AN - The last part of this chapter was originally intended for last chapter, but didn't really seem to fit. It's quite a small scene but one I wanted to include, despite the fact that I couldn't seem to find a place where it fit perfectly. There isn't really much more to say this time, other than the chapter title is from Psychosocial by Slipknot.
Thank you again to everyone who reviewed: Ninja-Gnome, Supermodel Sandwich, Chaed, Black Metalmark, Razial, Ivilith, xSummonerYunax, Kenshin13 and tek. Thank you so much for your continued support, it truly means a lot. The next chapter will be the concluding part of Jill's captivity...just how bloody it gets remains to be seen (oh, foreshadowing ^_^). Until next time...
Blindside
Chapter Ten - The Preservation of the Martyr in Me
'It is the cause, not the death, that makes the martyr.'
~Napolean Bonaparte~
August 23, 2003. 12:27am. Verisanda Technologies, Exterior. Temporary BSAA Base.
Thirty minutes had passed almost to the moment when the second communication came through. Chris could feel every nerve worn down to a useless conductor, and was sure that this had been Nicholai's intention. Exactly what had he put her through in those thirty minutes? Was she even still alive?
Had he not been bound by rules, he would have had his hands around the bastard's neck by now.
Every minute that passed whittled slowly away at his resolve, until he was sure that he would buckle from the pressure. He had never expected to hold her life in his hands, to be so utterly useless to help her.
"I have a request," Nicholai announced, his voice crackling inhumanly in the midst of static. "A deal of sorts."
Chris's heart sank. He knew for sure that no deal would be made.
"I want Oliveira," the Russian demanded. "Alive, within the hour. We have unfinished business I am sure he is dying to attend to."
"The American government does not bow to the demands of terrorists," Chris recited, going through the motions when he knew they led nowhere productive.
A short scoff at the other end of the line stole a single beat of his heart.
"Terrorist?" Nicholai chuckled, mild annoyance evident in his tone. "Mr. Redfield, I am offended. I am a business man, not a terrorist. If you wish to hold hope of seeing her again that does not reside entirely in delusion, you will do well to remember that."
It was Carlos's hand on his forearm that momentarily stilled his temper, much to the surprise of both men. Carlos had seen his jaw twitch, had seen his arm move but a fraction of an inch forward. Breaking the console would achieve nothing, and he mentally thanked his old comrade, reciting words in his mind that he would never dare utter.
"You son of a bitch, do you have any idea what you are messing with?"
"I could snap her neck right now," Nicholai reminded him. "Just push me and see what happens."
With no option left but to hold his tongue, Chris felt rage bubble within. He was never skilled at controlling his admittedly wild temper, but now there was more at risk than wounded pride. If she died because of his words, he would never be able to forgive himself.
"You are not as powerful as you seem to think you are," he was coldly reminded. "There is nothing you can do but listen to my words and obey every one soundlessly. I want Oliveira, alone, unarmed, and I will be kind and retract the previous time limit. Somehow I think you will want to oblige very soon, so I don't expect to be waiting long. You should be more concerned about your partner than about your policies."
More insults rose in his throat, but he choked each last one down. But the words that rose in their place were equally as bitter; anything to delay the inevitable admission of the truth.
"What guarantee do we have that she will be unharmed?" he asked, more pleasant words slipping past the bile.
"No guarantee," Nicholai admitted. "But you will determine just how much she will suffer. If you send Carlos my way, I may be kind enough to let her live. What do you say, Oliveira? You became rather fond of Miss Valentine...can your conscience bear the thought of her suffering?"
This time it was Chris's turn to reach for Carlos, sensing but not witnessing the snarl that had distorted his features. He was amazed that he himself remained so calm on the inside, when his heart and mind were ravaged by desperation. He fought to keep the image of her face from his mind, the scent of her skin and the warmth of her smile. In S.T.A.R.S., she had been a juggernaut, strong and dependable with an aura that deterred any negative comments or actions; men dared not cross her, for they knew they would be nursing more than a fractured ego. He had initially feared her, this outspoken, dangerous woman. But then he had grown to know her and to love her, and he soon realised that she was more fragile than she would allow others to believe, both physically and emotionally. She was stronger than many men, but even the strongest man would have difficulty facing her current situation.
Then, the words came, and with them his hope faltered.
"The BSAA does not bow to the demands of terrorists."
