AN - I truly didn't expect to finish this chapter so fast ^_^. As you may have noticed, the rating has increased. This was perhaps the most difficult piece I have ever had to write, especially the last section of the chapter. I don't mind criticism as long as it is constructive. Chapter title is from a song by Funeral For A Friend.
Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter: Ninja-Gnome, Chaed, Black Metalmark, Kenshin13, Supermodel Sandwich, d.x.l, xSummonerYunax and tek. I can't believe I forgot to say this two chapters back, but thank you all for helping me break 100 reviews on this story! I think Chaed was number 100 so doubly thank you! I always think that 100 is a great achievement and I can't put into words how truly grateful I am ^_^. You all rock!
Blindside
Chapter Eleven - Bend Your Arms To Look Like Wings
'As the sun sets on battlefields, I hope you can save me,
I hope you can save our wounded hearts.'
August 23, 2003. 12:54am. Verisanda Technologies, Exterior. Temporary BSAA Base.
Alone, his thoughts echoed within his mind, each one as useless as the last. Hope alone was not enough to bring her back. Just one year ago, he would have acted without thought, storming the facility with all guns blazing. Now, he was resigned to a position as useless as a desk jockey.
'Hell of a time to quite smoking,' he realised.
Almost half an hour had passed since their last communication; the deadline was looming and he had nothing more to offer her captor. It would be as though he signed her death warrant with his own hands. And how would she go? In the midst of a bloodbath? It had always occurred to him that they would die in this way, but now that reality struck a little too close to home he simply could not bear the thought.
Chris Redfield had never felt so utterly useless.
"Sir, we are ready to move out on your order," DeChant called from the doorway. A simple wave of the hand was all it took to send the soldier away.
A rescue mission? It seemed inappropriate when rescue was not their main objective. Oh, of course they claimed that Jill's safety was their foremost concern, but it was Nicholai they truly wanted. The bastard could see every movement made within the walls of the facility; she would be dead the moment they set foot inside.
'Did I tell her enough that I love her?' he wondered.
'No, don't think that way. She'll be alright.'
He knew that his sister would hate him equally right now. He simply did not wish to put her in danger, she meant too much to him. Losing Jill was one thing, but losing Claire as well...
Footsteps shuffled into his range of hearing.
"Give me five minutes," he requested. The longer he delayed the 'rescue', the longer she had to overpower him, to...
'Who are you kidding? She is bound and wounded; she's not going anywhere.'
"How about I give you none?" Carlos' voice suggested, friendliness injected not even as a courtesy.
Chris turned on the box on which he perched, helpless as he stared down the rival he had named for himself. It was Carlos that held the key to her rescue, to the alleviation of her suffering at the very least. But how could he offer up the life of another - even a man he held no positive emotion for - for the possible return of his partner? They all knew that she was dead regardless, and ironically it was this realisation that spurred the idea of the continuation of the previously attempted search and rescue mission.
"I'm going in," Carlos announced. "It's my decision and I'm not going to let the BSAA stop me."
"Don't."
Chris did not know who was more surprised by his insistence. Here he was, offering up dubious hope, and he refused it? Perhaps he truly had lost his mind?
"Are you serious?" Carlos laughed, failing to gauge just how serious he was. "What he has done to her is only the beginning! I have escaped Nicholai before; I can overpower him and-"
"No, you can't." Chris' voice was deadpan, and each word went against what he felt inside. His heart was screaming, demanding that he allow his old reluctant comrade to make the trade. Nothing was too much where Jill was concerned; he would trade his life for hers in a heartbeat.
Furious silence descended, disbelief suspending Carlos' thoughts for several long seconds.
"Chris," he spoke calmly, allowing rage to settle in his stomach, where it would do the least damage. "I know that you have never liked me. I accepted that and I resigned myself to the fact that nothing I do could ever earn your respect. But I always respected you and your decisions because I knew that your heart and your intentions were pure. I did not give up on Jill because she was in love with you; I gave up on her because I knew that you were good for her and that you would always have her best interests at heart. That was more than I could ever offer her. But how in good conscience can you leave any man to suffer, not least the woman you supposedly love?"
