Disclaimer: I don't own anything in the below piece of fiction, Capcom does.

Warning: Nothing

Authors Note: I'd like to dedicate this chapter to Margarette. Miss you.

Chapter 42- Grief

Sorrow makes us all children again - destroys all differences of intellect. The wisest know nothing. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson~

They say that grief comes in five stages.

First: Denial—it wasn't happening. What you saw; what you heard; what others wanted you to believe; it was all just a lie. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.

Second: Anger and aggression—a refusal to see death for what it is and a defiance against it. Death was unfair and uncompromising and you just want to say 'fuck it' to Death himself. But he'll get everyone, and when that time comes…

Third: Bargaining—just a little more time with them, that's all you need. Don't take them away so early or at least let you say goodbye the proper way. Just don't take them away!

Fourth: Depression—it was meaningless. Their deaths proved nothing and aided no one, so why did they have to die? Why did you survive and the others die? What was the purpose of such deaths and why did you survive and continue to thrive when so many around you are rotting in the ground?

Fifth: Acceptance—an impossibility.

Standing in front of the mirror located on his closet door, Chris stared at his own reflection, his hands fiddling with a tie. Watching the movements of his hands, Chris spared his face only a fleeting glance, knowing fully well what he would see. Bags under his eyes, hair seemingly in order though dull in colour, and skin pale, more so than it should be given the season.

For the past week since the incident, Chris had slept very little—the occasional cat nap here and there when he felt safe enough to close his eyes. It usually happened when he was in the presence of others, such as Jill or Barry. Ever since the mansion, they hadn't been apart for very long, the five of them not wanting to lose each other even though the perceived danger was gone.

When they had been together, they didn't talk about what had happened. The twenty-four hours that Jill had requested they wait turned into two days, then three, until a week had passed and nothing had been said. Barry suggested they wait until after the memorial—they could begin to move on and save the world after their friends and compatriots had been laid to rest—an idea everyone agreed with. Besides, Irons made it clear that he wanted them all to go to therapy before getting involved with the investigations, something Chris had no intention of doing.

Of course Chris was desperate to get to work, but his mental state would not permit him to do anything remotely productive. In addition to having debilitating nightmares and an increase in paranoia due to living in the city that was run by the cooperation that ruined his life, Chris was also grieving for the loss of his friends and his… his lover.

He saw their faces when he closed his eyes, heard their laughter behind his own when he found the occasion to let out a small chuckle, and he swore he could feel the gentle pat on his shoulder—the kind of ones Forest would give him when he would walk by. Chris knew it was crazy, and that a normal person wouldn't be experiencing these things, but he clung to the memories of his friends despite knowing the dangers. They were gone—dead and not coming back. The sooner he accepted this, the sooner he could move on; but it was all so much easier said than done. Chris wanted to continue to live in the delusion if just for a moment longer.

And then there was Wesker—there was always Wesker. Chris tried to stop thinking about him, he tried to push past any previous feelings he may have had and concentrate on the anger, frustration, and betrayal, but all of those feelings were inextricably linked to his romantic past with Wesker. It wasn't enough that he had to kill and destroy for the chance of glory, but he also had to take Chris down with him, breaking his compass on the way so he could no longer find his way back to safety.

Chris felt like he was floating out to sea, the call of the sirens ringing in his ears as the waves swirled around under him, hiding the monsters and creatures that lurked below that would swallow him up whole like he was Jonah. And all the while, Wesker was sitting across from him on the little boat, his chest a massive bloody hole and his face serene and composed—assured he was of his victory.

It was stupid. Even in his death Wesker was controlling him, preventing him from focusing on the important shit in life like stopping Umbrella, saying goodbye to those who passed, and moving the fuck on with his life.

Fuck him… Fuck Wesker. He deserved it—he deserved to feel the pain of something ripping his heart out and shoving him away. He deserved to die.

Tugging at his tie, Chris' frustration grew and grew until he had given up on it. Ripping it off from around his neck, he tossed it across the room before storming away from the window, a shaky hand rising to run through his already dishevelled hair. Stopping his march away from the mirror when he reached the window, he rubbed the back of his neck, shoulders hunched as he stared at the floor, the anger he felt once again leaving, instead replaced with dread.

Sighing, he returned to the bedroom and picked the tie up off of the bed, creases apparent on the black material after his numerous attempts to tie it right. His mind had been elsewhere for so long that he had lost track of time, and jumped when there was a buzz near his door, his side seizing from the sudden twitch in the muscles. Stuffing the tie in the pocket of his black slacks, Chris went to answer the receiver, ignoring the pain he felt in his side.

"Hey, I'll let you up," he said, pushing the button as he spoke, already knowing who was on the other side. He was about to release and open the door when he heard Barry speak up, voice loud.

