Work Text:
The brackish water swayed around the sides of the swamp boat, the large back fan blotting out the sound of the breaking waves. The two sat in silence scanning for land before landing along the coast of a village. At landfall, Sheva and Chris were met with not the empty silence they both expected before the telltale storm of the infected. If anything, it was more lively, full of an unsettling span of life: drums, crowds, jingles, and a strange sense of cheer permeating the air. A stranger sense of unease came to Chris: not of danger, but of the rare feeling of normalcy in an abnormal world. He had point and slowly walked, hand hovering near his sidearm. The noises grew louder and louder, and then he felt the soft hand of Sheva faintly touch his arm. The visible relaxing of her shoulders had him slowly release the tension in his.
The smells in the air felt normal, absent the overwhelming odor of death that permeated everything since arriving in Kijuju. Sheva smiled as a woman in full tribal dress smiled back at her passing by; they traded words in passing that Chris didn’t understand, but the interaction seemed pleasant enough. They were on a time crunch; time ticked away in hoping to find Jill alive, or at least the Jill he remembered before the blur of time, drink, and grief faded her memory even more. They both just had to coast through here, keep on Irving’s trail, keep pushing, keep chasing -
“Hey. You okay, pard’na?” The warm, accented voice of Sheva had him snap out of the slow roll his thoughts had begun, spinning in exhaustion and dread at how this marshland chasing after a lead he had to believe was real was shaping up to be. He should feel like this, so alone. Chris had never felt so rudderless since breaking ranks with the air force. Wasn’t his fault his CO was giving him bullshit orders. And now, years out, he had that same sniff of bullshit handed to him, and it privately rattled him. He looked into the concerned eyes of his current partner, brave - but would he dare to call this woman bravely stupid as she so far has dug in the trenches as he had out here, with her revealing the burden of her family dead, and now witnessing her homeland being ravaged? He couldn’t in all faith tell her to walk away knowing that.
“Yeah. Just taking in the place.” Which was true, he was, and the place stuck out so strangely in that everyone was alive. A festival, it seems, was going on as the two walked further into the village. Children running in the side streets, some kicking around a soccer ball, wicking up faint dirt clouds that didn’t hide deep smiles, laughter, and joy. So much genuine joy was found in the people milling around the two of them, their exuberance brighter than their white teeth; some were selling items in outdoor markets, but most gathered for a festival in a larger gathering space that the village circled. It was like watching a moving sea of warm colors, beaded headdresses, intricate outfits that swayed off healthy bodies adorned with ritual paint, with not a trace of infection, or decay, or death. Peaceful life was swaying around Chris, and for a moment, he didn’t know what to do with its' presence.
He watched in awe as a group moved in formation in what looked like a military tattoo, moving in intricate poses, moving with precise skill their spears and shields. The tribesmen that sat cheered, some in similar dress, some in more western clothing - mostly younger members - while he saw some others tending to the feast tables nearby. It looked like the whole village population was present. Women walked past laughing with each other, with brighter, more contrasting yet complementary colors, and intricately beaded collars that had lines of red and white beading travel down topless dark skin, the beading catching the light as each moved, while long flowing skirts full of rich browns dusted the ground.
“We walked into something, huh?” he asked, a part of him grateful. One place he arrives at, and the people are still alive. It’s a rarity for this; the BSAA usually show up, wandering into places already a mess, ruined by bioterror. It just feels strange; he was unsure what to do with himself now in this world outside of the fight.
“Yeah. This is a match making festival. Ndipaya tradition has it so after the village warriors come back from a hunt or war that they show off their skill to impress available women. Though these days they do less warring, but a whole lot of pagentry.”
“A lot of work to me for a date,” Chris grouses.
“Not a guy for fancy overtures?” He can hear the smile in Sheva's voice.
“Just like to keep things simple, I guess. Give some nice roses, a necklace, have a quiet date out at the movies. Small stuff.” Chris just wasn’t the guy who needed a lot, and wasn’t into dates who needed to look or live like they were rock stars. Just a down-to-earth girl would be enough.
