It was…cold. It was dark…night? It was winter, she recognized by the soft flakes of snow settling on her face. She was alive. But where was she? Outside? And why was she here? She was disoriented, in pain. Wet. Her shoulder burned as she rolled onto her back, feeling cold metal against her lower spine even through her thick clothes, her upper back padded by her tactical vest. Soft white light filtered in, a haze hanging in the air. Closing her eyes, she tried to clear her mind and focus her thoughts on the last thing she could remember. A house, her orders. Wine? The target. No…targets. Ethan…? Yes. Ethan! And…Rose! Snapping to attention, her memories poured back into her pounding skull. That's right…she was on a mission to collect an infant and her father, Ethan, and bring them back to the base. Her team had just taken out Mia Winters…or the entity that was assuming her likeness. The real Mia was probably long dead and it was just as well. No one deserved this nightmare.

Yes. It had almost been too easy. She remembered her words to her partner as she hopped back into the van after pumping that doppelganger full of holes. Cocky remarks and light-hearted jokes and a fleeting feeling that something wasn't quite right.

Agent Redfield had instructed the field team to retrieve Mr. Winters and Rose after Miranda, posing as Mia Winters, was exterminated. She and her partner, James Sunderland were acting as escorts for the van that held the family. She remembered leaning over the side the van grabbing the child from her partner that she had felt…guilt? Guilt that the father had no idea what was happening. That before he was knocked unconscious, he had to see his "wife" murdered, his child, taken. That poor bastard. After all he's gone through…

Though they were no longer affiliated with the BSAA, and destroying Miranda and eliminating the contagion was the primary goal, Rosemary was of interest to many. Once they got her to the safehouse, what would they do to her? Would he even see Rose again? What would they do with her? What would they do with him? Celia didn't have the clearance for that kind of information…and that was OK with her. She didn't want that kind of guilt anyway. Not knowing was better. As they loaded his unconscious body into the van with her, she told herself that it was for the best, that he would be fine once he came to. Chris would talk to him…and explain. And it would be fine.

As for her, she was charged with Rose's wellbeing until her convoy arrived at the base. She remembered now, holding her as the van sped over unpaved roads and through the snowy mountain paths, clinging to her as she wailed and screamed and pushed against Celia as if she could possibly comprehend what was happening. She recalled feeling a kind of…sadness, was it?

Realizing this was the first time she had ever held an infant, though she was 32 and had yet to get to work on all the things she had once wanted for herself. Her own family. Not intentionally, though not unintentionally…for better or worse her career had her hopping continents as regularly as the seasons changed. It wasn't a bad life, in fact. It was actually pretty fulfilling. It just wasn't where she pictured her future-self to be. At least her life afforded the ability to explore the most beautiful locations (well, maybe not all of them were beautiful…) and meet new, interesting people. Her career was her life, and what it required from her, she obliged. Both mentally and physically, like a chameleon, she shifted through her phases of life around it. And with all the training she was in pretty decent shape. Plus, hell, the pay was great. And to think, she went to college for marketing…

But now she was sitting in a van somewhere in Romania, part of a deadly operation with an infant squirming in her lap and pulling on her jacket. Carefully positioning the child, she removed her heavy outer layer to wrap her in it. She pushed aside lingering thoughts and regrets - or maybe what she didn't regret but would never know. It didn't matter, then. Getting through the next 24 hours was what did.

In that moment, Celia remembered trying to calm the infant, reassure it as she was trying to reassure herself. She raised her up slightly, to speak to her or sing to her or do whatever the hell adults did to make babies stop screaming bloody murder when silence suddenly filled the air. Tears that streaked her cheeks oozed then trickled to a stop as Rose became so still and relaxed. Silent.

She looked up at Ethan, then to her partner who shrugged.

"Kids?" he had said. She looked back at the child. Lids and damp lashes opened and she stared at Celia; actually stared into her eyes so intensely that she saw...no…imagined that there was a light to them. In them. Like a charge of bright white electricity that ran through her irises and sent a feeling through her that twisted her stomach to the point of nearly doubling over. Before she cry out to Sunderland, she felt a shudder rip through the van. Smelled static. Then what felt like an explosion…then…darkness? She couldn't remember. Her head was pulsing. The wet she felt, she realized, was blood – perhaps from a cut to her forehead? Was it even hers? She wasn't sure, but she needed to move…she needed to get up.

Ignoring the stinging pain in her wrist and shoulder and with darkness still clinging to the edges of her sight, she rolled back to her side and propped herself up on her forearm to stare out of the back of the van. Her hand moved to her chest pocket for her phone. Gone. She scanned her surroundings. Through the darkness, she realized she was lying on what was the roof of her overturned transport and felt a stab of panic. Her hand flew to her earpiece, but only pulled back a shattered plastic corpse of a tiny speaker. It was shot. Where was her phone? She remembered holding it before the…incident. Now, surveying the van interior, all she was met with was silence and darkness and the feeling that she was not supposed to have survived this event.

Sunderland.

Was he OK? Was everyone else OK? Where was Chris and the rest of the team following them?