"Is it all right if Kathy and the kids come up, too?"

"Yeah, sure," he replied, deciding he wouldn't argue. It wasn't like Kathy was going to reprimand him on his housekeeping skills on a day like today anyways. Unlocking the door, Chris opened it a fraction before going to the kitchen, wringing his hands as he did so. Maybe they would like something to drink before they left? Or maybe they would just come up and then they would leave to go to the memorial. Would there be refreshments and food at this sort of thing? Maybe they would all get hungry and he'd be a poor houseguest for not having offered them anything when they came, and perhaps—

"Chris?"

Stopping his pacing, Chris looked up from the tiled floor in his kitchen to see Barry standing in his small living room by the door, his sombre family surrounding him. He was wearing your classic funeral clothes—black jacket, black slacks, polished black shoes, and a black tie… so much black. No wonder darkness instilled thoughts of death and nothingness.

But his attention soon flicked to Kathy and their two little girls; only they weren't so little anymore. They were growing up fast, their faces still youthful but their stance that of young women and no longer children. Staring at them, Chris realized how close they had come to losing everything… how close they had come to losing their father just like he had lost his long ago.

It hurt—it physically hurt—to look at them as a family unit. They had come so close to losing it all, and a large part of Chris was relieved that Barry had made it, that he had come back home when so many others hadn't. But at the same time, a small part of Chris—a very small part—resented them. Barry had support—he had someone to help him along his way and people to fight for. What did he have?

Snapping his gaze away from them, Chris slowly pulled the tie out of his pocket, hand shaking. "Did you want anything to drink? A glass of water or maybe some orange juice?"

"We're fine," Barry said, and Chris could see him move more into the living room, his family following close behind. "Are you… Are you ready to go?"

"I don't have my tie on," he mumbled, hand squeezing down on the black silk as he desperately tried to quell such nasty, vindictive, and self-pitying feelings. It wasn't fair to think like that—he was better than that, or at least he thought he was…

"Let me help with that," Kathy said, her voice soft and low, lulling Chris into a sense of some comfort. Finally looking up at them, he let Kathy approach him and passed her the tie before facing her directly. She was efficient with it, and managed to tie it in mere moments, her touches and tugs grounding while her perfume of rose buds and lavender comforted him further. Staring at her shoulder, Chris waited until she was done before thanking her and turning his attention to Barry, who Polly and Moira had now pressed close to.

"You ready now?"

Nodding, Chris thanked Kathy again and let her and her children leave before following Barry. Shutting and locking the apartment door, Chris sighed and followed the four of them down the hallway to the elevator, the sound of their feet muffled against the cheap, grey carpet. Wesker hated that carpet…

The elevator ride was filled with more silence, save for Polly asking who would be sitting in the back of the car with them. Kathy volunteered.

"It's mundane," Chris whispered as they left the elevator, voicing his thoughts aloud. Barry turned his attention from the glass doorway to him, an eyebrow raised, waiting for Chris to finish his thought. "Death… mourning… grief… it's all so mundane."

"How do you mean?"

"The process we go through… it's mundane and boring. We sit and we mourn—reminisce about those who passed and wonder why they left. We spend so much time in our own heads, breaking apart and dissecting everything to the smallest detail, and all the while we live our life as we normally do… that same mundane, routine life we've become accustomed to. There are no explosions, no epiphanies, no appreciation for what we still have… it's the same boring existence we had before, only we have to go through it all without the people we're grieving for. "

Barry was silent the entire time, and Chris found himself not even listening to what he was saying, instead focusing on the buzz of a fly near the doorway outside. Barry's van was parked outside, the red paint on it shining and glittering in the bright summer light, and Chris trailed off on his rant as they approached the vehicle, the back doors being slammed open by Polly and Moira.

Getting in the front, Chris buckled himself in, mindful of his side as he did so, and went to stare at the dashboard in front of him, dust particles floating around. Locking his fingers, he rubbed his palms together before flexing his fingers closer and then apart, only stopping when his foot began to jump.

"You're right," Barry said as he started the vehicle and drove towards the building the memorial was going to be in. "Death and life are mundane, but they are both important things to go through, despite the triviality…"

Chris just nodded and rode in silence with Barry and his family, basking in the triviality of it all.

**XX**

Once again Chris found himself facing all of them, their bright eyes gazing back at him through high gloss photos, projecting an image Chris wished he could once again see in reality. Lined up in a row at the front of the room were all eight of them, their official police issued photos being used. Uniforms in order, badges present, the RPD and STARS logo sitting neatly on navy blue. Chris remembered taking his photo when he joined the RPD—remembered how it felt like his cheeks would fall off from all of the fake smiling he had to do as photo after photo was taken, none of them good enough. He was slouching too much, he looked too happy, now he looked too sad, etc. etc. etc.

