cannot access them at the moment."
Shrugging, he filled the forms out with ease, doing the bare minimum required so he could just get the hell out of the hospital. He didn't need his gun or knife where he was going… or so he hoped. Finishing up, he placed the pen back down on the desk and passed her the folders, just as she passed him a small pill bottle and a note.
"Take these every four hours to ease the pain of your side—this note is a prescription so you can pick some more up next week when you run out. You'll also need to come in to the hospital or go to your family doctor in ten days to have the sutures in your head removed."
"Thanks," he said, taking the bottle and stuffing it in his vest pocket.
"I just would like to tell you that this is a very unwise decision. Both you and your partner should have stayed the night, at least," she added just as Chris was turning around to leave. Pausing when he heard 'partner', he raised an eyebrow and turned back around.
"Who left?"
"Your partner from work—Rebecca Chambers, I believe. She checked out about ten minutes before you showed up."
Furrowing his brow, Chris stared at the nurse for a second before thanking her again and leaving. Rebecca had left, too. But why? Perhaps she was just as antsy to get out, or maybe her medical knowledge let her know she really did not need to stay the night—the best sleep you could get would be at home.
Rubbing his eyes, he navigated his way through the hallways to the elevator, and took it down to the main floor. Going through a few more twisting bends and following numerous signs, Chris finally reached the main entrance, and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the double doors that would lead him to fresh air.
He really just wanted to breathe in fresh air that was alive with scent of life—even if it was polluted. Being in the musty, rank mansion and labs for hours made Chris feel nauseous after a time, and those brief interventions outside was what kept him alive for most of the time.
It was amazing what the open sky could do for a person.
Stepping out, Chris was careful not to breathe in too deeply, and just took short breaths of the cold, crisp air, ever mindful of his side. This was… nice. For the first time in who knew how long, Chris felt like he didn't have to look over his shoulder every five seconds in fear of what he'd see approaching him down a hallway.
"Chris?"
Jumping, Chris' little peace bubble was burst, and he swung his head to the left to see Rebecca sitting on the curb, arms wrapped around her small frame as she stared up at him with her big, blue eyes.
"Rebecca," he said, his heart rate slowing down enough for him to actually form words other than 'Jesus Christ' or 'shit'. "What are you doing here?"
"I… I don't know. Sitting, I guess. Enjoying the outside." Shrugging, she rubbed her arms a couple of times before standing up, hands going to dust off the back of her pants. "I couldn't stay in the hospital for the night, so I decided to leave because I was well enough. But I don't think you should be out just yet."
Rolling his eyes, Chris stuffed one hand in his pants pocket. "I couldn't stay the night, either."
He could feel Rebecca's gaze on him, gauging his health in the way doctors do, before she finally looked away. "Where are you going?"
"Nowhere," he said, realizing how childish that sounded but not wanting to reveal his true intentions.
"Liar—I may not have known you for long, but I know you're going to try and do something about what happened at the mansion," she began, and Chris knew she was going to tell him to go home and wait it out, just like Jill had before. He hated the voice of reason. But then… then she surprised him. "I want in."
Raising an eyebrow, he caught her gaze as she turned once more to look at him, determination on her features. Realizing she would probably fight him on it even further, Chris decided it wouldn't hurt to take her.
"Fine," he said, walking over to a stopped taxi that was waiting outside the hospital. He had some cash on him in one of his vest pockets, and he wasn't about to walk to his place to grab his Jeep, nor was he going to walk to his ultimate destination. He could hear Rebecca follow behind, and let her get in before he scooted in the back along with her.
"Where to?" the driver asked, and Chris gave him the directions quickly, wanting to just get this over with.
"Where are we going?" Rebecca asked after a time, the taxi driver taking a leisurely pace through the city, obviously not as anxious as Chris was.
"Just to a place," he said, his seatbelt forgotten beside him as he sat forward, one hand on the back of the chair in front of him. He just had to keep thinking about his goal and not about anything else. Find information on Umbrella—that was it. Nothing else… This wasn't for anything else.
The ride was spent in tense silence, and Chris spared Rebecca a few glances to see how she was doing. She seemed caught up in her own world as well, her attention outside the taxi on the shops and houses passing by. Soon enough they arrived at their destination, and he paid the driver before turning his attention to the apartment building in front of him.
"Who lives here?" Rebecca asked as they walked to the main doors.
"Wesker does… Wesker did live here," he mumbled just as his watch flashed 2:00 AM. He hated having to come here too early after the events, when the wound was still raw and exposed, but it had to be done. If there was any information to be gained, his apartment would be the most fruitful to explore. He had never really looked around when he was invited over numerous times, having spent most of his time in the bedroom and attention on other things.
But Wesker's office must have held some important documents, especially considering how much time he spent in there. Almost every time he woke up and Wesker wasn't there, he was in his office doing something. Picturing the pristine room in his head, Chris scanned the outside of the building, realizing he had no way of getting in.
"Look," Rebecca said, bringing his attention to the door to see the latch had been busted open. It was remarkably well done—the metal only being pulled a fraction until it popped the lock. Unfortunately, this did little to ease Chris' nerves as he opened the main doors with ease.
Stepping in first, Chris held the door for Rebecca and let her in before heading to the elevators. "Stay on guard—you never know what we might find," he said, his heart rate increasing as his head began to pound. Someone had been here already, or perhaps they were still here. And whoever wanted that information was probably not an ally.
