Resident Evil 4: Real Life Edition

Note from the Author: This is dedicated to the readers who enjoyed my first story under the same name. I removed it as it no longer represents my writing. If you happened to read it and have somehow found your way back here, I hope that you enjoy this new version. (And- welcome back.)

This is based upon the 2023 Remake. As a fan of the original 2005 Resident Evil 4, I consider myself very lucky to have experienced Capcom's reimagination of a brilliant game and its characters. Their work inspired me to write this.

*Please excuse the faulty formatting for Spanish dialogue - I'm working on how to fix this via the Doc Manager. Once I solve this, I'll correct the Spanish punctuations, etc.

**This story is COMPLETE, and upcoming chapters will be posted weekly. There are a total of 14 chapters.

The sun hangs low in the sky and crisp air snaps against your skin as you step out into a cold autumn evening. Thick clouds swallow the little sunlight that had managed to warm your city during the day, and you button your long coat up to your neck as the temperature drops.

It's evening and you've just left work for the day. Your mind still buzzes with thoughts of the emails you'll need to respond to first thing tomorrow. But you shake it off and grab a slip of paper out of your coat pocket - a grocery list. You'll need to hop a bus and buy a few things before you can make dinner for tonight.

The glamorous lifestyle of an office nine-to-fiver. You find comfort in the stability outside the odd spike of wanderlust. Working downtown in a small city keeps things interesting enough, but still tame. The streets are congested with traffic and you tune out choruses of honking horns as you wave down the next bus. It's a cozy ride in the rumbling, generously heated transport up to the closest grocery store. By the time you reach your destination, the sun has set. You step off of the bus, the short heels on your boots clicking smartly, before a squat building jammed between a maze of hillside townhouses and apartments and a struggling commercial district. This store's heyday came and went long before you moved here, but you're fond of this aging keystone in the community. It has excellent deals on older baked goods and not long ago they started carrying sushi.

You're not too sure about the sushi, though.

List in hand, you weave through the parking lot, which is incredibly busy. It's also very dark outside of the proximity of the scattered light poles. You slide up against the back of a large black SUV to avoid a car passing close in the aisle. You hear a click behind you- a door opening, and then something taps against the back of your boot. An orange. You see a silhouette inside the rear driver's side seat of the car. "Excuse me," you call, "did you drop this?" The figure shifts. You crouch down to pick up the orange, and you realize that the car is running. The door swings open wider.

An odd feeling turns your stomach. Something seems off. But you're just helping someone; it would be rude to drop the orange and go. The person inside the car responds. "Yeah, thanks. Give it here." A large gloved hand reaches out of the door of the running car.

That feeling comes back. You push it aside. You ignore a gut reaction that this voice sounds familiar. You reach forward, holding the fruit a little too tightly.

The gloved hand whips out and grabs your wrist. Before you can react, you are pulled toward the car and hauled into it headfirst across the floor of the backseat. The door slams shut, pushing your feet in. The car lurches back. You twist on the floor trying to get your bearings and to sit up. You feel the car turning and picking up speed. The man who caught you gives you no chance to recover; he seizes a fistful of your hair and yanks upward, pulling your head up to almost chest level with him.

In a flash of passing light, you get one good look at your kidnapper: A hulking, sharply muscled figure. Pale skin and eyes. An evil glare lanced through by a long scar from his left eyebrow down through his lips. A boot-length black duster and dark shirt complete a sinister character. Your gut reaction was right - this man is familiar. But he couldn't possibly be.

"Thanks for the help," smirks one Jack Krauser. "Now you get to go on a little trip." Holding your hair in a vise grip, Krauser reaches with his other hand and you see a large syringe come into view. You swat with one arm to block him - Krauser responds by swinging a leg and pinning your hand under his boot against the car seat. "Nice try," he grunts, before you feel the needle pierce into your neck. Krauser then lets you go. You fumble your way up onto the seat, half marveling at him and half wondering at the completely normal world passing by outside the tinted windows. Any other thoughts you have go blank except for ringing in your ears. Your limbs feel heavy. You stare at the boot print on your hand as a sudden sleep takes hold.

You fall unconscious wondering when you will wake up from this impossible dream.

And wake you do. A low whine pulls you out of blackness. First you move your tongue - it scratches like sandpaper in your mouth. You're incredibly thirsty. Then you flex your fingers and toes, and open your eyes. But you see nothing.

Whatever Krauser injected you with - have you gone blind? You panic; your breath picks up speed. You try reach up to touch your eyes, but your hands are bound together behind your back. As you start to gasp wheezing breaths, you realize that something is jammed between your teeth. You cannot speak.

You reach again to try to pull your hands apart to grab and whatever is in your mouth when suddenly the world flashes horribly bright and blurry. Your vision fixes on a spot of maroon above you. The red thing sinks down to just above eye level with you. It comes into focus - Krauser's beret. And he is crouched in front of you, looking you up and down.