There was no reply from the silent figure in the corner, and Carlos found that his legs moved him ever closer. He tried to fight, to remain stationary from fear that his argument may evolve to a physical level. He had expected more from Chris Redfield; the man before him surely was not the same man he had fought alongside in the crusade against Umbrella.
But it was when he drew closer that he noticed the defects in an otherwise confident posture; shoulders were slumped but a little, head hung low above limp hands. Suddenly, the hands rose to his neck; the unmistakeable twitch of a hopeless mind.
"What am I supposed to do?" Chris demanded softly, turning so that they finally locked eyes. "There's nothing...nothing..."
He choked on his final words and without thinking, Carlos placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. It had been a remarkable façade while it lasted, but slowly his mask began to slip and each wall crumbled. He had never seen the man in such a state, had not even thought it were possible. It stirred feelings of guilt within him, masking the fear he had felt for both himself and their mutual friend.
Though the years had passed, he still harboured deep feelings for her. They were useless and would never be satisfied, but they were there regardless and he had learned to live with that. That was the problem with love; it never truly disappeared; only faded until it was nothing but an echo. But this echo fuelled the saviour within. He would not let any friend or comrade suffer, and he simply could not stand to sit back and watch the BSAA's incompetence where Jill's rescue was concerned. It was a trait he evidently shared with the elder Redfield sibling; though Chris harboured nothing more than blind hatred for him, he was unwilling to stand back and allow him to sacrifice his life for a possibility.
"I'm going in," he assured Chris, knowing now that they were words he longed to hear.
Silence fell, but it was not entirely uncomfortable.
"Is there anything I can say that will change your mind?" asked Chris. For the first time since his arrival, Carlos sensed hope in his voice.
"Not a damn thing," he explained with a smile.
Chris chuckled softly, his posture improving enough to be noticeable.
"Then this conversation never happened."
August 23, 2003. 1:04am. Verisanda Technologies, Control room.
The room had begun to ripple and twist, distorted perhaps in her mind. It could have been her eyes; she knew she could no longer trust them.
Just how much blood had she lost? The exposed skin of her thigh was not the colour it should have been, but she felt nothing but the dull throb of numbness. Perhaps it was the excruciating pain at the tip of her finger than drew her attention? Picking the lock was a futile endeavour; where pain often faded with time, this was annoyingly persistent.
"Mr. Redfield, are you there?" Nicholai's voice swam through the sea of her consciousness. She could barely keep her head upright. In many ways she felt as a newborn baby; unskilled in motor co-ordination, and dependent on the care of another. But there was no other, only the man who paced at her feet, the man responsible for her condition.
"I copy," spoke Chris' voice, somehow pulling her through her watery grave. Everything was suddenly so clear, and that voice...
"How is our deal progressing?" Nicholai asked.
"First thing's first," Chris interjected confidently. "I want to speak with her. I need proof that she is still alive."
His voice seemed distant somehow, wounded. The others would not have noticed his discomfort, but she could sense it. He was hurting, and yet he remained apparently in charge.
'This is all my fault,' she lamented.
"Very well," Nicholai agreed, though she knew better than to celebrate. Nothing he agreed to meant well for her.
She fought to catch her breath as he lowered himself down, holding the radio towards her. Having focused all of her energy on remaining awake and picking that annoyingly simple lock, she found that somewhere along the line she had forgotten how to speak.
But it was not words that Nicholai wished for Chris to hear.
She felt his finger even through the numerous layers of dressing. It started as a throbbing pain at first, as her nerves readjusted to this new sensation. The finger pushed, twisted, and delved further into the wound, until thick tendrils of blind agony wound around her thigh, creeping along the inside of her leg, tracing a path to her spine.
She tried to internalise the sensation, but could feel it building beneath her skin, creeping towards her lungs until...
The cry came of its own accord, and she almost choked on the accompanying breaths. Her bound hands jarred painfully against the cuffs, the bent tip of the paperclip jabbing skin that was once covered by nail. Her entire body jerked, injured leg twitching spasmodically. Through it all, Nicholai remained calm and quiet, simply holding the radio with an outstretched arm.
