Chapter Text
The scale. You’d have never seen anything like it. It’s indigestible. I felt my stomach sink and twist when I saw it.
Signing off, Chris Redfield, 02/02/2022
–
“Here you go, the bundle of joy you requested.”
Chris receives the warm figure wrapped tightly in a thick blanket. The young scientist skits off quickly after the hand-off, tending to the test results from that day. Chris sighs, removing the obscuration of the blanket from the infant’s face. Little Rosemary, soundly asleep in his arms, without her father or mother. Experimented on daily, because Chris can’t stop them from doing that. He’s just as much of a rat for them as Rose is.
“The director wanted you in his office in ten~” The young scientist sing-songed, a smile split on his face. Chris grunted in acknowledgement, his head hung down to look at the dear baby. Her cheeks were full, with light fuzzy skin soft to the touch. He resisted the urge to swipe her quickly growing blonde out of her face, to tap her smooth small nose, knowing it was better to let her rest. Inside, Chris felt prideful that he had the ability to handle something this gently. That he wasn’t that much of a brute that he couldn’t dote on a baby.
Chris’ line of sight is obstructed suddenly by a trio of thoroughly filled report papers from the scientist.
“Attention, soldier. Rose is starting to get interesting.” He claimed. Chris narrowed his eyes.
“Whatever does that mean, Dr Dermist?” Chris sighed, drawing Rose closer to his body.
“Oh please, you know to call me Jeremy,” the scientist scolded in his high voice. “Anywho, Rose has signs of some excellent regeneration.”
Chris feigned from rising from his seat, the aforementioned infant still bundled peacefully close to him. “What exactly did you do to her to find that out?” Chris gritted out as restrained as he could manage. Jeremy scoffed. “Calm yourself– we just administered some standard vaccines today. On total accident, we noticed the virus cells were wiped out almost immediately,” Jeremy looked upon Chris, receiving only a marginal reaction from the man. “Really, why do I even bother explaining things to you.” Jeremy whined. Chris didn’t entertain the question, instead standing and moving past Jeremy wordlessly.
The papers were full of jargon that he couldn’t comprehend. He dropped his hand to his side, and tucked them under his arm to enter the director’s office.
“Welcome Chris,” The director said lightly from behind his laptop. He was a thin man, with his day's energy going into his hands to complete his technological work. He contrasted Chris, who’s unseemingly wearing body sure didn’t look to belong to a middle-aged man. This, admittedly, did cause dispute between the two sometimes. Being so grounded in reading reports of field work, it’s like he didn’t recognise these traumatic events actually happened– and would constantly send soldiers straight back out to hell as soon as they had gotten back.
“Take a seat.” The director said, his focus on his laptop unbreaking. So, this wasn’t going to be a brief chat. Chris slowly sat, settling Rose comfortably against his chest again. The director shut his laptop abruptly, startling Chris. He peeked down at Rose, hoping she hadn’t awakened.
“Mark this day on your calendar, Chris, you’ll be heading out soon,” The director announced, rising to mark it on his own calendar with a big red X. The director casually stretched, before returning to his worn office chair– one that he’d probably not left since he arrived that morning. “There’s movement at the village,” his eyes flitted back and forth somewhat nervously. “Big. Movements.”
Chris refrained from sighing at his untactful wording, and instead sighed at the mention of returning to the village.
“We got records from officials; there was severe seismic activity coming from the village.”
Chris shrugged subtly. “Well, there was earthquakes for months after the megamycete blew, are you sure isn’t not related to that?”
“Positive,” The director clicked his expensive ballpoint he never seemed to use for its intention. “It wasn’t an earthquake. It was almost like… the land had a heartbeat. Like thump, thump, thump…” The director banged the table along with his convincing impression of the event.
Chris frowned and sunk back into his armchair. “Is there any idea on what it is?”
The director bit his lip, returning to tapping his pen. He wheeled over to his extensively filled cabinets behind him and pulled out a thin folder.
“All we’ve got is these photos from a couple of cameras that were planted not too long ago. Whatever caused this kicked a whole bunch of dust up in the process, so the photos are not too clear. It also happened to know to destroy the cameras as soon as it spotted them. So… our visualisation of the target is not very sufficient.” The director explained tentatively, handing over the folder. The flimsy folder contained only four images. Each was heavily obscured by beige– clouds of dust blending over black smudges and spots.
“This black stuff… Do you think it could be moulded?” Chris muttered. The director met his eyes with an expectant but agreeing look. He nodded.
“Guess I'll need to gear up…” Chris commented. “I’ll let my squad know as soon as I can.”
“Ah, no, Chris. You’ll be going alone.” The director interjected. Chris glared gravely at the director, but he remained steadfast. “Don’t complain just yet, just let me explain what you’ll be doing.” He said, attempting a comforting smile. “You’ll be observing from afar, for now. Assessing whether it’s actually a threat, or if we can oversee this anomaly. You’ll have a camera, and of course some weapons of your choice.”
Chris doesn’t see how it could be anything but a threat, but nonetheless…
Rose stirs, and Chris immediately begins comforting movements. He meets the director’s eyes while bouncing Rose gently.
“Yes… about that…we’ll organise someone to take care of her.”
Chris visibly relaxes, with Rose eventually growing less tense in tow.
“Thanks…” he mutters, analysing Rose’s expression. “Well… Rose’ll be getting hungry soon, I'd better go.”
“Yes, yes… of course, I won’t keep you.” the director blurts, seemingly shaken by Rose’s unpredictable manner. Chris garnered he was similar to how he was, say, six months ago– feeling as if Rose would suddenly shatter with one wrong move.