Just seeing her smile was enough for him. And then she was gone. Because he didn’t try when it mattered.
“Surprised you aren’t one to do laser tag or go to a gun range with how you handle weapons.”
Chris pulled himself back from the pit that loomed in his mind, focusing on at least being present. Sheva deserved at least that. “I’m that much of a gun nut to you?”
Sheva grins at Chris, then nods at the tribesmen before replying, “I see it like this: you and the men out there aren’t that different; you both seem to fight for who you care about and aren’t shy about showing it.”
“Hmm.” Chris mulls over this as the men move in a coordinated formation, thrusting their spears out forward as the drummers to the far side of the gathering space swelled in cadence to each man’s movements. Each warrior grunted out a war chant, faces twisted for moments into a war snarl as they demonstrated their fierceness to the tribeswomen. It was visually impressive, and Chris could not help but wonder at the faces he made when he fought so hard, so doggedly hard to face him, to stop Wesker from tearing more people away from Chris, from tearing Jill away and he fell so short at stopping anything the blond demon of a mad man did, and then she countered, charging forward, face full of determination - Jill wore a battle snarl too as she would be damned to let Wesker win - pushing Wesker from him, shoving that bastard away in the greatest show of sacrificial care anyone has ever shown Chris to fall and die, to fall and not die, to fall -
And he shifts, the haze of panic filling him, then stopping short as Chris swore he saw something move too quickly out of the corner of his eye. The drums make the ground under them subtly shift with their beat, a dueling heartbeat that followed as Chris shifted to see where that visual movement went. The soft hand of Sheva tapping him on the shoulder had him faintly twitch, a muscle movement away from running to find the phantom he swore he saw with the corner of his eye.
In Sheva’s brown eyes, he could see the glances of familiarity, of joy, of home until she looked to check in on him. They held in them a wordless worry that was held back; she always gave him the space to respond, but a sliver of concern was there, contrasting with the warm smile she held. “You know,” she begins, “I feared I’d forget everything. Being gone so long. But I remember everything. Even the sounds, the smells, the ways people look at each other. Keeps me going, even if it’s just for a minute.”
Chris walks near Sheva and places his own hand gently on her shoulder. He feels there the faintness of longing; of people no longer here for her, and he breathes with her, breathes relief as she knows loss, too.
“Basking in the fact that people are still living and thriving helps, you know.” Her voice is soft as she said this, and Chris nodded, letting the festivities swirl around him, letting life show that he can defend it, that it still existed-
And then a glint of the sun faintly beams across his eyes; a reflection of deep pinkish-red from the far distance catches his attention. Chris sees and trails where that faint pink originated to lock eyes with a mask of death. The lenses were of a deep blood red. The twin mirrors to the world sat in a mask that resembled a bird, a carrion bird that was onyx black, covered by a coat in a dark midnight fatigue pattern, whose cape bottom had the barest hint of dark heeled boots. The figure stood, nearly in full shadow, watching.
It was as if he caught a glance of Death, lithe and still staring at him; Death was catching him unawares.
Chris feels like he should run, but is stopped by the hand of Sheva, asking, “What’s wrong pard’na?” The drumming starts louder and louder, and the laughter around him is loud and clear, and he glances away for a second, then back.
And the figure is gone.
Gone, gone as gone as Jill running, sprinting towards him, her boots click-clacking, his breathing racing as she pushes him off to save-
“Chris! Where are you going-!” He was moving, walking, running on auto pilot, and Chris couldn't make himself stop.
“I saw them! I saw that person with Irving, I know it!”
“Are you sure?” Sheva yells over the celebrating but follows Chris anyway, parting through the crowds, knowing by now he doesn’t ponder, he runs, he runs for her, he runs, he dodges, trying to avoid a fist from Wesker poised to kill with one hit, and Chris dodges by a miracle to find them
gone.