"J-Jill?"
Chris' voice broke as it softly called her name, and in that single syllable she felt all that he had no doubt kept hidden. Fear, helplessness, pain, panic, desperation; they seeped through her skin, consuming her as though they were her own.
Nicholai's finger twisted and she cried out again as she slipped to the floor, falling into the blood that had pooled around her thigh.
"Stop!" she cried out, fully aware that she was not even afforded control over one limb. It took all of her remaining strength to keep the paperclip firmly in her hand; it was not an endeavour she was willing to give up, despite its apparently futile nature. She had never felt pain quite like it, save for that one night in Raccoon...she did not think it was humanly possible.
"Please!"
And suddenly, the pain softened, its echo rippling through her skin.
"Was that so difficult?" he teased in a sing-song voice. "Politeness can get you a long way."
"Jill? Are you alright?" Chris called. She could almost feel his heart breaking through his words.
"Tell him the truth, Jill."
She gasped and panted, oxygen inhaled but not absorbed. Her lungs felt heavy, as though she breathed tar in place of air. Something rose quickly within her stomach as her weight displaced onto her injured hand. Convulsions racked her body, and she rode with them until the pain expelled itself in a more physical form.
No sooner had her stomach emptied itself of its meagre contents, Nicholai once again gripped the collar of her T-shirt and hauled her upright, not taking enough care to be gentle.
"I really wish you would stop making such a mess," he sighed.
"Chris..." She could not listen to Nicholai's ramblings for one second longer. She needed to hear his voice again, even if just for one more time.
"Jill, it's okay," he assured her. "We're going to get you out of there."
But she grimaced in response. How could she believe in his words when he evidently did not believe in them himself?
"You...always were a t-terrible liar," she laughed quietly. "I've...lost a lot...of blood. I can't even...t-think straight...anymore..."
"Hey!" he called, and suddenly she was devoted solely to his words. All of the pain that she felt, all of the doubt and the fear...it all washed away. "You need to stay strong, soldier. We're...we're working on it."
But work got them nowhere. She knew the procedures, and she could already feel herself losing the tug-of-war battle with her consciousness. Alertness was slipping away. Hell, she couldn't even pick a damn simple lock.
"I love you," she whispered. Fuck protocol; she knew this would be the last time they exchanged words. She was never one to give up, but she was also honest to a fault, even with herself. She knew when she was in a losing situation, and her current predicament pretty much defined the term. "I love you and I'm sorry. I-"
"And our conversation will end here," Nicholai interrupted, taking the radio with him as he rose to his feet. "No apologies are allowed. You will just have to live with whatever you have done...or at least, Chris will."
"Damn it, you sadistic son of a bitch-" Chris growled, but once again it seemed that the conversation ran solely on Nicholai's terms.
"Tell me, Mr. Redfield, how is our deal coming along?"
There was silence on the other end of the line; she could almost see the restraint in his expression.
"There is no deal," Chris reminded him. "Release Agent Valentine and we can negotiate the terms of your surrender."
"There is no surrender," Nicholai sighed. "I am truly sorry it had to come to this. If there is no deal, we have nothing further to discuss."
Chris' voice drifted once again through the static of the radio, but Jill could not make out words. He sounded furious, upset and angry. She knew that she should be afraid, but she simply did not have the capacity for another emotion, even the elevation of one that already ran through her veins.
"The body of Miss Valentine will be left for your collection in the control room," Nicholai explained. "It seems such a waste. Your girlfriend is very pretty, Mr. Redfield."
The radio exploded into a thousand pieces as it hit the wall above her head, components raining down upon her like acid rain. But still his words echoed in her mind. What did he mean? What did he intend?
"Is...Is this another one of your m-mind games?" she asked. The art of breathing had never been so difficult to grasp.
Nicholai smiled, and it sickened her to realise that he was truly enjoying this; his glee was a little too genuine for her liking. She had met many evil men, those who killed without a flicker of emotion in their eyes. But she had never before witnessed anyone truly enjoy the act, in the same capacity one may enjoy a night of passion even.