She had to stop procrastinating. It was time to move into survival mode, let her training take over. Put things into a checklist. Get her body moving and warmed up. Look for survivors. Apply first aid. Try to figure out where the hell she was and a way to get to safety. First, she had to shake it off and move. Blinking back the tears and what was probably blood, her breath caught as she realized the open van door was probably exposing her to more than just a bone chilling cold. She fumbled for her gun, drawing it as she rolled herself to her stomach and punched outward towards the open air. The taillights illuminated a gruesome sight against the bright white snow beyond. From her position on her stomach, propped up on her elbows, she saw red. Blood, bodies and a freezing burst of air met her outstretched aim. Beyond the tailgate, she saw her partner, his body twisted and distorted at an unnatural angle. Disoriented, she gathered her nerve and stumbled to her feet, nearly tripping over twisted metal and sliding on scattered papers as she stepped to the back of the overturned vehicle.

"Please. No…" she felt the breeze whisk her whispered words to no one into the darkness and bare trees. Hands still clinging to her firearm, she nervously scanned them. The tops of the trees bent to the air as it whistled through branches, but other than her own breath she could hear nothing but the wind whispering to her.

Shaking off the feeling of dread and stabbing pain in her shoulder, she stepped out of the van and onto the snow-covered ground, her boots crunching through layers of ice and crystalized blood. She dropped to a knee to check Agent Sunderland's vitals, as if there was any other outcome to be had. But she had to check.

"Shit, shit..." She was no stranger to blood and death after 8 years of field work, yet standing over Agent Sunderland's body, she felt a pang of sadness. And guilt. But this was no time to mourn.

How long had she been unconscious? Where was Ethan? Where was the baby?

Looking back down at Sunderland, her breath hitched. Suddenly she felt so vulnerable. So alone. As she looked around for any sign of what might have happened to the targets, through the pounding behind her eyes, she saw a glow in her partners gloved hand. A flashlight? No…a phone! She dove to grab the device in her freezing hands, ripping off her leather gloves to try to unlock it. It wasn't hers, she realized. A four-digit passcode?

Ugh. What was Sunderland's birthday? She had no idea.

"Shit." Another lost cause.

Tossing the phone to the ground, she moved to survey the damage. The van was flipped on its roof.

Was there anything in it she could use to radio for help? Or use to survive until she could?

Moving back inside, she spotted her gear bag jammed into a corner against the front passenger seat. Grabbing the strap and jerking it forward, she hastily unzipped the main compartment to inspect the contents. Ancillary ammunition, med kits, rations, some cash, some personal items. She found a few other bags belonging to the team and raided them for supplies. The bag would be heavy, but food and water were her priority.

Celia zipped up the bag and rubbed at her eyes, trying to stay alert. Her slick hair felt almost crusty against her face where blood had dried on it. Pulling off her knit winter hat, she gathered it up into a bun to get it off her face. As she pulled the hair taut at the scalp, she was hit with a sear of pain ripping through her temple, shocking her system into overdrive. With trembling fingers, she raised her hand to the side of her head and hissed when her fingers met raw flesh. A gash about two inches above her right ear. It must have been related to the shattered earpiece. Holding her hat between her teeth, she fumbled into the med kit and grabbed a bottle of company issued antiseptic. This was going to hurt. Tilting her head forward, she poured a conservative slug of the contents of the green bottle over the open wound and let it spill onto the van's ceiling, pooling near the dome light. Mixing with the caked-on blood, it gave the interior a reddish, ominous glow. She grit her teeth over the wool, choking back a whine, waiting for the searing pain to ebb as the surrounding air cooled the liquid on her scalp leaving an almost pleasant tingling sensation. This stuff was great, but she never wanted to know what the hell was in it. Holding out her arms, rubbing her hands over her neck, sides, chest and back, she could find no other evidence of open wounds. The rest of the damage was probably internal.

Tossing the bottle back into her bag, she really wished she had a change of clothes. The shock was slowly wearing off and the blood and sweat soaking her shirt was starting to make her skin feel itchy.

Feeling her stomach spasm in the cold, she realized these conditions probably weren't optimal for her to stay alive…and dying from exposure wasn't exactly the hero's death she dreamt of. A jacket. She had one but wasn't wearing it now. The baby. She had given it to Rose before shit went sideways. But it was gone. Gone like Rose was. Like Ethan. And Miranda's body.

Did he do this? No…

She snapped back to the present. She needed a jacket. Sunderland. She didn't want to. But she needed to.

"I'm so sorry, my friend." she whispered out loud to no one. She removed it as delicately as she could with how stiff his body had become. Pushing her arm into one of the oversized sleeves, her skin felt warmer, but inside, she felt only ice. It felt like it was burning her alive. Or maybe it was the burn from the tears pricking her eyes. It smelled like him.

They weren't so different in stature. Around the same height, of slight build, muscular. The sleeves were a little long, so she carefully rolled the fabric up to free her hands. Wiping away her tears on the bunched-up fabric, she stood up and stared into the back of the van. Scanning around once more for her phone, she decided it was time to get out of there. For all she knew it was somewhere underneath the twisted metal.