He wondered if any of the others had as much difficulty with their photos as he sat down in the second row, Jill on one side with Barry on the other. He nodded briefly towards Brad, and sent Rebecca a fleeting, awkward smile. Ever since the day he passed out, the two of them had not spoken much, both of them far too jittery to do so. But from what Chris could tell, she hadn't told anyone about what she had found, giving him a small piece of mind to keep for himself. He'd talk to her eventually—about what had happened… eventually.

Instead he focused once again on the pictures in front of the room as more people filtered in; the only sound that of rustling fabric and soft footfalls on the floor. First there was Forest, then Richard, Kenneth, Kevin, Edward, Joseph, Enrico, and finally, Wesker. Chris' gaze stayed on Wesker's photograph the longest, attention wandering over the smallest details of Wesker's appearance.

High cheekbones, thin lips quirked into the smallest, barely there smile the photographer probably had to wrestle to get, hair slicked back with no strand out of place, and his eyes… steel grey and piercing, drawing him in even though they lacked warmth or caring. The eyes of a killer—the eyes of the man Chris loved.

Fidgeting once more, Chris wrestled with the emotion inside him, wishing he could find the peace and state of numbness he had found when leaving the apartment. At least then death was mundane and boring, but now… now it was becoming too much to handle.

"Chris, are you all right?" Jill whispered, her hand resting on his arm gently, snapping his gaze away from the pictures up front. Staring at the light as it reflected off of her short cut nails, Chris nodded slowly, breathing becoming easier as her touch grounded him. He was still here.

"I'm fine," he whispered back, looking up to give her an assured smile—a façade that seemed to work. She smiled back, although it was strained, and withdrew her hand before returning her gaze to the front.

Sitting as still as he could, he fixed his gaze on the podium at the front, wondering who would be carrying out the memorial and what would be said. How would they tell everyone about what had happened with the mansion and Umbrella? Perhaps they would stick to speaking about their lives and everything they had accomplished, rather than their gruesome deaths. Chris would prefer that to anything else, frankly.

He didn't have to wait long to see who would be speaking, and wasn't too terribly surprised to see Police Chief Irons approach the podium as soon as everyone had filed into the room and found a seat. He was wearing his police uniform, badges and awards shining brightly on the dark fabric that seemed a little too tight around the chest—he looked rather stuffed in the uniform, and Chris would have been amused if it were under normal circumstances. But it gave him something to stare at rather than the faces of his fallen compatriots, and he focused in on one of the shiny gold buttons that looked ready to pop from its perch upon Irons' stomach.

"We're all gathered here, as you are probably well aware of, to honour and remember the fine men of the Raccoon Police Department STARS unit who fell while active in the line of duty on July 24th," Irons began, and Chris started to fiddle with his cufflinks, fingers awkwardly unclasping and clasping them once more, his eyes still fixed on the button. "We are here today to remember Officer Joseph Frost, Officer Richard Aiken, Officer Edward Dewey, Officer and Captain Enrico Marini, Officer Forest Speyer, Officer Kenneth Sullivan, Officer Kevin Dooley, and Officer and Captain Albert Wesker."

Swallowing thickly, Chris squeezed down on his cufflink until it turned his thumb pale pink, angry red, and finally a pale white, his attention still fixed on the button, so much so that his eyes began to water a little. He needed to stay grounded—needed to find that peace once more or he would freak out and lose it. He wasn't going to cry or scream and yell, but he knew if he let go of reality for a second he'd be dragged down to that lifeless and lightless place he visited every night when he closed his eyes.

"They were all fine, upstanding men; the best of the best and our strongest. When STARS was formed to quell the unrest the city had been experiencing, these men were the first to step up and join the fray, risking their lives and subsequently losing them while serving and protecting citizens such as ourselves. Because of them, we live in our homes, safe and secure."

Chris could hear a woman begin to sob a row behind him and three seats over, and recognized her voice through the tears—it was Kenneth's wife. Clenching his jaw, he breathed heavily through his nose and continued to stare at the now fabled golden button. Just keep staring at it and everything will be just fine…

"Unfortunately, their lives were taken by an accident that no one could see coming. On July 23rd STARS Bravo team, while on a mission involving recent murder cases, lost contact with the RPD late in the evening, their communication system seemingly malfunctioning. A day was waited until Alpha team went in to find their missing compatriots, and that is when the house was discovered. Old and dilapidated, it was unsafe for humans to be inside for too long, and while exploring, a gas leak occurred. Officers Jill Valentine, Barry Burton, Rebecca Chambers, Brad Vickers, and Chris Redfield were situated outside the perimeter when the building blew, but the rest were not so lucky."

