AN - This is the chapter where my nerves begin to tingle. Seriously, I've been dreading this moment ever since I started this story ^_^. This is the beginning of the end, the start of the climax (did you honestly think the mission was the apex?). As far as the Major is concerned...some may like how I write him, some may hate it, some may call it OOC. But I wrote him how I thought of him. I based his personality on a mix of the games and the novel, and took into account all that would have changed due to the life he led since we last saw him. The main characters have grown, it only makes sense that the antagonists have also evolved. I see him as a man who believes he has all he wants, who believes he is untouchable in a way. Egoism is the downfall of many men. Chapter title is from a song by Nightwish.
In your opinion, has this story outgrown a 'T' rating? Thinks potentially get worse from here on out, so do you think a rating change is in order? I suck at ratings ,^_^.

Another huge thank you and plethora of hugs to everyone who reviewed - Chaed, Ninja-Gnome, Razial, tek, Kenshin13, xSummonerYunax, Kudoh and Black Metalmark. A big hello to the new readers who have reviewed/favourited also! The next chapter won't be up for at least a few weeks, so enjoy the attempt at a cliffhanger ^_^.

Blindside

Chapter Eight - The Cadence of Her Last Breath

"With bated breath I lay."

August 22, 2003. 11:17pm. Verisanda Technologies, East Wing.

Progression through the facility was proving difficult, giving the increasingly worsening condition of Hillary. Mike had assumed the responsibility of sharing her weight with Connolly, but found that his upper body strength was considerably lacking compared to the deceptively slim medic. He was not a soldier; he was a medical research scientist. There was a reason he had always been the last selected for teams in high school.

Chris kept a watchful eye on the newcomer. Something within his gut told him that he could be trusted - he truly wanted to trust the man - but years of experience told him to be wary. There was a traitor amongst the BSAA and as far as he knew, this so-called scientist was a viable candidate.

"Shit...stop," Connolly ordered and suddenly weapons were drawn. There was no reason for vigilance; they had not encountered an infectee in quite some time. It was simply a reflexive reaction.

Weapons were once again lowered when the reason for their sudden halt became evident. Hillary's tremors were now strikingly visible, her skin impossibly pale. The bleeding had slowed, which Chris knew could only mean one thing; time was almost up.

"I c-can't-" Hillary gasped, convulsing in Connolly's arms. He seemed unsure of what to do and simply held her, hoping to offer some comfort. "P-please, j-just..."

"Can't you do something?" Chris asked, stepping close to Mike in what he hoped was an intimidating move.

"I don't know!" Mike insisted angrily. "My lab is too far from here; she'll never make it."

He tested her pulse and shook his head hopelessly.

"She has lost far too much blood," he explained.

"If you ran, could you make it?" Chris asked. He knew that the idea was absurd, but he was willing to try anything. Mike turned to him, looking upon him as a doctor would a madman.

"I could," he admitted warily. "But there is no guarantee-"

"Just do it!" he insisted. "DeChant, go with him."

Mike sighed wearily. It was evident that stress had gotten to him long before they had. Chris did not envy him, but the instinct of mistrust prevented empathy from finding its way into his emotional range. It seemed that Mike had already decided that his presence was simply not comfortable to remain in, and took off quickly and quietly through the doorway they had yet to step through, DeChant following closely behind.

Chris dropped to his knees at Hillary's side as soon as their footsteps faded into the distance and pressed a hand to her forehead. Her skin was clammy, sweat clinging to every hair.

"Can you take her for a little while?" Connolly asked as he relinquished his grip on her. "I need to redress her ankle. Just try to keep her as still as possible."

He did not think about refusing. She did not tremble so violently when she lay in his arms, and the size of her frame felt absurdly small against him. As her head rolled onto his arm he found that he pushed stray strands of hair from the damp skin of her face, more out of reflex than anything else.

"I never thought...it w-would end like this," she shuddered, seemingly oblivious to the work Connolly carried out on her rotting appendage.