Nicholai sighed deeply; a drawn-out, disappointed heave.
"That is a shame," he sighed.
There was a sudden crack; the unmistakeable activity of a firearm. The shot echoed through the line, distorted only by the searing incision of a gut-wrenching scream. Every man in the vicinity of the tent jumped, and Chris felt the bullet as though it had pierced his own skin, thought draining from his mind as colour did from his face.
The gunshot faded faster than the scream, which came to a strangled close, heavy breaths and spluttered coughing drawing the moment to an unbearable length. Sobs could be heard; the choked protests of one trying desperately to withhold tears, but the physical aspect of hurt proving too powerful.
"What the fuck did you do?" Chris demanded, voice booming in a way it never had before.
"I shot her," came his answer, blunt and to the point, though perhaps a little too cheerful. "Don't worry, the wound in itself is not fatal...but I'm willing to bet that it hurts like hell. Of course, there is blood loss too; it's quite a mess over here. She needs medical attention, Chris. If you deny her that, she will die. So now you understand just how serious I am."
Once again, Chris's jaw set, skin flushing as fury increased the circulation within his skin. But once again, he was reminded of the simple fact that there was nothing he could do for her, or that there was but he was powerless when it came to the executive decision. She was hurt, and she was likely scared, though he knew she would not allow it to show. He truly believed that he was mere moments away from discarding all protocol and racing in, all guns blazing. Everything Nicholai did to her, he would be sure to enact twice upon his heartless form; his vengeance would be an arm for an eye.
"Since my previous offers have so far failed to suit you, I shall present one more and this will be my final offer," Nicholai breathed, voice quaking now from the anger he had previously kept well concealed. It was anger he sure did not want to be taken out on Jill. "I am growing tired of both Miss Valentine's whimpering and your failure to acknowledge the seriousness of this situation. You will deliver Carlos Oliveira to me and you may have whatever is left of your wonderful partner at that time. I estimate that my patience with her will last no more than half an hour. I hope to hear from you soon."
Before protests could be snarled, he was gone, and a sudden buzz of activity descended upon the small tent. Chris could not sway from his position, could not offer anything to appease the madman. Of course, the rescue mission would go ahead, but what would they find? Would they find Jill or only her body?
"They can't just leave her like this," Connolly growled at his left side. "It's...unethical. What happened to 'leave no man behind'?"
It touched Chris that his comrade shared his own, rather personal thoughts. But sadly ethics did not factor in to the decision, and neither did their feelings.
"It's not the first time I've faced something like this," he admitted. "You stop looking for the answers after a while."
August 23, 2003. 12:33am. Verisanda Technologies, control room.
Jill had been shot at before, but had admittedly never suffered a direct shot to any part of her body. Grazes, impacts on a bulletproof vest; they hurt but the pain was manageable and the damage minimal. But this...
The movies had gotten it wrong. There was no enduring the agony, no rising stubbornly to her feet. Such a small wound, yet so much pain. Fire seemed to shoot up and down her left leg, encircling the small hole in her thigh from which blood continued to slowly flow. All the while, she bit her bottom lip, drawing blood as she choked back cries of protest. Tears streamed down her cheeks, her body now horizontal against the floor. She could not find the energy to haul herself upright once again.
"I would re-think your relationship if I were you," Nicholai chided. "You obviously do not mean as much to him as I initially assumed."
"G-go to hell," she hissed.
And then his hand was at her throat and her back was slammed once again against the wall. For all her struggling, she could do nothing to fight back. In the end, she resigned herself to stillness, realising that the pain was far more manageable when she simply did not move.
"I am beginning to think that Chris is not the only one who underestimates the situation," he snarled, squeezing gloved fingers around her trachea. "Perhaps you need another reminder?"
She had not seen him draw the blade from a holster at his boot, but she could not miss the tip that hovered millimetres from her left eye.
It was strange how she could focus on nothing else, not even the lips that twisted yet again into a self-satisfied smirk. Fear took precedence over every emotion and every conscious action was focused only on the goal of moving as far away from the silver edge as was humanly possible. Her injured leg pain her too much to move, but still it jerked awkwardly, drawing more tears from her eyes as the unconscious movement repeated.
"Ah yes," Nicholai remembered, casually withdrawing the knife and relinquishing his grip. "We need to take care of that leg. There is no sense in dying before the fun starts, right?"