"What?" Chris whispered, his vision suddenly going dark for a second, and when he opened his eyes from closing them, the button was lost and all that was left was the rocking of the little boat as the monsters closed in. What was Irons saying? They did not die because of a gas leak and an explosion—they died because of motherfucking Umbrella, Wesker, and greed. They died because humanity had to feed humans with an uncontrollable desire for money and power. But Irons… Irons was lying. He was telling everyone a downright lie—and for what? What did he gain from hiding the truth of what happened?

Shaking with frustration and anger, Chris snapped his cufflink by accident, but paid it little attention as it fell to the carpeted floor under his chair. He could feel Jill and Barry stiffen beside him, but could not hear anything over the thrumming in his ears as the blood coursed through his system, adrenaline levels spiking. He had to do something—he had to say something right now or forever hold his peace.

Moving to stand up, Chris went to lock eyes with Irons, mouth already open to begin his attack before Jill reached out and pushed him back down onto his chair, her eyes wide and mouth a thin, pale line. He could see the rage in her eyes as well, and wanted to ask her what she was doing before Irons stopped his speech and a member of Forest's family approached the podium, a slip of paper and a tissue in their hand.

Suddenly he felt conflicted. He still wanted to say something—he had to say something, in fact. He was not going to stand by while another cover-up occurred in front of him. He had had enough of that bullshit with Wesker to last him a lifetime. He wanted to say something so desperately, and the adrenaline continued to pump its way through his system, hurting his head and his bruised side. But the families… they needed this. He couldn't just start yelling like a madman on their day to grieve, no matter how important it was. He would have lost it if someone dared speak up during his parents' funeral, and despite knowing how damn important it was, he knew in his heart he couldn't do it.

And so he relaxed a small fraction under Jill's touch, letting her know he wasn't going to do anything rash or uncalled for—completely against his character to be sure. But now was not the time, no matter how much he wanted it to be… Now was not the time.

**XX**

It was almost impossible to sit through the memorial after that, Chris's gaze constantly flicking between those who were grieving for their loved ones up at the front, and Police Chief Irons—a lying son of a bitch. When everything was said and done, they were broken up and given the opportunity to speak with one another to once again remember those who had fallen, an endeavour Chris feared more than anything else.

Saying his hellos and giving his condolences to the families, Chris tried to evade any questions that would lead him into dark territory, and instead concentrated on telling each and every one of them that their son/husband/brother was a great, caring, brave, and altogether amazing person, something Chris meant every word of. He knew he would never fully get over what had happened. Oddly enough, though, he met no one and saw no one who was connected to Wesker, and he wasn't sure if he was upset or relieved. If someone had shown up, what would he have said or done? Told them they allied themselves to a psychopathic bastard? Pot calling the kettle black, that was for sure.

But Chris did not care to dwell on Wesker's family life or the friends he would have, and instead hurried out of the memorial building as quickly as possible, finding it harder and harder to breathe with the photographs of all of them staring at him—judging him as he tried his hardest to converse with the people who had lost the most that fateful night. They had lost so much, and yet they didn't even know the truth as to why their sons and husbands were never coming home. Throwing open the double doors, Chris slipped out of the building and immediately went searching for that old pack of smokes he had stuffed in his jacket pocket. Pulling out the crunched box, he took one of the sticks out and attempted to light it, his hands shaking too much to get the lighter to hold a flame for more than a second.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he mumbled under his breath, the cigarette jumping in his mouth every time he swore. Flicking the lighter a few more times, Chris was beginning to lose patience with it until finally the flame stuck, and he wasted no time in bringing it up to the end of the smoke, lighting it and inhaling at the same time, breathing in the vile taste of tobacco and nicotine. Holding it in for as long as possible, Chris savoured the taste and the relaxation it brought, and exhaled slowly while he put the lighter back in his pocket.

Removing the cigarette from his lips, Chris watched the grey smoke twist and wind its way up through the air, curling around itself numerous times before it became harder and harder to see, its substance distilling itself in the clean air. Taking another long drag, he once again savoured it in his lungs before exhaling slowly, a sense of calm coming over him for that short period of time. He had survived the memorial, for what it was. He hadn't broken down, he hadn't gone too far into his own mind where cold hands and monsters lay just under the surface, and he had respected the families' need to grieve… All in all, he had done a good job with it.