"Don't' say that," he hushed, now stroking her cheek with the backs of his fingers, trying to usher some feeling to her nerves.

"Look at me," she laughed, spluttering a moment later. Specks of blood were now dotted around her flushed lips, breaths becoming increasingly ragged. "I m-may as well...be dead."

He could think of no words to offer her. Truthfully, he agreed with every thought that she vocalised; there was little that could be done at this point and he knew that Mike did not truly possess a cure. There was no cure for the T-Virus; therein lay the nature of its destructiveness.

Unintentionally, he felt his thoughts drifting back to Jill. Was this how she had suffered as she lay dying in a chapel in Raccoon? Had she been in pain the way Hillary now was? She had once told him that it was not an experience you wanted to live through and, observing his fallen comrade, he agreed with this summary. Though he desperately wished for an end to her suffering, part of him longed to achieve this at the price of taking her life. She had begged for the bullet often enough, and every time he found that his hand dipped ever closer to his holstered firearm.

He did not want her to die, but at what price did the possibility of life come?

"Hey!" he called, noticing the tell-tale droop of her eyelids. If she lost consciousness, they had lost her for sure. "Don't you quit on me now."

Hillary laughed humourlessly, more spluttering following.

"So...t-tired," she mumbled.

"I know you are, but you have to stay awake," he urged, holding her closer as she winced in pain. "Come on, talk to me."

"About...what?" she chuckled, breaths suddenly slowing. Her chest did not rise as frequently now and tremors had ceased to make way for lethargy.

Chris truly did not know what he wished to hear.

"Anything," he told her. "Tell me about your hometown, about your family. Anything, just don't close your eyes."

He saw a smile appear on her lips and knew that he had her. They had already lost Cavanaugh; he did not want to lose her.

"I grew up...in a tiny...backwater town in G-Georgia," she explained. "H-haven't spoken to...my family in...years."

Sadness tinged her words and he wondered if this was a memory best relived in what could possibly be her last moments. Though he held tightly to her body, he could feel her spirit slipping away.

"They...k-kicked me out...when I was...sixteen," she explained, laughing quietly to herself.

Lids slid back over clouded blue eyes and she caught him in her gaze. He had never before realised just how bright her irises were; she was painfully pretty, seeming so unnatural in battered fatigues and the off-pink of torn flesh. She had the type of face that no one could hate; gentle and kind where so many soldiers had lost their optimistic glow in the darkness of war. Even Jill's smile did not shine so brightly these days.

"Why?" he asked softly. The simple thought of a parent abandoning their child riled him to volcanic fury. Family was more than blood, more than an obligation; how could anyone so easily cast aside a loved one?

"Because I thought they...would like to meet...my girlfriend," she smiled. "Alicia. S-she took...me in, helped me...join the Navy."

Chris paused in silence, fingers continuing to stroke her cold cheek. He had known the pain of emerging from adolescence without the nurturing love of a mother or a father. The pain had almost crippled him, but he had struggled on. His parents had died; there was no reason for their departure, no feeling that there could have been something more. They had not abandoned him, had not thrown him out to fend for himself when he had barely found himself. He could not understand the Jones's reasoning. A child was a child, no matter who or what they were. Whether or not they had agreed with her lifestyle choice, they should have supported her, should have-

"You're...the first...colleague I have...told," she revealed. "You don't know...how good that...feels."

And once again, he was speechless. But he knew deep down that her reveal had not been born of trust, but of the desire to release herself of such a burden in the last moment she knew she would have to address it. She was giving up...

"We don't have don't ask, don't tell," he laughed, smiling through his worry. She laughed pitifully in response, eyelids drooping once again.

"But s-still," she whispered. "It's...hard."

He knew that it should not have to be.

"She's...alive, you know?" she breathed, her words barely a tone to a gasp.

"I know," he assured her. Because somehow, he did. Had she perished, he knew that he would have felt it somehow. There would be a hole in his chest forevermore, and strangely, he felt whole.