His eyes shift, looking frantically over thatch houses and people, running across the thin bridges that dotted the land, and Chris, for a moment, asks himself, am I out of it? I swore I saw them! I-
“...Seeds left.” A soft, faint monotone with a hint of familiarity drifted from a building next to him, yet too far, that had Chris twist further into the village, chasing the voice he knew he heard. He and Sheva arrives to the back of a round hut, and the two stumble upon a tribesman. He looks to have fallen over in a drunken stupor, his face covered in an ornate warrior mask. The owner of the voice he swore Chris had heard faintly of the person in black with the haunting bird mask, was nowhere to be seen. Chris feels stupid; he swore he saw them, heard them! But while he was here, he reached forward, gripping the fallen man from the ground. He was breathing, yet silent. Maybe drunk? Bit too early to do so, Chris thought. Sheva grabbed the man’s other arm, easing the stumbling man up from the ground. “You okay?” was calmly asked by Sheva, getting the same idea as him. Nothing but drunken happiness was found here.
He looks to her, and the woman nods with a soft smile on her face. She doesn’t acknowledge his dead sprint, just helps Chris lift up this man back to the festivities with them. The man began to walk with them, breathing heavily, but was silent. Sheva had even asked the stumbling man in words Chris didn’t follow assumingly to check in with him, but the man stayed verbally silent. As the two walked back towards the main staging area, the man in tow let out a low snarl emanating from his mask, muffled yet there.
With instincts honed by hours, years of fighting, Chris let the man go, shoving him far from the two of them. The man fell in a heap, eyes looking up at them through the ornate art that covered his face, both eyes gleaming with animal blankness. Sounds of faint muttering, of Swahili in varied levels of shock, worry, and anger fill the air as people gather around them. This looks bad. He didn’t mean to do that, Chris thinks. As he tries sheepishly to pull his calloused hands away from the still growling man - don’t they hear him? - a gunshot rings too near Chris. Sheva had shot towards the sky, her stance tense as the emergent crowd backed away.
Sheva too sensed the oddness now.
Words gummed up in his throat as he didn’t want to scare these people, but something isn’t right-
A tribesman in full regalia nearby some market stalls started to choke, then vomit through their ritual mask, ichor coating the intricate trinkets that covered their body. The guy that Chris out of instinct recoiled and shoved away from himself had stood back up, standing for a moment there like a statue before he rushed at Chris, nothing but snarls, before the reach of weaponized fingers tried for his face.
The crowd that had begun to gather in anger was now backing away from them, the precious moments before knowing panic set in informing the crowd's movements. Another shot rang in the air as Sheva drew first blood, horror clear in her eyes. The man who rushed at Chris took the bullet. The man’s body sways awkwardly, head snapping sharply backwards, filmy old blood drooling down his chin – and then the mask tore in half as the face broke through it, no, ripped it open as the familiar horrors the pair had fled from made its' presence known here too.
Terror lived here now.
The dam broke, and screams began to fill the air. Sheva, to her credit, gathered herself a half second faster than Chris, shooting off one festival goer in full dress off their fellow drummer, their lips and mask obliterated by the large yawning petals of the parasitic creature that erupted from, then puppeteered them. Chris could only shoot, watching and hoping that those he shot were mentally long gone from infection, not still the people that moments ago were living and thriving.
Some tribesmen tried to fight back, but their strength could not counter that of their infected brethren. The number of red-eyed infected rose, some greeting them with the sway of tendrils and sharp chitin. The festival’s music had long stopped, the ground shaking not from drums but instead with the thump of bodies dropping. The body count was going to fill out the land if they didn’t contain this, soon.
And all Chris could do was shoot, hoping the two Agents could save someone, anyone this time. This time, Chris has to; he has to defy death this time.
+
The masked woman watched the chaos unfold, stance low to the ground, out of sight in the dip of an overhanging bridge. Her eyes blankly stared forward, her view tinged in red. She had done what she was sent for and hoped her masters were sated this time with her effort. The hyenas would be pleased with the well executed distraction.
Prove them wrong, Chris. Prove that you can pull through this. Can end this. End me.