"Welcome back," he sneers. He holds up a blindfold balled into his fist. "Blindfold was necessary. Couldn't risk you waking up earlier than expected." Krauser stands and reaches for the gag tied around your mouth. "But now that you're up, and we're well on our way-" the gag is ripped away "-I think we're done with these." Krauser regards you with a cold smirk. "You've been a good passenger so far. Don't do anything to change that, and the rest of your trip will go just fine."

You stare up at him, still not completely believing that Jack Krauser is real and in front of you. But he seems to be waiting for you to respond. With your senses returning, you confirm your wrists and feet are bound by zipties. You're also propped on a spacious seat in what looks to be a small private airplane. A plane - to where? And how long have you been flying already?

"Where- Where are we going?" you rasp.

Krauser chuckles. "Wrong question. You'll find out after we get there."

"Then," you think, "why did you take me?"

"Because you made yourself the target." Krauser looks at you. "It's nothing personal. You were in the right place at the right time." He shifts his weight from one boot to the other. "Now, you're probably thirsty. And you should eat something. So here's what we're doing. I'm going to bring you water and food. The zip ties stay on. You stay in your seat. And if you try anything," his hand grasps under your chin and pulls your head up, and you lock eyes- "I may knock out a few teeth. Or something else you don't need where you're going."

You look up into Krauser's pale eyes. He smirks. "Are we clear?" You nod. Krauser lets you go. "Good." He turns away and disappears over your shoulder up the aisle. You glance around and try to determine where you are, but the cabin of the plane is empty of anyone else and you don't see any clear clues. Your seat faces a low table and another cushioned seat across from you. It must be Krauser's; a water bottle sits half empty in the cupholder and you recognize the long black coat tossed over the arm.

He reappears and sets down a paper cup and a wrapped sandwich in front of you. "Eat up," he grunts. "Could be your last meal for a while." Krauser sits down across from you and unscrews the cap from his water bottle. He watches as you lean forward and fumble through gulping down the cup of water, grasping it between your bound hands. Some of it spills down your chin. It occurs to you too late that Krauser might have slipped another drug into the water. But you were desperately thirsty. And you're starving. It's clear that Krauser intends to get you to your destination alive; you figure that poisoned food is not likely at this point.

You tear into the sandwich, breaded chicken and romaine lettuce on ciabatta. Something you'd normally enjoy on a long flight. But you choke it down while trying not to consider that you don't know where your next meal will come from.

You glance around, taking in the sparse luxurious seats and accompanying wooden tables. "This is…" you murmur, and Krauser glances up, "this is a really fancy plane. For just me."

He scoffs. "We needed to move you as quickly as possible."

You swallow thickly and ball up the wrapper. It tumbles from your seat and rolls forward. Krauser crushes it under his boot. He stands, reaches for your lap and unbuckles your seatbelt. "You're getting a bathroom break. Let's go." He grabs you under one armpit and hauls you to your feet. Krauser pushes you ahead of him and you stumble with the zipties around your ankles. You hop and hobble to keep from losing your balance; the effort makes you realize how badly you need the restroom ahead.

Krauser pulls the door open. "You've got two minutes."

You lick your cracked lips. "I can't do anything with these zipties."

"The zipties stay on. Get in there or get back in your seat." A large palm cuffs you on the back and you buckle forward into the bathroom. As you're catching yourself on the sink, the door slides shut behind you. It's a desperate scramble to use the toilet and refasten your pants with your ankles and wrists bound. But you manage. You even make it to the sink, but just as you punch the button to start the water, the door opens again. "Out." Your hands shoot out to a hand sanitizer dispenser as Krauser grabs your arm. You barely pump a glob of sanitizer onto your palms before Krauser pulls you back into the main cabin. "Back to your seat," he huffs. You shuffle along until he pushes you to drop sideways onto your seat. When you right yourself, Krauser is sitting across from you thumbing through a file.

You watch him for a few moments. Jack Krauser. A distinctly fictional character, suddenly more horribly real than you ever could have imagined. How? And more urgently, what does he want with you?

You recall one reason why Krauser would kidnap an innocent person and smuggle them to parts unknown. He took one Ashley Graham to Spain as part of his alliance with Los Iluminados to gain immense physical power. But Ashley isn't on this plane. As far as you know, she doesn't exist. So are you playing her part of that story instead?

No, you couldn't be. Ashley was chosen because of her ties to the highest echelons of the United States government. She was intended to bring Las Plagas into the White House and from there spread Los Iluminados worldwide. You're just - well, you. So the same story isn't going to play out here.

Which could mean that other key figures might not appear, either. Assuming that Krauser is taking you to Spain for the same reasons, you may not have a hero on the way to rescue you.