He moved swiftly away, stepping over the body that had once belonged to Tessa, towards the medium-sized boxes that were piled up along the opposite wall.
"He is only...doing...his job," she breathed through clenched teeth, bravery foolishly rushing back to her. "I am proud of him."
Pulling away from the boxes, several bandages and a sealed package she could not distinguish clasped tightly in one hand, he reached for her hair with the other and threw her to the ground, kneeling down to place his full weight on the calf of her wounded limb when her shoulder collided with hard tile. With her hands cuffed firmly behind her back, there was nothing she could do but cry out in protest, every movement intensifying the discomfort she felt.
Blinded to his actions, she felt the cold touch of steel against her thigh, beneath the protective fabric of her fatigues. She panicked, writhing beneath him, but a strong hand mere millimetres from her wound prevented her movements from achieving anything more than a flash of agony. Fabric ripped, the cool, conditioned air hitting her skin as icicles would upon sand. Cardboard tore next, and a fraction of a second later, something cold was thrust into the open wound. She bit down hard on her lip, drawing yet more blood but failing to stifle the scream. She jerked again in protest, but still she remained unable to pull free and crawl away.
When the object retracted, so too did the pressure she had felt within her flesh the moment the bullet had pierced her skin. A casual clink of metal against tile and the subsequent comforting press of bandage to wound suddenly brought realisation to her clouded mind. She had watched Rebecca repair many gunshot wounds in the field; Nicholai's actions were unkind in comparison but followed a similar theme.
The gauze showed spots of permeating droplets of blood by the time he pulled her upright, roughly enough to knock her head uncomfortably against the wall.
"Do you know what your problem is?" he spoke quietly, leaving no time for thought between inevitable insults. "You see yourself as a martyr; I can tell that this pains you, yet you chew your lip - ironically inflicting more pain upon yourself - rather than indulge me. What end do you hope to justify with your means, because I can't for the life of me think what it could possibly be?"
She levelled her eyes at him, begging him to urge yet another sarcastic reply from her lips. Whatever she said, he would not understand; he couldn't understand. Men like Nicholai could not see the other side. Had she been completely honest and revealed to him that the thought of the pain Chris would likely endure should she die at his hands proved more terrifying than anything he could possibly do to her, she knew that he would not understand. Because love changes perspectives; committing sacrifice is easier than witnessing it.
Was that all that kept her conscious, despite fatigue beckoning her to sleep? The knowledge that she had to pull through?
Perhaps.
"Your desire to do good is amusing," he continued through muffled laughter. "Always taking the brighter road. If you had accepted what was easy at the time, we would not be having this conversation, would we? You let me live, Jill, and look where that got you..."
"I will give you one last chance," he called, words almost lost in the whir of the blades of his helicopter. "Surrender, or I will shoot. The bounty is still good if you are dead."
The bounty. Jill frowned, the rifle that perched on her shoulder budging not a millimetre. She recognised the model of his helicopter from Chris's rambles; she had attempted to teach him the fine art of lock picking while he rattled off all that he knew about flying - which happened to be a lot. It was a simple way of passing the time on long assignment, but finally the information had proven useful. It was an old helicopter, the metal that encased the fuel tank thinner than the later models that the R.P.D. frequently used. The rounds in her rifle could pierce thick armour at this distance; a single bullet would be enough to rupture the fuel tank, and Nicholai would be nothing but a smouldering carcass in a steel coffin.
"If you are going to shoot, I suggest you do it now," he goaded.
She lined up her sight, pressed her finger to the trigger...and froze.
Despite the many shots she had fired, she had never before taken a life. Her career choice was a violent one, but she was not a violent person at heart. She did not believe in murder, whatever the circumstances may be; a life was a life, no matter what its owner chose to do with it.
Slowly, she lowered her weapon.
"It seems I have your answer," Nicholai laughed.
He had fired upon her then, and she had barely found a place in which to hide; a small alcove beneath the console. Nicholai had flown away, taking their only means of escape with him. Carlos had found her soon after, moments after a narrow escape from the Nemesis. He had almost missed her at first, curled up against the wall. There was no way out, she had told him; they were trapped.
She closed her eyes, blocking memories that struck too tender a nerve. All that ever met their crusade for good was tragedy after tragedy, and the price of success steadily increased.
"I'm not like you," she was sure to let him know. "You inflict torment, I try to prevent it."