But now that he was away from it all and had no appearances to keep up, he allowed himself a moment of weakness and once again indulged in a cigarette, a vice he would give up for a few weeks before returning to when things got too rough. Sitting down on the curb, Chris stared at the pavement beneath his feet, watching the light reflect off of bits of shiny asphalt, once again turning his mind off of anything that did not directly relate to the nicotine in his system and the smoke in his hand. He thought he was doing remarkably well given the situation and the fact that the RPD was instigating a giant cover-up right under their noses, and the more he thought about it, the more it became… amusing. It was completely ridiculous the amount of times he'd been pushed around and fucked with since he had moved to Raccoon—the city where he was supposed to get that fresh start and get a new direction in life. He remembered thinking Raccoon was as good as any other city to live in… Oh, how wrong he was.

Chuckling softly, Chris pinched the bridge of his nose before taking another drag of his smoke. He was so fucked up but it was funny. Knowing his luck, he'd be run over by a car in the parking lot in about five minutes—and he'd probably live to tell the tale, only in a wheelchair and a full body cast. Still chuckling to himself, Chris let the smoke out in small puffs, just utterly amused at how fucking pitiful he and everything around him was. The people who were leaving the memorial gave him a few sidelong glances as they walked by, probably wondering why a man was sitting on the curb laughing to himself on a day like today, but it wasn't like he cared. He was fucked up, and he could either come to terms with it through tears and anger, or laughter—and right now, laughter was the best medicine.

That was until Barry, Jill, Brad, and Rebecca trundled out of the building, the heels of the girls clicking loudly against the cement as they approached him. Snuffing out the smoke quickly, Chris stuffed the butt in his pocket to throw away later, and rubbed his face with one hand before standing up to meet them.

"Why were you laughing?" Rebecca asked, her eyes red-rimmed from crying.

"I'm pitiful," he explained, and didn't wait for further questions before turning his attention to Barry. "Can we all meet up at the office?"

"Why?" Brad asked, and Chris spared him a glare before once again speaking to Barry.

"We need to talk about what was said in there—about this… this conspiracy."

Nodding, Barry looked at Jill. "Mind if we get a ride? Kathy needs the car to take the girls home—I doubt they'll want to wait around in a van for a couple of hours wearing funeral dresses."

"Yeah, for sure. Although you'll all have to scrunch in the back. I drove Rebecca, too."

"I've got a car," Brad chimed in, fingers playing with the keys in his hand as he squinted at Chris, the sun in his eyes. Not knowing how to reply, Chris just stood awkwardly, not wanting to tell Brad that if he got into a vehicle with him he'd probably try and kill him for what he did back at the mansion.

"I'll ride with Brad," Barry said quickly, and Chris could have kissed him for taking one for the team. He knew Barry was none too pleased with Brad either, but at least he'd be able to rein in his temper. Years of experience, a marriage, and two kids gave Barry the patience and understanding of a Saint. Nodding, Brad smiled softly and trailed off to his beat up truck as Barry went to talk to Kathy who was standing under an awning in the shade, Polly and Moira fidgeting in their dresses.

"So I guess we're going to the office, then… Is that the best place, though? I mean, there are eyes and ears all over the place," Rebecca said, rubbing her eyes to clear away the residue from her tears.

"We've got nothing to hide—it's the RPD and Umbrella who have something to hide," Chris said, shrugging as they walked to the car. This was good for him—throwing himself into this so that he did not have time to stop and think about how fucked up he was. If he and the rest of them all worked together to figure out what the hell was going on and eventually protect the people of Raccoon, then he wouldn't have time to analyse his own psyche—no matter how bad that was for his eventual mental health.

"You're awfully eager," Jill said, almost as if she was reading Chris' mind.

"We've waited on this for long enough, Jill. The memorial is over and they're… they're all gone. So it's our job to fix this and set things straight. Irons and everyone else need to know Umbrella was behind this and we need to get our story straight so we can help everyone," he said, conviction in his voice as he floated along in his boat with Wesker, the coast still not in sight.

"I agree," Rebecca said, wringing a tissue in her hands as they stood in a small circle near the car. "We should let everyone know what's going on—we can't let Umbrella continue to do what they're doing, not when so many people have died already."

Nodding, Chris sent a small smile to Rebecca, glad she was in on this with him. They needed to be united to get through this. "You with us?"

"Of course," Jill said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm with you guys all the way, I'm just… nervous. I mean, what we saw makes us dangerous to Umbrella, and we've seen what they can do to someone. Perhaps we should exercise a little caution."

"You saying I'm not cautious?" Chris asked, teasing a little. Jill caught on to it and smiled softly, a hand reaching out to rub his arm gently.

"Let's get going," Rebecca chimed in, breaking the familiarity and comfort for them all—a thing they had not experienced ever since the death of most of their friends. Sometimes it was hard to enjoy such moments when you knew how many people had passed that used to share in them.