"She really likes you," he told her. "So you have to hold on, because I'll kick your ass if you make her cry."

And then, with a laugh so faint he barely detected its cadence, the shallow movements of her chest slowed, fear that had moments ago been present in her eyes suddenly fading. Chris reached for her hand, but when his fingers found her they were flaccid.

"Hillary?" he breathed. He knew that there would be no response, but somehow had hoped for it. Her eyes remained open, lips parted but no breath escaping.

Connolly seemed to register the sudden turn and lowered her freshly-bandaged ankle to the ground. Slowly, hesitantly, he felt for a pulse...but found nothing.

And suddenly, sense left the domain of reasoning.

Chris placed gentle fingertips on her eyelids, closing them respectfully. Strangely, his fingers trembled as they moved, something tugging within his chest as he pressed softly on cold skin.

Death to him had always been a violent, riotous occurrence. The high-speed collision that had ended the lives of his parents, the cries of Joseph Frost as a pack of snarling cerberus tore through his ribcage...even the shrieking demise of Alexia Ashford. Never before had he watched the light fade, felt it slip helplessly through desperate fingers.

The poets of old had gotten it terribly wrong; there was nothing beautiful about death.

And all the while, he witnessed Jill's face where Hillary's had once been, pleading for death as fingernails stripped away layer upon layer of skin in a futile attempt to gain some relief from whatever itch had plagued her in those moments. It was not fair that they had to suffer, was not right no matter which way he twisted it.

"There was nothing we could have done," Connolly assured him, tension radiating from his stationary form. But Chris knew that he was wrong; there was so much more they could have done. They could have planned better, could have equipped themselves for the scenario of an ambush. They should have known.

His eyes once again fell to her marred face, to the skin that had already settled into an unhealthy shade of death. She had been twenty-six years old; younger than him...younger than Jill. Of all the recruits, she had been the most promising, had shown unswerving dedication and ability to match it. She had volunteered for the cause, where he had been pulled into it; there was no obligation to her actions, simply a good heart.

It was not anger that rose within, but something a little more difficult to handle.

"Chris, you okay?" Connolly asked.

He refused to answer, to admit, and instead rose to his feet, setting her body on the ground. As the unwelcome block in his chest rose to his throat, he turned from the medic, fingers buried in hair that felt damp to the touch.

'Cavanaugh...'

Somehow, Hillary's death had hit him harder than any had in years. Even with death in his hands, he could not stave away its icy touch.

He needed Jill, and he knew it. Somehow, she always knew the right words to say and on the occasion she did not, a simple reassuring touch was sufficient to put his mind at ease. But she was not here, was perhaps where Hillary now roamed. Had she suffered as Hillary had, returning to the moments in Raccoon that she would rarely address. If she was alive, how long until the virus claimed her? She remained infected to an extent, and the simple thought that the virus lived within her system drove him to the brink. All the effort he put into protecting those around him was futile. His sudden departure from Raccoon led Claire to be kidnapped, and Jill to be infected. Now, two teammates were dead and five colleagues were MIA. To what extent did he hold blame?

Yes, he needed her, now more than ever. If for nothing else, then to hold her and somehow assure her that he would never let her go. Because as long as he had her, he had everything.

Now, he doubted that he would ever be given the chance. He always knew that he would be lost without her...he simply never expected to be proven right.

August 22, 2003. 11:20pm. Verisanda Technologies, Administrative Offices.

Surprisingly, it transpired that Donny was far more competent than he was given credit for. His skittish demeanour made way for a far more professional state once his mind was allowed the time to slip back into focus and suddenly he was more help than she had honestly expected.

"Do you know where we're going?" he asked, keeping skilfully in step with her. The reasons for his hiring were slowly becoming evident.

"The control room is in the main hub of the facility," Jill explained. "Surrounded by the administrative offices...we must be close."

Strangely, the corpses that littered the large office area they currently tip-toed through did not move; some bore visible gunshot wounds to the head, others lay headless against the green carpet. It was apparent that they were not the first to have passed through this area.