But why did she try? Did she truly believe that she could make a difference? Or was her life so empty that she fought for the preservation of others at the risk of her own?
'No,' she resolved. There was much to live for, and so much more to fight for. She was not a damsel in distress, and her career choice was just that - a choice. If she started to feel sorry for herself, who knew where it would lead?
It was time that she faced the truth; her fate rested in her own, cruelly bound hands. Was she going to sit around and wait for rescue, or was she going to take action?
She glanced around, taking in her surroundings. The control room was small, yet crowded. Boxes of medical supplies were piled up against one wall, the security console taking up much of the adjacent. Files were piled onto the desk above her and to her left, several spilling onto the floor where she had knocked them as she fell. Attached to one of these files...a paper clip!
The cuffs rubbed painfully against her wrists, but they were not so tight as to prevent her from picking the lock. A paper clip was all she needed; the lock would be child's play.
"Prevent how?" Nicholai asked, suddenly breaking her from her thoughts. "You are bound by rules and regulations. I will level with you: I honestly do not expect Chris to oblige. Part of me hopes that he will not; I will find Carlos one day, and I have you right now. While it would be satisfying to me for him to witness your pain, I am not hell-bent on that particular detail."
"And you think I will be an easy target?" she sneered. "I have learned from my mistakes."
And then, she struck out her good leg, knocking both of his from beneath him in one swift move. Before he had so much as touched the ground, she threw herself sideways, rolling onto the file. Ripples of sheer agony flared through her thigh but she ignored them all, slipping the paperclip into her fingers and offering another kick to Nicholai's fallen form for good measure.
She had not expected to get far with her foolish move, and as she was forcibly rolled over, a knee painfully in the small of her back, her only concern was on keeping the small piece of twisted metal concealed from her captor.
"Evidently not," he growled, and suddenly his fingers were prying apart her own. Stubbornly, she refused to relinquish her grip but was left with no option than to uncurl her empty hand when the butt of his weapon slammed against her knuckles. There was no possible way she would be able to pick the lock on her restraints with broken fingers.
"Consider this a courtesy introductory lesson," Nicholai snarled.
She felt the cold, wet touch of tweezers against the tip of her right middle finger. It took barely a split-second for his intentions to become clear, and she jerked uselessly against the floor.
"No, no!" she cried, but his grasp proved too powerful to free herself from. With her hands secured tightly behind her back, there was nothing she could do.
The fingernail pulled slowly from her skin, the warmth of spilled blood trickling down into the palm of her hand. Despite her cries of pained protest, he continued to pull, to wiggle until the nail pulled free of the skin, air touching upon the exposed flesh beneath with the gentleness of a thousand falling daggers.
"That was a warning," he whispered into her ear. "Every time you pull another little stunt, you will lose something bigger until it becomes extremely inconvenient."
Through the discomfort, she remained focused on the small sliver of metal in her enclosed left fist, determined to keep it safely within her grasp as he pulled her upright once again.
"I think it is about time we received the final answer from your rather uncaring boyfriend."
"Why do you...want C-Carlos?" she asked. Anything to keep him from inevitably signing her death warrant. She needed more time.
Nicholai, fortunately, took the bait and settled onto a chair several feet in front of her. His confidence whittled away at hers, so sure was he that he would be uninterrupted. Jill herself was beginning to doubt rescue. At least, before it was too late.
She carefully unfolded the paperclip, but found that it was an act easier said than done. She had never conceived the possibility that the loss of something as small as a fingernail could cause so much inconvenience. However, she was nothing if not determined and knew that the stakes were too high to let a little pain stop her.
"Because he is the only remaining member of our unit," he explained slowly. "I can't accept that."
Her fingers stilled, the half-bent paperclip almost slipping from her grasp.
"That- That's it?" she gasped in disbelief. At the very least, she had expected a personal affront or a startling revelation. His words were startling all right, but not in the way she had been expecting.
"It's annoying," Nicholai shrugged, indifferent it seemed. "I am a man of simple pleasures. You two have been like grains of sand in my eye; you should have died in Raccoon, by my hand. It may be a little late, but it will all end the same. You should know that I have no intention of letting you live."
The thought had crossed her mind. The paperclip slid against the blood that now coated her fingertips, making the process of picking the lock on her cuffs painfully impossible.
Again, she refused to give up.