"No, Miss Valentine. I am always serious."
August 23, 1:10am. St. Bernadette Hospital. El Paso, Texas.
"What are you doing?" Claire exclaimed, reaching for her injured friend. He was in no state to be making sudden movement, let alone attempting to rise from his bed. But whatever strength he had lost was making a comeback, and with her two arms against his one there was still no stopping him.
"I want some answers," Leon fumed through clenched teeth. "Ah! Damn, you have no idea how inconvenient this is."
"Oh no!" she yelled, reaching out to the sling he attempted to cast aside. "You are not taking that off! Do you want it to heal? You know you'll be demoted to a desk job if your injuries end up being permanent."
But somehow, he didn't care. He allowed his arm to fall back onto the sling perhaps as a compromise, but lowered himself unsteadily to the floor. He stumbled a little, but it appeared that enough strength had returned to support his weight.
"I can't just lie around," he groaned.
"And what the hell are you going to do?" she demanded. "The painkillers may have kicked in, but you're still injured. Do you even understand how serious this is? Too many people have died tonight, Leon, please don't stand in line."
She was unable to keep the tears from her voice when she spoke these words. Tears had become an irritation over the years; through all the sorrow, one would have thought that she would be able to control them. But they were enough to bring about a pause, and before she knew it, Leon's hand was placed over hers, his smile attempting to assure her that her worry was misplaced.
"Help me, then," he asked. "Come on, give me your arm."
No sooner than she was on her feet, her arm was forcibly placed around his waist, with his free hand at her shoulder, displacing an almost uncomfortable amount of weight onto her frame.
Claire shook her head in dismay, but inside laughter bubbled. Stubborn to a fault, she would have pinned him and Jill as being siblings and not friends.
Her heart sank once again as she considered the current situation. The walls of the hospital confined her, and even if they did not, what could she do? She was no longer a fighter like the others; she had no right to walk on a battlefield. Was this the price of her decision? Would she be forced to watch from afar as her friends slowly fell victim to the cause?
How could she live with that?
She was snapped quickly from her thoughts when Leon began to walk unsteadily, almost dragging her with him. Even injured, she was forced to take two steps to his one. Long legs and a determination to get the job done assured that she was always walking in his shadow.
The object of his attention strode towards them, coffee in hand as a fellow BSAA agent followed close behind.
"Mr. Kennedy, you should be resting," he insisted, for all the good it would do.
"I've rested enough, Bartley," Leon assured him. "I need to know what's going on. What is the status of the mission?"
Bartley sighed, an indifferent shrug given by his companion.
"I assume you've heard about Agent Valentine?" he asked, and was answered with an impatient nod. "Well, Agent Redfield has mobilised a rescue team and they are preparing to head out."
This news did not please Claire as she knew it should. The mobilisation of a rescue team meant that she remained in enemy hands; hands that were known to kill at the first sign of trouble. She did not know this Major, but she knew Umbrella all too well.
"What about Jill?" she demanded. "What is going to happen to her?"
Bartley drew an uneasy breath, suddenly unable to meet her eyes. He was a young agent, inexperienced and a little on edge. But he was a good man, and Claire trusted him to tell the truth.
"We don't know," he admitted, honest as always. "Negotiations fell through. All we can do is hope that the rescue team finds her before it is too late."
"What?" she cried, moving forward a half-step. But Leon's able hand reached out, fingers wrapping gently around her arm. There was nothing demanding about his touch - she doubted that there was much physical strength left within his tired body - but somehow it was enough to calm her from within.
"What are the chances of success?" Leon asked. She did not quite know how he succeeded in remaining so calm when she felt as though her insides were slowly unravelling. All she could do was step in close to his body, hoping that some of his calm rubbed off on her.
"Not good," Bartley answered. His honestly was beginning to irritate Claire. "As far as I can tell, there are no expectations of a successful rescue. At the very least, they are hoping to apprehend her captor and retrieve the body."