"You think it's Bravo?" Donny asked, voice echoing her thoughts. The shots were not precise enough to have been administered by Chris, but he would likely not have been travelling at the point if he maintained control of the team.

'Or he could have died before they reached this area.'

She cursed her pessimism and shook her head. He had to be alive, he just had to. She had not yet apologised...

"Hey," Donny spoke suddenly, laying a hand gently on her shoulder. "It's okay to show a little emotion, you know? We're not drones...we're only human."

It was not his words that forced her weapon to lower, but the faint tremor she could feel in the hand that remained on her shoulder. It appeared that she was not the only one to mask her emotions. But she would not let the tears show, and instead choked them back. There was too much on the line; lives depended on them.

"Let's move," she told him, and the hand disappeared. She knew that he understood, and that was the key aspect of camaraderie. The powers that be simply did not know how life was on the front lines. They preferred their soldiers to be emotionally detached, to follow a strict set of protocols and adhere to them even as their comrades lay in pieces at their side. Leave no man behind, but what about the man at your side? Should you not comfort him?

Donny's timid nature was familiar to her, and she could not help but foresee tragedy. He was too much like Brad Vickers, and as with Brad Vickers, she suspected that bravery truly did linger within, but there would be no opportunity for it to develop into anything more than a hopeful wish.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry for your loss," he was sure to let her know.

"No loss," she found herself saying, tongue acting independently of her mind. "He's alive...they all are."

She heard him laugh softly, and it was genuine. Such a sweet sound through the chaos.

"Yes," he agreed. "They are."

August 22, 2003. 11:25pm. Verisanda Technologies, East Wing.

The clatter of their steps reached the others before they stumbled through the doorway, but no sooner had Mike and DeChant entered the over-furnished room, silence fell once again upon the group.

"You're too late," Connolly told them, knowing that they had already seen what had become of Hillary.

"I...my lab was gone," Mike told them regardless, evidently in a daze as his eyes were trained carefully on the corpse at Chris's feet. "Nothing but rubble..."

Chris dared not question further. Alpha had been in that section, had inevitably been in the centre of the blast zone.

'No...they made it to safety.'

Of course they had. But why did he doubt himself?

"Is there any way out of here?" he asked. Deep down, he already knew the answer.

"There is an entrance back south," Mike explained amid attempts to catch his breath. "But the structure may have been compromised by the blast. Otherwise, we could...I suppose our only option is to find a hole in the debris that is big enough to crawl through."

For some reason, laughter pushed past his sealed lips. Was this what they were forced to resort to? Crawling through rubble in the hopes that they would eventually find fresh air?

He did not like to accept it, but it became increasingly obvious that they were, in one word, screwed.

But then something caught his attention; a steady beat, like boots against tile. He surveyed the others, counting a quick tally in his head. They were all here - nobody unaccounted for.

"Alpha?" DeChant theorised, eyes alight with the first glimmer of hope any had seen in quite some time.

They raised their weapons as a precaution, smiles barely held back.

A single shot impacted off his vest, propelling him back into the waiting wall. Given the opportunity, he had succeeded in tilting his head to a position that did not secure unconsciousness, but the confusion lingered. The vest had saved his life, but to what extent? It sure as hell was not Alpha who had found them.

Vaguely, he discerned tall, black figures through his suddenly hazy vision, gunfire erupting around him but no shot finding its target. The room was too small, too cramped; it was difficult to get off an effective shot without risking self-injury. Nevertheless, he fired his handgun and was surprised to find that it swept a figure off its feet, rupturing a shoulder before a shot from DeChant's weapon put it down.

These were not tyrants, were not monsters - these were human, and very much alive.

