(no subject)
Chris Redfield could remember a time when going out to the bar on a Friday night was fun; not well, but he could remember it. And he was doing exactly that, as he sat at the bar of a… well… they called it a pub, but it was a bar. And… he was Irish? Wasn’t he? Well, close enough, with the last name and all.
Focusing back, Chris recalled the last time he had a legitimately good time at a bar (or pub), without the weight of death and conspiracy weighing down all the humor and fun that could have possibly been had. It’d been only a couple of days before that… night. If he recalled correctly, Forest, Frosty and he had devised a brilliant plan to TP Barry Burton’s house, for dismissing himself from going with them to go home with his family. Absolutely understandable, but it was a comedic act amongst comrades that had Barry hauling Forest and Joseph back to his house to clean it up (Chris convinced Kevin Ryman to cover for him as he escaped into the Officers’ Locker Room).
It was good, fond times, all that. Long passed. Something Chris was still bitter for. His friends and comrades were torn apart from his life, both literally and metaphorically, and that wasn’t to mention his sister. Claire…
Claire had suffered. He could tell. Redfields had the notorious “gift” of crowding away their feelings for what was “more important”. But what a Redfield did, a Redfield knew, and he knew his sister better than she probably would have liked. He was appreciative for her supportive relationship with Kennedy, it reminded him of his own with Jill, but there was only so much a supportive relationship could give without the will to talk about the things stirring inside.
Not that Chris had absolutely any room to judge on that. That’s why he was sitting there that night, working on his fifth mug of beer in something of two hours? Well, he hoped two hours. He held it well enough, but it made him appreciative of not owning a car.
But, even that was spoiled for him by his very own thoughts, and he was soon pushing from the bar, grabbing for his jacket numbly. The bartender gave a wave, as they had exchanged several friendly words every night Chris visited that establishment, and turned back to her duties, and Chris continued to slowly walk himself out, still fumbling to get that damnable jacket on. So gone, and so busy with that jacket, Chris blindly stepped out into the dark alley that served as the pub’s entrance, and wobbled his way for the street. He didn’t live too far away, and at least that was something he was coherent enough to remember. In fact, all he had to do was cross the street, walk left, down a couple of blocks and he’d be at the shabby building that housed his little studio apartment.
Unfortunately, Chris wasn’t coherent enough to remember that it was always wise to look both ways before crossing the street.
He couldn’t even get out a profane word, as a chrome bumper slammed into his left leg, a hideous snap emitting from it cuing excruciating pain. Of course, that was only the beginning, as it had spun him enough to cause him to slam against the hood on his back, several cracks popping through his back, as discs along his spinal cord snapped from the pressure. His head hauled off and crashed against the metal of the vehicle that struck him, the pain from the blow causing his sight to turn to red and black, while his hearing seemed to flood with blood. Tires screeched, muffled in his ears, as the car jolted to a stop, but Chris just kept moving, until the last thing he saw was the asphalt of the street coming towards his face.
It had all been like a consecutive bad dream. From the car, to his waking up in a bloodied, tattered version of his childhood home, all up to following the shadow that was far too similar to his baby sister. That shadow, which led him to those five bizarre doors; and… the goading voice of Jill, of all people, trying to get him to go through the doors, after trying to get him to pick items, of any sort, to take with him, and then to “pick a door, Chris”.
None of it made sense, and she dodged every question he asked, so he had refused. And thus, there the casually dressed man was, sitting there, in a harbor of all places. His eyes were wide, as he’d regained himself right on the edge of a pier. On one side, the wood that held him there continued on out, past dismal shells of rickety boats, and to the mainland where shadows of buildings stood, dark in the moonless, foggy night. On the other side, endless black water, with that same, thick fog rolling over it. He’d dared a glance down into the water at one point, only to find himself recoiling at the sight of something moving, just under the surface.
Beside him, Chris saw four items laid out, straight and deliberate. His lighter, the one he gave to his sister long ago; his survival knife, which had never failed him; his jacket, the same fucking one he’d been trying to put on when he got smacked with that car; and, finally, a locket. That was the most puzzling piece, since he obviously didn’t wear jewelry himself. And more bizarrely, anytime he’d try to pry it open, to glance inside, even with the help of his knife, the locket wouldn’t budge. And yet, when he just let it hang free, it seemed almost loose in its clasp. It was so… weird.
Slipping on the jacket, Chris place the locket safely inside an internal, zipping pouch, and the lighter was put in an external pouch for easy access. The knife was slipped under his jacket sleeve, carefully, and grasped by his fingers loosely. Just in case.
The boats were impossible. It’d take a lot of work to make any of them seaworthy, he decided, as he walked with quiet, trained steps along the pier, to reach land. His father had been a big sailor, so Chris knew quite a bit about what a boat or vessel needed to float right. Besides, there was something out there in the water, and Chris had been involved enough with monsters and creatures to know better than to go in without understanding what that was, and more importantly: how to kill it.
He continued along, cursing himself as he went. For all he knew, this was just a coma-induced dream, and if he hadn’t been such an oblivious jackass, he wouldn’t be stuck there in the first place.