Following Jill to her small black Volkswagen, Chris jumped into the back and let Rebecca ride shotgun. He was entirely too big for the back of the vehicle, but sucked it up and pulled his knees up, ignoring the protest of his side. His ribs were slowly healing and the bruise didn't look quite as dark. It now had a more yellowish tint to it—disgusting, but a good sign. He tried to forget about it most of the time, but sometimes he found himself standing in front of the mirror, finger tracing the outline of the bruise as he once again returned to the mansion in his mind, seeing the claws dripping with blood…

"—Chris!"

Snapping out of his daze, he slowly removed his hand from his side and looked up from the back of Jill's chair to stare at Rebecca, her body twisted so she could look in the back. "Where did you go?"

Opening his mouth, Chris was about to tell her he was replaying a nightmare, but instead closed it and smiled slightly—not really meaning it. "I'm just thinking about the memorial…"

"I think we all are," she said, turning back to look at the dash. Going to stare out the window, Chris realized they were almost all the way to the RPD. He must have zoned out for quite a long time, not a comforting thought to say the least. He was getting more and more lost in his own mind—something that caused him a lot of fear and anxiety. But it wasn't like he had missed out on much during the ride, the rest of it being carried in complete and utter silence, all three of them off in their own worlds.

Arriving at the RPD, Jill parked in her designated STARS stall, and they all piled out to walk to the office together, the sound of heels clicking against tile, wood, and linoleum ringing loud in the already busy building. A few questioning looks were sent their way, but occasionally an understanding glance was sent, making Chris feel even worse. He hated pity. Arriving at the office was a Godsend, and Chris hurried to the safety of his desk as soon as he could, sitting down in the well-worn chair, something he hadn't done all week.

Jill sat at her own desk, and Rebecca pulled up a chair from the radio station, wheeling it over so she could sit in front of the office door. Jill and Rebecca began to converse about the memorial for what it was, while Chris fiddled with his pen, staring at Wesker's desk from across the room, thinking about the little boat and his uneasy situation. Ten minutes passed before Barry and Brad arrived, their ties off and stuffed in their pockets. Upon seeing them like that, Chris also went to take his tie off, even undoing the top button of his shirt to let some cool air touch his hot skin. Pushing his tie in his pocket, Chris swivelled his chair around so he could see all of them.

"So… Irons is lying," Barry began, hands stuffed in his pockets.

"But why is the main question here," Jill said, kicking her heels off under her desk.

"I've got two theories," Chris said, watching Jill ditch her shoes. "Either he's under the impression that this is what happened and he's been lied to… or Umbrella is paying him off."

"Would Chief Irons really be so easily swayed, though?" Rebecca asked, and Chris forgot that not everyone knew about his mood swings. Of course, not everyone had a fling with his secretary.

"He's been off for quite a while now," Chris said, resting his elbows on his knees before realizing his ribs did not like that position. Easing himself back up, he gently touched his side before continuing. "His secretary, Mindy… well, she's been all out of sorts lately, saying he's been getting angry and impatient about everything. She said it's because he's been having an affair, but I think this might be linked to Umbrella."

"Sounds possible," Barry said, rubbing his beard. "He could be being blackmailed by them as well."

"I guess we'll need to find this out," Brad replied, fiddling with the hem of his suit jacket. "But how are we going to do that?"

"I say confront him head on," Chris said, wanting to go the direct route about it. No need to dance around it—they knew the truth and it was up to Irons to respond. But Jill did not look pleased with that.

"We can't just go in and demand answers," she said, shaking her head. "First, we need to solidify our story, and use what we know as facts to our advantage. If we go into Irons' office now and call him a liar with our story jumbled, we'll get nowhere."

"I agree, we need to talk about what happened," Rebecca said, although she sounded hesitant about it—like she did not want to talk about what she saw or did. Chris felt the same, but realized they would have to corroborate their stories in order to get anywhere.

"I think you should start off, Rebecca. Tell us what happened when the helicopter malfunctioned."

"No, I want to know what happened in the labs with Wesker," Jill cut in, her voice sharp, tone quick and to the point. Snapping his gaze to her, Chris felt startled by her request, his boat rocking—he was completely unprepared for what she was asking of him. He wasn't ready for this.

"Nothing happened," he said quickly, knowing it was a horrible, horrible lie, but needed to stall for as long as possible. No, he did not want anyone to know what had happened down there—it was locked away in his mind and memories and if he relayed it, even just the facts about Umbrella, he'd never be able to push it all away again. Since the night in the hospital when he had the unnerving dream, he had not thought about the incident in the lab. If he did, he knew he would be trapped in that room for the rest of his life.

"Chris…" Barry's voice cut in, still kind but forceful. "We need to know what was said between you two."