A gloved hand hauled him to his feet, slammed him onto a nearby desk. A cry that unmistakeably belonged to Mike screeched through the furore, light catching the blade that descended rapidly. But he gripped the wrist of his assailant, twisted violently until he felt bone crack. He had accidentally broken the wrist of another boy in high school in a similar way - he had truly been asking for it, starting a fight with the notoriously volatile Chris Redfield. However, the healthy hand pulled free and the knife returned, slicing into the skin of his upper arm. Again, it retracted, only to fall again, this time poised at a perfect angle to descend through his eye.

But the aim never made true. The body that attempted to hold him down turned, a deep, masculine voice crying out in pain from beneath the mask. It was enough time for Chris to slide out, to land painfully on the floor and retrieve his fallen weapon.

It was Hillary - she clung to the leg of the masked figure with voracious desperation, black fabric and pink flesh hanging from between her lips. Her eyes were white, fingernails digging into the ruptured calf.

But her short foray into the afterlife was brought to an end with a series of bullets to the back of the head, hair matted around the wounds. Likewise, the life of the assailant was brought to an abrupt end, as the jagged remains of what Chris assumed to be a mop handle found his eye in a similar manner to his knife's previous movements towards Chris. Between the weapon and the shattered remains of his goggles, the man did not stand a chance.

Two more fell at his side, and finally only one was left. Evidently, they had underestimated the strength of so few - or at least a very angry scientist with a broken mop.

And then, there were none.

Connolly caught Mike as he fell, blood seeping through the leg of his uniform.

"Another medical emergency, huh?" Mike laughed. How he could find humour in such a dire situation was beyond Chris. There may have been more men out there, more threats simply waiting to pounce.

Connolly applied pressure as Mike winced in pain. Perhaps his humour was not born from pessimism, but more the morbid hilarity of the knowledge that they would likely not make it through the night.

It was a fact proven to be true when the distant rumble of approaching feet once again echoed throughout the hallway. Each man shouldered their weapons, though the remains of the mop remained cast aside.

But this time, the attire of the intruders was a little more familiar, and the weapons fell no sooner than they had risen.

"Agent Redfield," the foremost intruder acknowledged. "You called for back up?"

August 22, 2003. 11:43pm. Verisanda Technologies, Administrative Offices.

The deeper they ploughed into the womb of the facility, the more intriguing their surroundings became. Elaborate security measures were visible to Jill's trained eye, though none reacted to their presence. Perhaps they had been deactivated by the surge?

"Not far now," Donny noted. They had all memorised the blueprints, but somehow they did not help.

"Keep in step," she urged him. But she felt hypocritical as her attention diverted, scanning documents that were scattered around what she assumed to be a private work station. Whoever it belonged to appeared to have been printing something in quite a hurry before...

She frowned lightly, making to step away, but something caught her eye. One letter, emblazoned at the top on a single sheet against the keyboard - 'G'.

"What?" she whispered quietly. Was this the information they had been sent to extract?

As she leafed through the documents, she found that it was nothing the BSAA - or the government for that matter - did not already know. Basic reports, field data, specimen files...

Another sheet slipped through her fingers and she caught it clumsily as it made for the carpeted floor.

'T-Veronica'.

It was not a virus she was familiar with, but she had heard of it. Chris and Claire had encountered the dangerous virus, and its delusional creator.

'This was the virus Wesker procured,' she recalled, eager anticipation rising within her. 'That must mean...'

She was not even granted sufficient time to conclude her thoughts before she was compelled to dig deeper and deeper into the pile. More virus reports, experimental data, conclusions of T-Virus trials... Surely there must be something there that would lead her to him, would give her at least a whisper of his whereabouts.

'When that bastard dies, we get our lives back,' she fumed inwardly. But how much of their lives were left to salvage? Her recent dealings with Chris had taught her that even the art of relationships escaped her. She tried to discern a meaning of 'normal' but just could not quite picture it. It had the quality of a word that was spoken continuously, until the taste was unfamiliar and the rhythm foreign.

"Jill," Donny spoke softly. She did not care if her sudden switch in behaviour had unnerved him; it was here, it had to be!

"Jill, stop," he urged.