Because what would be the odds that Leon S. Kennedy also exists - even then, that he would travel across the world for you? Ashley was the daughter of the President of the United States. Her disappearance threatened national security.

Yours might not even make the local news.

Tears well in your eyes. You are helpless to whatever happens in this wild twist of fate, and most likely, you're doomed to a gruesome death. Krauser's involvement all but guarantees a bit of suffering.

He catches you staring at him and closes the file, folds his hands in his lap. "You look like you're going to cry." Krauser snorts. "I'm surprised you took this long. You're not as," he gestures, "hysterical as I'd expected."

You swallow thickly. "…It's just a lot to process."

"Mm." Krauser taps one foot. "And you don't know what's coming. I think it's better that way. Ignorance is bliss, and all." He smirks. "Consider these last few hours of peace my gift to you. My way of saying thanks."

A chill lances your heart. "Thanks for what?"

Krauser leans forward. "Oh, you'll find out soon enough. You're involved now, and there's no going back. But you should pay close attention." His greedy eyes bore into you. "Play this smart, and maybe you can benefit more than you think." Your gaze traces his scar. "So. Enjoy this quiet flight. Because after this," Krauser grins," everything changes."

You're not sure how much time has passed. Krauser has remained tight-lipped about the particulars of your journey. You've managed to massage your wrists and ankles as best you can under the zipties. And you'd looked out the window for some time, watching the rolling shapes of clouds and seeing nothing to discern where you may be going.

You'd asked about your personal belongings, your bag and phone. Krauser has your bag, examined the contents, studied up on you a bit. But your phone was destroyed and thrown out long before you were smuggled onto the plane. He made it clear that wherever you step back onto solid ground, you'll be untraceable to anyone who may try to find you.

The plane jolts beneath you and you snap out of your daze. Krauser sits up, having been roused from sleep. You regard each other. "We'll be there soon," he says, rolling his shoulders. "Hope you've made peace with your former life." He draws a large, long blade from a holster by his left shoulder. You watch Krauser fish a small object out of a pouch on his belt. A sharpening stone. He glides the edge of the blade against its surface in rhythmic strokes. The metallic drone is almost soothing. Light flashes off of the tip of the knife with each stroke. You imagine that familiar blade clutched in Krauser's fist, lashing out at Leon as they duel over the fate of Ashley Graham - a scene that might not play out for you.

It's been a horrible, recurring thought as the hours have slipped by: That no one is coming to save you.

You pick up the empty paper cup in front of you and turn it in your hands. "Am I going to be killed?"

Krauser pauses and glances at you. "I can't say one way or the other." He puts the stone and knife away. "Just don't give anyone a reason." Krauser sits upright. "And that's enough questions. We're about to land, so you need to go back to sleep for now." He procures a small plastic box and pops out a syringe identical to what had plunged into your neck. Krauser stands and stalks towards you. He grabs under your jaw and pushes your head back against the seat with enough force to cut off your breath. Immediately you feel a pinch in your neck. Whatever is in the syringe works quickly. Your body falls slack and suddenly you are aware of nothing at all.

Something rumbles beneath you. It's loud, hot and whining. You stir. Again you're blindfolded and gagged. And those zipties are cutting into tissue after uncounted hours; you feel the sting of broken skin. You stiffly start reaching for the blindfold when a forceful lurch rolls you onto your stomach. The rumbling stops. You hear a car door open and shut. Footsteps. Then - a rush of air, and you're lifted over a broad shoulder. Your feet bounce against the torso of whoever is carrying you, and you can guess who.

You try to listen for where you are. It's quiet. A crow calls overhead; the air smells of dead leaves, mud and smoke.

"Stop, soldado," prompts a deep, grating voice. You startle. Someone steps closer, a hand touches you. "Is this the one?"

"That's right." Krauser's voice rumbles beneath you. "Does he know we're here?"

"Si," gruffs the deep voice. "He is just inside. He wants to see her."

"Of course." Krauser steps forward and follows another set of footsteps.

Your heart begins to pound. You feel sick. After traveling for hours, you've come to a quiet, rural place with Krauser delivering you to someone who natively speaks Spanish. The signs are beginning to point in one clear direction. And you desperately wish you could turn back.

You start to struggle. Krauser tightens his grip on you but says nothing. Suddenly, you hear a chaos of voices:

"!La mujer!"

"!Mensajero divino!"

"!Alabanza al santo cuerpo!"

"!Gloria a Las Plagas! !Gloria a Las Plagas!"

Krauser pulls you off of him and your back hits cold stone. The blindfold is ripped away. Robed, red-eyed men whispering Spanish prayers untie the gag from around your mouth, and finally you can speak- "No!" you cry. You can't help it. Fear overpowers you. You know exactly where you are. You writhe desperately. "No, please!"

