CHAPTER ONE
Our careless feet leaving trails
Never minding the fragile dirt
We all end in
December 2nd, 2013
Almost four months had passed since the incident in China. The grass hadn't started growing up over the grave yet – it was too cold, too bleak, and it would be for a while. There wasn't even a body buried underneath the frostbitten ground, just an empty casket covered by an American flag – a true soldier's burial.
A gust of crisp winter air chilled Chris to the core. This was the first time he had made a visit to the graveyard since the funeral; the first time he had brought up enough courage in himself to do so. He was afraid of what Piers might think of the news Chris had to bring. He was afraid of disappointing him; especially after all they had been through and all of Piers' sacrifices.
"I stayed in the BSAA, just like you wanted."
He pulled Piers' sleeve emblem from the pocket inside of his coat, held it to his chest, then crouched on one knee and put his other gloved hand on the colorless headstone as if he was clutching his partner's warm shoulder once again.
"But…" his voice trailed off into a silence only broken by the rustling and crackling of a naked tree in the frostbitten wind, "I don't fight any more."
And with a vaccine for the C-virus now available, among other things, the world might soon be on a slow but steady road to recovery. The world didn't need heroes like Chris Redfield any more. Hell, he wasn't even that much of a hero.
That's what he tried to tell himself, anyways, but was it really an excuse?
He shook his head, dismissing the thought from his mind and decided to change the subject before he was surely reprimanded by the younger man. "Last time I was in the States was to recruit you." A defeated smile cracked on the older man's lips for a split moment, but he didn't quite realize how unreasonable the notion of being lectured at by a ghost actually was.
3 ½ years ago…
The first thing that reached Chris' ears was the sound of a high-caliber rifle firing off and the subsequent cheering of an Army squad congratulating their comrade on a great shot.
The target had endured more than enough bullets to the head; it was easy to see even from all the way at the other end of the range. The gunman responsible was an exceptional marksman. Arguably, he was even the best in the Army.
The person receiving those awed cheers was a young Special Forces sniper named Piers Nivans. Being in the Special Forces of the Army was a feat in itself, but Nivans peaked Chris' interest for a few more reasons than just that: he was considered the best marksman, but it was especially alluring that he was a spirited, dedicated soldier.
"Nice work," said Chris as he stepped up towards the group, arms crossed loosely over his chest, his eyes fixed on the back of his target's head.
The target, Piers, turned to face the owner of the unfamiliar voice. He looked at the older man for a few seconds before a smile of recognition crept onto his face and a pure admiration lighted his eyes. "You're Chris Redfield," he blurted out at first, then quickly cleared his throat and corrected himself on his manners, erasing the childlike grin and replacing it with the stereotypical stoic nod of a real soldier. "Thank you, Sir."
Chris offered an affirmative nod. "I've heard a lot of good things about you, Piers."
"Likewise…" the younger man responded, that wistful glow of awe returning to his visage. He couldn't help it. He was practically meeting a celebrity, and not just any celebrity – a real hero, someone he idolized and admired. Chris Redfield.
"I want you to join the BSAA and be a part of my team."
"I'd be honored to," Piers started, paused, and held one hand out for a confirmation handshake, "Captain."
"God dammit."
Chris hung his head, staring down at the dead, settled dirt. He sat there for a long time in silence, just staring, thinking, and he had no idea how much time passed until he heard his name being called by a soft female voice. His bones groaned in his stiff, cold body as he turned to gaze on the woman slowly approaching from across the graveyard, her long blond hair and black scarf fluttering behind her. "Jill."
"Chris. I'm glad I found you," she responded as she knelt beside him and caught his eyes with her own.
"Why?"
"I came to visit… I asked around, but nobody had seen you for days. When I heard what happened, I ," she paused suddenly, tore her gaze away from his and looked at his clenched hand instead, recognizing the object held tightly between his fingers as a BSAA sleeve emblem. She put one of her own hands over his, and her other hand went to caress his cheek as she slowly lifted her eyes to his again. "I want to help you, Chris. You helped me when I needed it-"
"You don't owe me anything," Chris interrupted her speech and slowly stood up, then began walking away down the path to the exit.
Jill stood too; however, she didn't go after him immediately. She merely watch Chris' silhouette disappear in the snowy evening. The funny thing was that he didn't give off an air of coldness or harshness in what he said or did… just indifference, and that listless hopelessness emanating off of him was the worst thing she could have imagined. He had no drive any more, no hope, no passion, no anger. Nothing.
She knew that the emotion of his very soul had died along with Piers.
She knew he felt nothingness.
She knew he was empty.