There was something in his voice. Fear? No, this was not quite of the calibre of fear. Apologetic nervousness, tinged with reluctance. But why?

Jill turned slowly, horrified reasoning dawning upon her. It was not entirely unexpected; cowardice did amazing things to a man. But she had never suspected the young recruit of being a coward...

"It's you?" she whispered, unsure of herself even in that moment. Why else would he have begged her to cease an investigation? Was there something amongst those papers that would implicate him?

Hid eyes widened and this time it was horror that flickered across his irises.

"J-just list-" he began. But he was cut short by the sudden explosion of the muscle in his left shoulder. Bloody fragments flew from the epicentre, collarbone likely shattering from the impact of the bullet.

He fell to the floor in an instant, head slamming hard against the weave. She did not know if he was alive or dead, but knew that suddenly she was not alone.

August 22, 2003. 11:45pm. Verisanda Technologies, Exterior. Temporary BSAA Base.

The medic gave up on the third try, thrusting pain killers into Chris's palm and clearing him in frustration. He was not gravely injured, he knew this himself. Lying in the medical bay would not help the situation - he needed to be out there, assisting the others.

"Redfield," Parker chuckled as he approached a gathering he assumed to involve those placed in charge. "I guess it's true what they say; you are a juggernaut."

"Whatever," Chris growled angrily. The throbbing pain in his temples showed no signs of subsiding, and there mere thought alone drove him almost to blind rage. "What is the situation?"

Parker cleared his throat and straightened his posture.

"The warehouse has been cleared," he explained. "There wasn't much left of Cavanaugh to retrieve but... Uh, the entire West side of the base was reduced to rubble but so far the only bodies recovered are of staff members."

"No word on Alpha?" he asked, remaining more composed than he had expected. He had to know.

Parker shook his head morosely.

"Though the rescue team reported hearing gunfire further into the base," he revealed. "We're assembling a new search and rescue team as we speak."

"Alright, get me a radio," Chris demanded, and Parker acquiesced without complaint. "I want everyone willing to march out at my side in two minutes. Davies, blueprints. Not those ones - the other ones."

A sudden flurry of movement surrounded him beneath the hastily-erected gazebo. He truly did not know what would happen or even what he would be required to do, but the stand to attention at least ensured him that the others had his back. The distant roar of trucks pulling into the sorry excuse for a base was jarring, but he tuned it out and soon it melted with the other background noise.

"With your permission, I'd like to join you, sir," Connolly announced as he jogged up to the table, Parker waving his hands in exasperation behind him. DeChant was hot on his heels, his eyes relaying a similar message.

"Thank you," Chris breathed, suddenly overwhelmed by the support offered to him by two exhausted men. "How is Mike?"

Connolly seemed taken aback that he had thought to ask.

"He'll live," he assured his superior. "He's on his way to hospital now, drugged up to the eyeballs."

Chris made a mental not to thank the man; had it not been for his actions, he surely would have been dead by now. But what did one send as an appreciative gift? A card? Flowers? Chocolates? He had not a single clue; it was more Jill's area of expertise.

He shook the sudden darkness from his mind. The situation was once again under his control; he had an opportunity to find her and he was not going to pass it up. Those gunshots had belonged to Alpha, he was almost sure of it.

'You're forgetting one important detail,' he reminded himself. 'Gunshots mean trouble...conflict.'

He willed his pessimism to take a hike and began to bark orders, words forming of their own volition on the tip of his tongue.

August 22, 2003. 11:50pm. Verisanda Technologies, Administrative Offices.

Jill turned to gaze upon the face of her sudden rescuer. Rescuer? Had she been in danger?

Tessa held her weapon on the end of an outstretched arm, pointing at the space Donny had occupied moments before. Then, she lowered her weapon, training it on his unmoving form.

"Thank...you?" Jill muttered. She was confused. What had just happened? It was all a hazy blur.

Tessa paid no heed to her words, simply inspected Donny's unmoving form from afar. Was he dead?

"Where is Leon?" Jill asked, suddenly realising that their injured teammate was suspiciously absent.