But as wave after wave of fatigue crashed into her, she realised that time was not all that was running thin. The bandage at her thigh was now a bright shade of crimson, pain transcending into numbness. She was steadily losing blood; how long would it be until consciousness slipped away too?
'Your vision is blurred but it is still there,' she reminded herself. 'Hold on, you'll get through this.'
"What do you hope to achieve?" she asked. "T-there is no way for you to escape."
Nicholai smiled, and helplessness crushed down upon her once again.
"Do you think I came into this without a plan?" he countered, words distorted by the maniacal twist of his lips. "I planned for this, it was always meant to be this way. I will be gone before your friends even know where we are."
August 23, 2003. 12:45am. St. Bernadette Hospital, Dallas, Texas.
It was strange that her feet brought her back to Leon's room with no conscious intention behind the act. She was left with not a moment to dwell on her actions when she was faced with an unguarded room and an occupant who appeared to be wide awake.
"Leon?" she questioned quietly as she tiptoed into the room.
Groggily, he raised his head, only to have it crash back down onto the plump white pillow a moment later. Her feet moved of their own volition once again, bringing her to his bedside within seconds.
"Are you alright?" she asked softly, raising fingers to push fallen hair from his face. Sadness seemed to emanate from deep within his eyes; an emotion she had never before witnessed in her usually stoic friend.
"I...where am I?" he breathed, though his eyes remained fixed on hers, making no attempt to view his surroundings.
"You're in the hospital," she soothed. "You must have passed out."
"No!" he said suddenly, determination once again fixed into his voice. "I...I didn't. It was...Tessa. Shit, I need to-"
He attempted to rise, but Claire found that it took surprisingly little effort to push him back into a safe position. She did not yet know the extent of his injuries and was taking no risks with his health. Somehow, all she wanted to do was to comfort him. It was a strange emotion; one that she had not felt since her reunion with an emotionally fragile Chris all those years ago.
"They already know," she told him. But just how much could she tell him? Leon and Jill were close; how would he react to the news of her kidnapping, knowing that it was Tessa who likely sold her out? The information the BSAA had succeeded in extracting from Donny Miller suggested that she hand-delivered their friend to the bastard herself.
"Is...Is it over?" he asked. Again, she did not know what to say. It would have been so easy to tell him that everyone was safe and well, that there was no more fear of bad news. But she did not want to lie to him.
"No," she admitted. "Leon..."
His eyes finally focused, and somehow she lost the ability to speak. She had never seen him so helpless, so vulnerable. It stirred something within her, something a little more potent than mere concern. But anything more than what she already offered would be inappropriate; he was a friend, nothing more.
'Then why do you have to keep reminding yourself?'
"What is it?"
"Jill is being held hostage," she revealed. Even as she considered the news, tears pricked at her eyes until she was forced to close them momentarily, lest her emotions spill forth. "There's...there's nothing we can do. She could die, Leon..."
And suddenly, it had become about her. Where she had initially been uttering words of truth, she now sought comfort from an injured man. Selfish was what she considered her sudden change of heart to be. How could she expect what she herself felt incapable of giving?
Leon's silence only furthered her guilt. She should have lied, should have reassured him that all was well. Slowly, his eyelids swooped down and a long, rattling breath was exhaled.
"I...I knew I shouldn't have left her."
"Oh come on, don't talk like that!" she fumed. "This isn't your fault."
But words could not dissuade him from what he felt in his gut. He could not help but take each and every mishap to heart. His comrades were not faceless drones; they were his family. Each death struck a bitter blow to an already heavy heart. He was closer to Jill than she, and she herself felt the trepidation within her very bones.
"She'll be fine," Claire whispered, though she was unsure who she was trying to convince. "It's Jill for God's sake."
Leon groaned quietly, and she found that her hand darted once again to his hair, fingertips trailing downwards until her palm softly cupped his cheek. The heat that emanated from his damp skin soothed some part of her, enough that her thoughts were no longer clouded. But what lay beneath the haze did not feel entirely welcome. Flushed lips stood prominent against sickly pale skin, so inviting, so...
She curled the fingers that caressed him and smiled forlornly, leaning back in her chair. She knew better than to listen to her heart; it was still young, how did it know what she wanted? It was her instincts that kept her alive, her heart only clouding her judgement. Perhaps she merely felt sorry for him?
It was not love, was not even lust...but it was something, and she could not, for all her trying, understand it.
Emotions like this, she realised, were best left alone.
AN - Please review :).