Claire pulled free of her friend's loose grip, feeling her emotions seep through to the physical realm. One hand rested on her hip, the other rising to hide her expression as she stepped away and turned her back to the others. How could they refer to Jill as a 'body'? Their words had effectively sealed her fate when it was uncertain just how this mission would end.
'Chris must be a mess right now,' she thought to herself. 'He shouldn't have to deal with this.'
"For what it's worth," Bartley continued, raising his voice for her benefit. "Carlos Oliveira has disappeared. It's possible that he went after her himself."
"Bartley," his companion warned.
"Oh, come on. It won't hurt for them to know."
Claire was not entirely surprised to hear this news. The last time she had spoken to Carlos, he seemed deep in thought. It simply was not like him to stand by and let another suffer, as difficult as it was for her to accept that there were positive aspects to his personality. He may have been a swine when it came to women, but he was good where it counted and that was all that mattered. She did not care if he still harboured feelings for Jill, or even if his motives for sacrifice were purely selfish; she just wanted her friend back.
"Do you need help getting back to your room?" Bartley asked.
"No," Leon sighed. "My legs were cramping up, I think I'll walk around for a little while."
"I have to go," Claire spoke suddenly, almost cutting across Leon's words. "I can't just think about this, I need to be there."
"Don't be-"
"I don't care what you say, Leon," she insisted. "There has to be something I can do and Chris..."
Thoughts of her brother were too painful to consider, but she entertained them anyway.
"And if you go, who is going to stay here and look after me? Not a word, Bartley."
And that was it; the one nerve that was apparently open to assault had been struck.
"Chris needing you is a possibility. There's no 'if' where I'm concerned. Please...stay."
How could she refuse now? Torn three ways, she found that it was her heart that beat in his direction. After so long listening to her mind, she felt that it was about time that she let her heart take the steering wheel.
"Alright," she agreed with a smile. "I'll stay...for you."
August 23, 2003. 1:17am. Verisanda Technologies, Control room.
Jill estimated that it would take at least twenty minutes at sprint to reach the control room, assuming that no resistance was met. She had no idea how many bioweapons were still lurking in the corridors; if the rescue team encountered any, the journey could be as long as forty minutes. Whatever Nicholai intended to do to her, she knew that she would not be conscious in forty minutes. Her blood now mingled with Tessa's on the floor. Losing a similar volume of blood as a dead woman did not paint an optimistic picture of the near future.
Nicholai paced for several long minutes after the communication ceased. He was not pondering or deliberating, she knew that much. It was all part of his plan, to make her feel as weak and helpless as possible, to fear his intentions to a point that was almost physically painful. He was succeeding.
Given a choice, Jill would have chosen to die surrounded by friends and family, comforted to her last moment. Realistically, she had expected to die brutally yet quickly; a sharp severing of life. What she sensed she equated to cooking a bowl of pasta; setting it to boil, waiting anxiously for the finished product yet finding on each check that it was not quite time.
Finally, Nicholai came to a halt, facing her trembling form.
"Would you have guessed that I am not even disappointed?" he laughed. "Regardless of the outcome of negotiation, I would have won."
As he lowered himself to the ground he pulled his knife once again from his boot. Light did not catch on the sharp instrument, dried blood coating the majority of the blade.
"Now, I think we should begin," he teased, crawling forward until he loomed over her. "After all, we do have a lot to get through."
There was nothing she could do to push him away, every remaining breath dedicated to picking the lock at her wrists. The paperclip slotted easily into the lock but keeping it there was proving to be rather difficult. Blood loss and fatigue had brought tremors to her hands, and the pain at the tip of her finger was simply too great to allow for swift, quiet work. If she cried out, he would catch on to her intentions.
"Do you see that camera up there?" he asked, pointing briefly to a rather conspicuous security camera over his left shoulder. "If protocol is adhered to - as I am sure it will be - those in charge of the rescue mission will review the tapes I have every intention of leaving in the console. As your boyfriend is evidently in charge, he will likely be bound to personally write up the report."
Catching on to his meaning, she set about working at a faster pace. His intentions were obviously not solely to make her suffer. If he brought down Chris Redfield at the same time, he would greatly distort the balance of power. After all, they were both the main concern of the remnants of Umbrella.