"Where you left him," she replied, voice emotionless. She seemed far too interested in the maimed man on the floor. "He was worried, told me to find you. Are you okay?"

And then their eyes finally met and Jill found that her shoulders relaxed. The icy sensation of confusion lingered, accompanying fear that often travelled as a companion to the unknown. She was visited by the strange feeling that this was the end...but perhaps not the one that she was looking for. Every instinct rang warning bells, but she did not recognise their tune.

"I'm fine," she assured the medic, laughing a little at her trepidation.

"Good," was all Tessa had to say.

And all Jill gazed at now was the barrel of a gun.

"I guess you can disarm yourself then," Tessa spoke coldly. She could see in her eyes just how deadly serious her 'comrade' was. "What? You honestly didn't expect this?"

At this realisation, a short, sharp chuckle met Jill's ears.

"I suppose next to stereotypically untrustworthy Donny, I was a Godsend, huh?" she smiled. "It's always the quiet ones you expect, when truly it should be those that meet your words with warmth and kindness. It's so much easier to manipulate people with friendship. Now place your weapon on the floor and kick it beneath the desk. The knife, too."

Years of training had told her to do exactly what her captor instructed. There was always time for escape later; there was nothing to be achieved by fighting a loaded gun. Diplomacy worked, but only if she was alive to see it through.

"And the jacket, bitch," Tessa spat.

There was nothing hidden in the jacket, save for a small blade woven into the cuff. It would have done her no good, but it was something at least. Now it was nothing. All that remained beneath the skin of her torso and air were a khaki tank and a sports bra that had so far proven more irritating than useful. No holsters, no weapons...just her.

"Is this the part where you gloat about how you double-crossed us?" she asked sarcastically. "What about the famous brag, the reveal of your plans?"

"How stupid do you think I am?"

Jill refrained from answering.

"Oh, so you don't really care?" she laughed.

"Not really," Tessa shrugged. "You're nothing to me."

Again, Jill laughed humourlessly, waiting for something to give. Did she honestly expect that she would be able to frog-march a founding member of the BSAA out of the facility, through their ranks and to freedom?

Tessa smiled perversely, apparently reading her expression.

"You can drop that hope I see in your eyes," she laughed. "You're not leaving this base. I don't know what exactly he is going to do with you but it's going to be messy. They'll barely be able to mop you up."

He?

For some reason, the inflexion on this word sent fear through her bones. The Tessa before her was not the Tessa she had come to know. Perhaps this was the real Tessa? Cold, uncaring...

"Oh look, I bragged," she laughed again. "That actually felt good. Now move."

Jill stepped in front of her, allowing her shoulders to relax. There were many questions to which she wished to know the answer, but realised that they would only provoke the owner of the gun that pressed into the base of her skull.

The corridor ahead wound past as soon as they left the administrative offices, the décor once again becoming clinical. She knew from the blueprints that the control room lay up ahead. It was the hub of the facility, the place from which control over the entire base was granted. She could fight off a girl several pounds lighter than her, and could hold her own against a man; it would be simple to gain the upper hand and then she would be at the helm - she could find Bravo and radio for assistance.

Yes, it was better if she played along at this point.

Tessa was rough as she pushed her towards an open door, the hum of electronic equipment audible as soon as they stepped into the room. Jill glared angrily over her shoulder, sizing up the elder woman for weaknesses.

"Ah, finally," a masculine voice boomed. "I was beginning to worry that you weren't going to make it."

His tone was childish, teasing...and familiar. The accent was Eastern European, though not as strong as it had been the last time she had heard its rhythm. And it had been many years...

She did not quite believe her ears, and could not bring herself to confirm her suspicion visually.

"You have two choices...either you come quietly or I drag you kicking and screaming."

And then she turned. Sure enough, the silver hair she had expected stared back at her; angular jaw set; wide, thin lips twisted into a cruel, self-assured smirk.

"Nicholai?"

AN - Please review :)