"Guys, maybe he isn't ready—" Rebecca began before her voice was cut out by Brad's.

"Chris, just tell us so we can move on."

"Oh, fuck you," Chris yelled out, glaring at Brad from across the room. "What gives you the fucking right to demand anything from me?"

Brad seemed to shrink back for a second, eyes wide before he replied, his shoulders straightening again. "We need to know, Chris—this isn't just me asking this of you."

Shaking his head, Chris felt the rage begin to bubble inside him, burning his chest and clouding his vision as he stood up. "No, Brad. No, I don't want to hear a fucking word from you—you fucking left us. You left us to be killed down there all because you lost your cool. You were just as much a fucking part of their deaths as Umbrella, Wesker, and those undead creatures were."

"Chris, calm down," Jill said, standing up as well to get between the two of them. "You're overacting."

"No, I'm not!" he replied, feeling like everyone was blind to what was going on. Brad had betrayed them by leaving them to their deaths. If he hadn't left them without a helicopter, then half of Bravo team would still be alive, and Chris may have been able to sleep at night. It was all Brad's fault. "He left us—he betrayed us."

"I didn't mean to!" Brad shot back, his voice high-pitched as he desperately tried to stand up for himself. "Don't blame this all on me when you know perfectly well it was someone else's fault this happened."

Faltering, Chris just stared at Brad, not knowing what to say. For a second he thought Brad knew—an impossibility for sure but one that almost became a reality. But what made Chris really pause was… he was right. Brad may have played a part, but the blame laid on him and Wesker—they were the Judas' of the group, no one else.

"Fine," he growled out, venom in his voice as the rage continued to bubble, but not towards Brad any longer. "You want to know what happened down there? He betrayed us; that's what. He worked for Umbrella, made STARS for Umbrella, and sent us into that hellhole for Umbrella. We were research data; fucking guinea pigs from the very beginning."

The boat began to rock in the waves, moving Chris back and forth as he tried to hold on for dear life, hoping the boat would save him and not tip him over the edge into the darkness below. And Wesker sat, still and unmoving save for the ever-increasing Cheshire grin.

"Chris," Jill mumbled, her voice soft and pity in her eyes, making Chris even angrier. Shaking his head, he waved her off and trudged over to Wesker's desk. Picking up a stack of papers, he flipped through it for a split second before throwing them against the wall with a yell, sending them flying all over the place. Shoving the coffee mug off, Chris listened to it crash to the floor with a sick sort of glee. He continued to rip the desk apart, destroying and searching for clues at the same time.

"This was all part of his master fucking plan," he yelled out, kicking the desk hard when he found nothing, even though he had thrown most of the papers all over the place without looking at them. "He was a monster and a liar, and he used m—he used us."

He finished his tirade off with a kick to the computer, sending the monitor crashing down to the ground. Electrical sparks flew out of it as it hit the ground, making the bookshelf next to it shake with the sudden impact so close to it. He knew the computer was already cleaned out, so why not destroy it as well—just one more thing gone from this world that was touched by traitorous hands. "And he cleaned it all up… Not a scrap left for us to use as evidence, because I realized something," he said, turning towards them all—shock on their faces. "Our words mean jack shit when it comes to this. We needed evidence; papers, notes, phone conversations, floppy discs! Millions of pieces of evidence were littered around that shit hole of a place, and yet none of us saved anything because we're completely fucking retarded!"

And he fell into the ocean.

"Chris," Jill once again began before he threw his hands up in surrender.

"I'm done, Jill, I'm done," he said, making move to leave the room after he had made such a scene. He was done dealing with people at the moment—he was done dealing with himself more than anything else. But he couldn't do anything about that, and left the room, slamming it closed as he pulled at the collar of his shirt, suddenly feeling like he was going to choke.

Making it halfway down the hallway, Chris was fully intent on going home and getting piss ass drunk before a voice stopped him—soft and unsure in its approach.

"Chris?"

He could have just continued, ignored her in favour of his original plan. But something about her tone made him stop, and the anger he had been feeling rushed out of him when he stopped and thought for a moment. Suddenly he felt incredibly tired and foolish—what had he been thinking when he pulled that stunt?

Turning around, Chris looked at Rebecca, the bags under his eyes ten times more noticeable already. "What?"

He meant to keep his voice soft, but she seemed slightly put off by his tone. For a second she looked ready to turn around and wave him off, before she pulled a slip of what looked like paper out of the pocket of her skirt. "Take it."

Stepping forward, Chris reached out to take the paper before realizing it was a photograph. Oh, no… not that one. Flipping it over, Chris saw his and Wesker's happy faces once more, and resisted the urge to collapse as he looked at two monsters. "I don't want this."