"Everything I am about to do to you will be recorded on those tapes," he continued cheerfully. If only he would not be so methodical about the process of murder. "This, Miss Valentine, is my little present to him."
The tip of his blade brushed against her cheek, drawing but a tiny pinprick of blood. His position became increasingly uncomfortable, and the moment his fingertips touched upon her unblemished cheek, she flinched and, as though by reflex, she spat in the face of her captor, wishing to scare him away by any means necessary. But her retaliation backfired when he struck her, the force of the blow forcing her to once again slip down the damp surface of the wall. His fingertips momentarily slid beneath the waistline of her fatigues, violently pulling her closer to his body.
And now, his intentions were crystal clear.
She screamed at the top of her lungs, but knew that nobody could hear. The cuffs remained firmly closed, and the rest of her body was in no fit state for defence.
Her legs flailed uselessly, only making it easier for him to settle between them. His lips smashed against hers, one hand travelling down to her breast as the other held the knife tightly to her throat. Her fingers moved frantically at her back, desperate to afford her just two more limbs to fight with. In a move that thoroughly disgusted her, she opened her mouth, allowing his tongue to slide between her teeth before she clamped down, blood dripping into her mouth as he fought back, pulling the knife from against her skin.
Pulling free, he struck her again, fingers then moving to struggle with her belt. Fear spread throughout her body like frostbite, chilling every nerve within her capable of feeling.
"Get off me!" she screamed, knowing that it would do no good but hoping that it would buy her a few more seconds in the name of plain distraction. But his fingers worked fast and the belt was pulled free of her pants, buttons ripped clean off as he tugged at the fabric.
She felt something give beneath her makeshift pick, but no amount of pulling could free her restraints.
His hand slid once again up her body, knife piercing the fabric of her T-shirt.
"Get the fuck off!" she screamed, squeezing her thighs around his waist in an attempt to flip him over so that she finally had an advantage. However, his strength was far greater than hers and the pain that flared throughout her left leg severely weakened any advantage she may have had. Had she truly hoped to succeed?
Suddenly, his fingers were at her throat, pressing her into the ground but not squeezing enough to restrict her breathing.
"And why would I want to do that?" he whispered, having lowered his lips to her ear. She convulsed in disgust as his tongue moistened the inside of her ear. She was so sure that she would throw up once again. "You feel so warm."
The hand left her throat and the fear peaked inside her as his body rubbed against hers one final time before he pushed himself upright. Forcibly, he pulled down her fatigues enough to expose what lay beneath, his fingertips sliding over her underwear as he grunted in apparent pleasure. The knife returned, touching the skin below her navel and dragged slowly, terrifyingly lower. She screamed once again as the blade slid beneath her underwear, working at the fabric that held it to her hip like a saw to wood.
She felt the pressure of the lock beneath the paperclip, something catching, providing considerable resistance.
The elastic of her underwear gave way to the curve of his blade, his touch like acid against her skin. But then...
It was as though the cuffs collapsed beneath her, springing open several moments later than she would have liked. Wasting no time, she moved her right arm, putting every ounce of strength that remained into a blow she landed to his Adam's apple. Coughing, spluttering and dazed, he fell backwards, aided by the swift application of a boot to his midriff. She could see that he was hard beneath his trousers and the thought sickened her, made her skin crawl as the realisation of what almost happened dawned on her.
'Don't think; run!'
Her legs almost buckled beneath her, pain elevating to a level far past unbearable. But she ignored the pain, willed it to the part of her mind that lingered in shadow, and pulled her fatigues to her waist as she began to move unsteadily out into the hallway.
The wall was her guide as she stumbled away, fearfully realising that her steps were far too slow to place adequate distance between them both. But she pushed on, moving as fast as was physically possible. Bloody trails were left in the wake of her touch against the wall, and she simply could not remain quiet. Her breathing had become ragged, tears streamed down her face in response to both pain and fear and now she could not make one step without crying out.