Footprints.

Maybe they were Ethan's. Or were they from Chris and the others? Whomever it was must have carried Mia's body; there were no wide drag-marks. She couldn't find any of them in the wreck.

Why did they leave here? Could she follow them to civilization? To safety?

It was the only way. They probably had a decent head start. Gripping her firearm, she trudged forward, safety off. Through the darkness, she followed the footsteps of what looked to be an adult male, presumably Ethan, beyond the van and onto a wooded path. Underbrush and growth brushed her cheeks, but she ignored it, feigning complete obliviousness to the terrifying noises echoing around her. She trained for this. She was strong. Following along the path lit by the moonlight, she moved as quickly as her legs would take her given the fog that still clung to her senses.

With every step forward, she half expected to stumble over the body of the source of the prints. Nearly numb from the cold that was so recently twisting her insides, she continued following in footprints before she as her mind wandered. God, she hoped the rest of them were alive. But if they were, why would they leave her there? A flash of anger cut into her chest. No. She had to push it back down. She was almost taken with her thoughts when a scream tore through the dusky, early morning air, jolting her to attention. Something brushed up against her scalp and suddenly it was raining black snow. Incredulously, she reached her palm out for a flake to settle so she could inspect it. No, not snow. Feathers? The screams were closer now, prompting her legs to kick into a higher gear, propelling her through the sharp branches and wayward pine.

Crashing through the brush, she met with an almost suffocating, eerie silence that clung heavily to the air, like a void had sucked up anything that would stimulate her senses. Even her thoughts felt muffled.

Light was just peeking up through the landscape, bathing everything in an almost otherworldly glow. It was hard to believe what she was seeing. Through the foggy mist of dawn, she tried to make out the enormous shape blotting out the horizon in the distance. A freaking castle? Where the hell was she? She cast her eyes to the ground, the footsteps continued down the side of the mountain. At least she was on the right track. She followed the footprints to the edge of the cliff where they disappeared – whomever left them must have jumped down to the ground below – only a three- or four-foot drop at most.

Steadying herself against an enormous, exposed tree root, she hopped over the side to the ground below. As her feet hit the bottom, she was surprised by the give of the soil as her boots sunk down. A puddle? Yes, it was a puddle, but not water. It was thick, crimson and mixed with soft dirt and melted snow. It appeared to be blood. And not just rippling below her boots. It fanned out around her, concentrating in a streak that wrapped around the building in front of her. What the hell happened here? It was like she was in a dream – or was it a nightmare.

She was in a small town – a village? Old wooden houses and stone wells lined a dirt path before her. Glimmering with early morning dew, brightly colored carpets hung to dry from balconies and windows. Fenced off pens sat depressingly empty, no farm animals in sight. In the foggy distance, the dark backdrop of the castle loomed above it all. The scene looked like it was ripped from the pages of some fairy tale. A twisted fairy tale where the witch could take the form of your loved ones before stealing your children into the night after decapitating you in your bed.

The construction of the homes seemed to be limited to the fundamental, with outhouses behind nearly each one. There had to be someone here who had a phone – or judging by the lack of power lines and anything made after the 1800's - knew how to find one. She holstered her weapon and scanned on her surroundings…should she just knock on a door? Would anyone be awake? What time was it? In her near stupor, she realized she had the answer on her wrist. Glancing down – 06:14. A little early but what the hell. People were probably awake early here to milk the cows or churn butter or something domestic. Moving to climb the set of stairs to the first door she saw, she rapped on it harder than she needed to. "Wakey wakey…." she muttered as she shifted her weight nervously from one leg to another.

Silence. As she stood, waiting to hear movement within the house, something else caught her attention. At first, she thought she was hearing things. But it wasn't long before she heard it again. A dull, scraping, almost guttural growling sound. Animalistic. It was coming from just beyond the brush along the side of the house and getting louder. Drawing in a breath, she stepped closer to the banister, peering over the edge…at nothing. Inhaling and exhaling and steadily as she could manage, she lowered her weapon. Was it in her mind? No. No it was louder now. The danger was near. It was here. It was –

Whipping around, she dropped to her knee and leveled her weapon at the blur coming her way fast. "Stop!" She screamed as her fingers twitched against the trigger. It was not stopping; he was not stopping. It was a man, and he was only a few feet from her now as adrenaline started to surge as her back hit the porch railing. With nowhere to go and distance closing, she yelled something again and as he bounded up the stairs towards her. She fired once, the injured shoulder on fire as the bullet exploded through the top of his skull. She exhaled and lowered her weapon, holding her arm close as she waited to hear the thud of the heavy body, only feet from her now, against the wooden planks of the porch. But it never came. She watched, scanning the man as his knees bent, but never gave. Mouth opened but didn't speak. Eyes staring but didn't seem to see her. With bent knees and a gurgle that sounded like blood in lungs he lunged forward, tackling her over the banister and sending both plummeting to the cold earth below.