You're laying on a stone table in a clearing surrounded by dense forest. Innumerable robed figures and grizzled villagers cluster in exultation. Dozens of raised palms shoot into the air with reverent cries.

"Let me go!" you shout. "I'm not her! I'm not her!"

"!Gloria a Las Plagas!"

"Please," you howl, "let me go-"

All voices hush at once. You listen as if for danger. A sweeping sound signals another robed figure coming. A wave of deep purple passes in front of your vision; you see a familiar staff with a gold spider-like insect twisting around its handle; the rod lifts as its holder greets the gathered audience.

"Glory to the Holy Body!" A great cheer erupts. "Praise to our Lord! Our disciple has brought its messenger to us!"

A sickening cold feeling rushes through you: Dread. You recognize this voice, too. And you know where you are, and why you were brought here by Jack Krauser. There is only one plausible reason why you have been smuggled across the ocean to the suddenly-real forsaken Spanish village of Valdelobos: You really are meant to replace Ashley Graham in the frightening story of Resident Evil 4.

The proof stands in front of you. Osmund Saddler turns and smiles broadly at you. His eyes are impossibly bright; the effect is unsettling, hypnotic. "Welcome, child! Welcome, and do not fear!" One pale, purple-veined hand sweeps toward your body. "You are brought from damnation to a sacred place. You will be uplifted, child!" Saddler gazes with an almost paternal warmth down at you.

You feel the color rush out of your face. You shake your head. "Please, no…"

"There, there," Saddler soothes. He places one hand upon your shoulder. You're grateful that you can't feel his touch through your shirt and coat. "You have had a long journey. And you are not yet familiar with our ways. But soon," he smiles, "soon you will be united with our Lord. And the rest of your days shall be filled with purpose and peace!"

The audience roars its approval. Saddler turns and nods to someone behind you. "This disciple," he calls in a booming voice, "has proven that he hears the voice of our Lord and obeys. It was the will of our Lord that he be exalted with a great gift. Look upon the strength of Las Plagas at work in him, and sing your praises for this holy mission!"

You hear a "Gloria a Las Plagas" from here and there in the crowd. Saddler gestures, and Krauser steps forward into your view. "Now, we will bless these worthy children, for tonight one will be lifted up by our Lord." Two men wearing black robes approach bearing ornate silver chalices; one to Krauser and one to you. You struggle; the back of your coat sticks to and peels from the table. The heels on your boots slip around. The disciple who approaches you dips his hand into the bowl of the chalice, and you smell sharp copper - blood. He raises his dripping hand and spatters the blood up and down your body by flicking his fingers. You squeeze your eyes shut when the blood strikes your face.

Saddler's voice calls to the assembled adherents. "!Alabanza al santo cuerpo! Praise be to our Lord for calling these two disciples who will spread our truths to the world. Praise for bringing us a warrior of the divine. Praise for delivering this messenger who will share our gift with damned who yearn for serenity." You dare open your eyes; your body is decorated with drops of blood. Krauser stands nearby likewise painted with crimson. Saddler smiles at you both. "The blood of the lost baptizes you to give of yourselves to our Lord. For even they who wander dumb and blind find salvation when they give of their flesh to the Holy Body! !Morir es vivir!"

You realize with horror what these sickly exultations actually mean. The table you are set upon is sticky with blood. And when you look down, you see a dismembered clothed leg. The shoe is still on: A hiking boot. Someone was sacrificed to Los Iluminados where you are laying now. A scream rips from your throat. You can barely hear yourself over wild cheering from the villagers.

"The Lord awaits!" calls Saddler, turning to you. "Now, child, you must go to the sanctuary and prepare for your enlightenment. Go and receive the profound blessing of Las Plagas!"

The gathered worshippers shout their praises as black-robed cultists approach. They cut your ankles free from the zipties and pull you off of the table. Among the gore in the grassy clearing, you see a mutilated ashen, clawing hand with veins trailing out from its shredded wrist. Silently reaching for help that never came. Your knees buckle. The cultists haul you forward and you walk, clutched between them and retching dryly, down a path into the forest.

A set of heavy boots keeps pace with you. "Guess I made the right choice," muses Jack Krauser, glancing your way. "Picking you."

You look up at him morosely. Krauser's face is speckled with drying blood. It suits him, you figure, knowing the monster for who he really is. "I don't want this," you whimper.

"I don't care." Krauser surges ahead. His large figure shoulders through the line of people and disappears. In the distance, a dark steeple and slanting rooftops rise into view: The vile church of Valdelobos - a place that Ashley Graham only escaped with help from a hero. A place you may be doomed to stay. As you walk, the cultists on either side of you hold your arms fast. You pull and twist, but they detain you in a viselike grip. One casts you a vacant glance with glowing red eyes. You see nothing human in them.

There may be nothing human left of you, either, soon enough.

Note from the Author: Thank you for reading. Reviews are appreciated.