"Yes, you do," she said, fingers balling together to make tight fists. "I saved it when you passed out at the apartment. I didn't… No one else has seen it."

Shaking his head, Chris stared at the photo, unable to look at Rebecca—shame crawling over his skin, dragging him into a place she could never understand. Did she realize how- how dirty he felt, looking at what he had done? "I didn't… I didn't mean to do it."

"Do what?"

"Fall in love with him," he mumbled, thumb and index finger crunching the side of it where he was holding it. "I didn't know…"

"I don't blame you," she said, and Chris suddenly felt even more shameful. This wasn't something that should be accepted or understood. He was a monster, a person who had willingly blinded himself in order to achieve happiness—his own happiness. He needed to feel the blame, he needed her to yell and judge him so he didn't have to do it all on his own.

"Don't…" Chris said, pulling back as she reached out to touch him. "Don't tell anyone."

"I won't," she said, and Chris finally tore his gaze away from the picture to see her expression; it was pity once more. "Are you going to be all right?"

That was the hardest question of all, and Chris did not know the answer. How could you be all right when you destroyed so many lives and lowered yourself down to that of villains and monsters? How could you be all right knowing that you were just as bad as the men and women you fought every day? How could you ever be all right when you faced your true nature and failed its test?

"I don't think so," he whispered, stuffing the photograph away in his back pocket before leaving, this time incredibly exhausted. He just wanted the day to be over.

**XX**

Lying in bed, Chris stared up at the ceiling, hands resting on his chest as the minutes ticked by and still no sleep came to him. He was exhausted, but found himself unable to close his eyes. He was, of course, still afraid of what he would see when he fell asleep, but his insomnia had started to become a pattern for him—a pattern that was beginning to be difficult to break.

When he had returned home from the memorial and his subsequent blow-up at the office, he drank a few shots of some old vodka he had lying around in a cupboard, before lying on the couch to watch baseball—a game he hated. But it took his mind off of everything, and allowed him to waste the day slightly buzzed but not haunted by the dead. Baseball was boring and that's what he needed right now; a boring, mundane existence.

But the game had to end and with it went Chris' alcohol-induced buzz, so he took a shower and hit the sack early, the sun having just gone down. He had actually planned on sleeping that night, figuring his body needed it. Even if it was interrupted by nightmares, he'd at least help his body out a little. Once again his mind was too wired for it to fully shut down. He kept going over what had happened during the day, a mixture of emotions creeping up. Anger, frustration, denial, sadness, resentment, confusion; all of these and more were making his chest seize and mind wander.

And the photograph lying on his bedside table wasn't helping the situation. Rubbing his eyes, Chris inspected the crack on the ceiling directly above the bathroom door for the tenth time that night before giving in to temptation and picking up the photo. Lifting his arms above his head, he looked it over once more, remembering everything about that day the photo was taken. He remembered the feeling of Wesker's lips against his own, the smell of the outdoors mixed with the book Wesker had been reading, the feeling of clean sheets under his impossibly hot skin… It was all there, locked away in his heart and mind—tormenting him.

Frowning, Chis continued to stare at it, his gaze fixing on the subtle smile on Wesker's lips. He looked so… happy. He looked content with his life. But inside there was a monster lurking; a power-hungry demon that would stop at nothing until it had consumed everything around it. And Chris had fallen into his trap and willingly stayed, even though he saw all the signs.

He was just as bad.

Gently bending the photo back and forth, Chris listened to the sound of it as it swayed under his manipulation, getting to the point where he'd almost fold it completely before letting it pop back, all the while thinking of nothing… Until it struck.

Stopping his movements, Chris stared at the photo once more, eyebrows furrowing. He had been so caught up in the fact that he was a vile, despicable person that he hadn't once thought about how he could help. He had said he was the partial cause of all of this because he had seen the signs in some way, but done nothing to improve the situation. He had been a selfish asshole and chose his own happiness over the lives of others. But what was he accomplishing by beating himself up about it all? Yes, he was just as bad as Wesker, Umbrella, even Irons… But he would repent for his sins—he could redeem himself. If he helped those around him, if he made a difference and saved just one life, he could maybe begin to fall asleep at night. He may be a monster, but he wasn't beyond salvage. He could redeem himself if he tried.

Pulling open the drawer of his bedside table, Chris slipped the photograph in before shutting it with a resounding thud. He was going to be the maker of his own salvation.

And so Chris' redemption begins. Sorry for the delay on the chapter- I just finished writing/editing/re-reading about 10,000 words for my essay for school. The last thing I wanted to do was go through this and edit the chapter as well! I hope you liked this chapter, though. Thank you for the read/review/favourites/etc. You're all awesome.