–
Chris’ mind was overtaken by the Winters. The two he had come to care for– at least. Despite their surname, the warmth he had come to foster when in their presence meant on the most biting cold of nights he craved to be with them. Equally painful was the few times Chris’ waking had almost slipped when he was holding rose– she was almost like a mini heater after all– before snapping himself awake; for if he fell into a deep slumber, there would be no one to wake him.
The prospect of returning to the village had his mind in overdrive. Whenever his mind flicks back to the father his story plays wholly in his head, a movie tragedy that he oh-so-loves. He sees his blood-caked figure in the yellow Louisiana morning; the whites of his eyes wide. Chris feels his unworked hand through his glove. Chris remembers that he had never seen someone cry like Ethan could– a literal stream cascading down his bloated injured face.
Ethan would become the skilled marksman he was to be eventually. Chris made sure. Something inside told him– begged him– that he can’t lose Ethan. And, well, he got overzealous.
He’d seen all of Ethan’s scars, in high contrast to the otherwise normality of his form: uncalloused feet, fingertips used for typing, soft facial skin with one singular subtle scar crossing over his lips. Chris had touched it once without thinking once– in one of their shared sentimental instances– Ethan explained: “I refused to eat their shitty food. Jack stabbed my mouth. I'd only just died a few hours before, so I guess I didn’t have the power to heal this one properly…”.
–
Chris’ eyes snapped open to stark darkness. Que a wail from Rose, explaining the disruption to his sleep. He shot out of bed before his waking adrenaline faded and he was left exhausted. Rose’s room was marked by her glowing green night light, the illumination readily welcoming Chris.
“Shh… it’s okay Rosey…” A feminine voice comforted Rose quietly– so quietly that it was unlikely that Rose heard it over her own screaming.
“Who’s there!?” Chris asked authoritatively, pushing the door open harshly.
The woman was sitting huddled, Rose writhing in her arms. Her full hair sprawled over her back, the colour indistinguishable in the light. Strangely, the intruder had her shoes off.
She elevated herself onto her heels, and began to rock Rose gently. Chris flicked open his personal weapon– a small, curved blade– and drew it towards her throat.
“Oh my God, Chris, I was just going to wait until you recognised me but you seriously have a knife to my throat right now.”
…
“Claire?” Chris gasped, quickly throwing the blade elsewhere. “God, I didn’t really recognise you with your hair out…”
“Seriously!? If I wasn’t holding this kid, I'd punch you right now.” Claire exclaimed, her head jerking from Rose yanking her stray hair. Chris reached over and alleviated Claire of the whining child, who relaxed in his familiar firm arms.
“Mind explaining why you’re here in the dead of the night instead of… any other time?” Chris asked followed by a yawn.
“Can’t say I know why I chose now, but I was gonna be here regardless.” Claire started, pushing herself onto her feet. “They called me to look after Rose while you do whatever you’re doing.”
Well, nice to know they actually were thoughtful in their decision. Chris pulls her close with his free hand. “Well, thanks, Claire. It’s really good to see you.” He expresses with amusement into her auburn hair. Rose calms fully between the two’s body heat, and Claire struggles under Chris swaying’ form sinking into her.
“Yes… it’s nice reuniting… but I think we both need to sleep…” Claire mumbles, dragging a dozing Chris off her shoulder. He stumbles awake sheepishly. “Yeah. I’ve got time in the morning before I head off– I've got some things to tell you about– that’s for sure.”
–
The morning, with said impending conversation, came with quickness after the few hours of sleep they managed to salvage. Chris of course woke with immanence at the rooster's croak, rummaging through his cluttered belongings to gather what he thought to be necessary– albeit the one item he was required to bring: the camera.
He doubted he could even capture the creature’s likeness as successfully as the stationary cameras did. Nonetheless, he was to travel to the site which he hoped remained desolate, take some photographs over a few days, and return home. In introspect, he should be grateful for such a seemingly peaceful assignment. He could even try to pretend as if he was on a tranquil retreat to the Romanian alps– photographing the ‘wildlife’ along the way.
By the time Claire joined him in the kitchen with Rose in hand, Chris had all his equipment concisely packed away into a duffle bag with irregular protrusions– probably being weapons he overpacked.
“So… mind telling me what’s so important that you need to bring your favourite rifle?” Claire said, leaning casually on the kitchen island. Chris huffed with his back turned, still hurriedly rummaging through cabinets. He slammed one, seemingly done, with a full fluorescent bottle of pills. Chris obstructed them from her view, shrinking under her knowing look. “Pain killers,” he grunted. Claire continued to bore her eyes into him. She saw all the signs of an uneasy Chris: firstly, the deepened tiredness surrounding his eyes, then, the inability to be immobile, and most importantly, his obvious avoidance of telling Claire the problem.
“Chris,” was all she uttered, and he froze. “There’s something off about this assignment, isn’t there? You seem nervous, but not like you’re about to go fight some crazy monster. It’s more like you’re about to go on a date.” Claire mused.
“Yeah, well, more like a blind date.” Chris muttered. Claire cocked her head in questioning.
“I don’t know what’s ahead of me, all I've got are some highly obstructed photographs.” Chris explains, shuffling the photos out of the side of his duffle bag and handing them to Claire. She purses her lips as she analyses them to no avail.
“Mere black smudges, that’s what I'm investigating.” Chris’ statement echoed in the scarce house. A tense void of speech appears and the only sound apparent was the metallic ruffling from Chris’ bag as he picked it up.
“I hope they stay just that. Smudges.” Claire said positively. Chris relents and gives his sister a smile.