She had barely made it to the doorway of the next room when he caught up to her, tackling her into what had evidently once been a bioweapons storage room. Left with no opportunity to take in her surroundings, she was flipped onto her back.
Barely a moment had passed before his fist collided with her cheekbone. But she was prepared, and savagely returned the blow, weakening him enough to knock him back onto the tiled floor. The foot of her uninjured leg struck out, pounding into his calf before he composed himself enough to retaliate. He was stronger than her without the added benefit of her injuries; how could she hope to make this an even fight?
Blow after blow rained down on her, the force enough to render the feeling that her eyeballs would pop right out of their sockets. Blood filled her mouth, pooled into her left eye. Her vision swam red, hands pushing weakly against the legs that pinned her to the ground. It was not until he paused to reach for his knife that she was afforded an opportunity. With strength that surprised them both, she pushed against him, catching him off guard and sending him crashing to the cold tile floor.
But what good had it done? She could barely move, every square inch of her body aching. As she rolled onto her front, bracing herself against the ground with weak arms, blood dripped from her mouth onto the sterile white tiles. The left side of her face felt impossibly large, sight lost in her left eye.
From somewhere above her, Nicholai laughed.
"Feisty," he wheezed, overcome with laughter. "Don't you understand the futility of your situation?"
Oh, but she did. She was a fish out of water, struggling for breath as she moved uselessly against the floor. Nicholai's knife rested on the floor by her head. His boots slapped against tile, the echo resounding around the otherwise silent room. From out of nowhere, she felt the toe of his boot collide with her stomach, forcing every last molecule of oxygen from her body.
"It is a shame," he sighed, voice distorted from an obviously swollen tongue. "You look truly repulsive now. I guess I'll just have to kill you."
It was then that Nicholai made the mistake of taking but a single step backwards. Not three feet behind him stood an empty specimen cage, his discarded knife within easy reach. Unsure of how exactly she was able to follow through on intention, Jill pushed herself to her feet and slammed the palms of her hands into his shoulders, pushing forward on weakened legs. The blow was unexpected, and he stumbled backwards, tripping over the edge of the cage. She wasted no time and pulled at the barred door, dragging it along until the electronic lock snapped shut.
But it was only seconds before his hand reached out through the bars, fingers wrapping tightly around her throat. Now both hands were against her skin, squeezing until she felt her lungs burn, craving oxygen that simply was not coming. Her fingernails clawed desperately at his hands, but their grip remained strong, the handle of his knife impeding her ability to-
'The knife! Now is not a good time to lose your common sense.'
His blood spilled onto her collar as soon as the blade had pierced his flesh. She was barely conscious, his hand all that was keeping her upright. For all her hacking, he refused to let go, stubbornly clinging to revenge she feared had already proven successful. It was the final blow that dislodged his grip, the blow that sent the knife through the back of his hand. Had he not recoiled in agony she was sure that the tip of the blade would have lodged in her throat, perhaps piercing her jugular vein.
Instead, she stumbled back safely, well out of the reach of his murderous hands. But where was her victory? Her vision was almost non-existent, every muscle weakened, every nerve sending messages her brain was too dazed to interpret. There was not a point in her body that did not ache.
'How much blood did I lose?'
"Jill!"
Somewhere in the distance, she was sure that someone called her name. Happiness did not replace fear, did not alleviate her pain. The sinking feeling that it was too late overcame her. She was hallucinating; nobody was coming to save her. She would be dead by the time Chris found her.
"Jill!"
And then her legs gave way. Strangely, she did not hit the ground. Hands gripped her waist, gently lowering her onto warm knees. She tried to make sense of it, to piece together the fragments of perception that came to her.
"Oh no... Hold on, hear my voice."
Hear his voice? She could not recognise its tune, though it did sound awfully familiar. It rippled and distorted, as though played through a broken radio or a cassette player with a fading battery.
"Come on, baby, don't do this to me!"
Something moist fell against her cheek. But it was the last thing she felt. The abyss that had been looming beneath her for quite some time opened up, roared wildly and then swallowed her with its darkness.
At long last, there was no pain.
AN - Please review :)