"How do you know where he lives?" she asked as they entered the elevator and Chris pressed the button to the appropriate floor, an action he wished was not so familiar.
"I helped him home once after an accident," he said, not lying at all for once.
Exiting the elevator when they reached the right floor, Chris walked to his right towards Wesker's apartment, the fear, guilt, and sorrow threatening to throw him off his game completely. He began to shake as they neared the door, and he willed the flashbacks to go away. If he closed his eyes it was like he was just going to visit Wesker after a stressful day at work. He could smell his cologne and feel his shoulder brush his own… If only he hadn't…
"Chris, are you all right?" Rebecca asked, her soft voice breaking him out of his daze. Coming back to reality, Chris honed in on his anger instead of his grief, and nodded.
"Yeah, sorry," he said as they stopped in front of the sleek black door. Eying it for a moment, Chris assessed its outer appearance to see if he could notice anything different. It seemed all in order, and he hesitantly reached out to the handle. Grasping it, he turned it experimentally, and heard a soft click—indicating it was open and not locked like it should be. "You ready?"
"Yes," Rebecca replied, and Chris, for a second, was thankful she came along. Swinging the door open, Chris braced himself for whatever could come through, but was greeted with dead silence and a dark room.
Stepping forward, he flicked on the main hall light, and peeked down the small hallway to look into the living room—or what was once a living room. What had once been a clean and orderly room was now a complete mess, the couch pushed to the side, books thrown around the room and tossed on the floor, the television unplugged and pushed into a corner, and expensive decorations accidentally smashed or pushed over. Papers were scattered everywhere, and Chris bent down to pick one sheet up to see it was an electricity bill. Finding a few others, he realized most of them were bills or police reports—nothing of interest or use.
"Looks like someone was here before us," he mumbled, standing up slowly to prevent his side from kicking him. Tossing the papers on the ground, Chris stepped over a broken picture frame and ventured towards the office to see what else he could find. Unfortunately, the office was almost completely vacant save for an empty desk, a book on the fall and rise of the Roman Empire, and a stack of blank papers. Everything else had been taken away somewhere. Well, this was useful.
Shutting the door behind him, Chris continued to look around the apartment, hoping whoever had come through here had missed something, but it looked like they hadn't. They had even taken some of Wesker's clothes—the closet having been opened and thoroughly searched.
"I think Umbrella's lackeys went through here," he said as he ventured back into the living room to speak to Rebecca. He felt disappointed, but also relieved at the same time. Disappointed because they found nothing, but relieved because despite being in the apartment of a man who was causing such a clusterfuck of emotions, he was keeping everything in check. He wasn't yelling or tearing things down, and he wasn't crying and mourning the loss of a man who deserved to die.
He was doing well until…
"Chris… What is this?"
Raising an eyebrow, Chris approached Rebecca with a certain amount of apprehension, her back to him as she held something in her hands. Peeking over her shoulder, he caught only a glimpse of the object before she turned around and passed it to him. Taking the photo in his rough hands, he flipped it over to gaze at the image before him.
It was the photograph—the one Chris had taken on the last day of happiness for him. There they were, smiling and kissing, the epitome of the perfect couple. He and Wesker looked so happy and relaxed; so in love with one another. And yet it was all just a horrible, horrible lie—a lie that someone else now knew. Not knowing what to do or say as Rebecca gazed upon his dirty little secret, Chris stayed rooted on the spot, his hands shaking as he stared at the photo with abject horror. His vision began to swim, and he looked up at Rebecca with pain in his eyes.
"I am so sorry," he whispered as she locked eyes with him. And he could hear her say something, and he knew she was trying to get through to him, but all he could really hear was the beating of his heart and the sound of his breathing as the world began to grow dark, his body unable to handle the extremes he was putting it through.
Exhaustion, fear, grief, and panic all set in, and the last thing he saw was the curve of Wesker's lips in the photograph before he fainted, his body finally giving in.
**XX**
Keeping his eyes closed, Chris feared to open them as he lay on a soft mattress, head cushioned by what he assumed was a pillow. A slightly familiar scent invaded his senses, but Chris could not pinpoint it exactly as he continued to lie still. He did not know where he was or how he got there, but what he did know was that he had no nightmares. As soon as he had passed out, his body shut everything down—including his overactive mind. There was a small blessing, and he clung to it with vigour.
Breathing steadily, he felt his side ache with every breath but did nothing about it, his eyes still closed as he hung on the edge of sleep and consciousness. But he seemed to be waking up more and more, and soon he heard the sound of two females speaking far away, their voices soft and soothing.
Jill and Rebecca.
Finally opening his eyes, Chris gazed up at a white ceiling, and realized he was in Jill's apartment, the smell all around him that of her lavender shampoo. Shifting, Chris turned his head a little to see he was lying on her bed, bright yellow blankets wrapped around him tightly. Not wanting to get up and leave the safety the room brought him, he kept quiet and laid on the bed, pretending to be anyone but Chris Redfield.
7:00 AM. He had survived the first twenty-four hours… Barely.
Again, sorry for the delay. Numerous things came up and... yeah. Personal matters were more important at the time. But I hope you enjoyed this chapter! only 4 more to go before State of Flux is done and the sequel can begin! Love you all!