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This was Hell. He was certain of it.
Lieutenant Robert Cross wasn’t the type to be easily phased, but even the sturdiest of souls couldn’t be unphased by what he’d seen. Wild animals, roaming the underground bunker of Springfield--and tearing his men to shreds. Birds, tigers, wolves, everything under the sun. The blood of his men soaked his uniform, stained his boots, their mangled bodies burned into his mind. It was only him and Adams left, now: his second in command. They had to blow Springfield apart. If any of these fucking abominations got out...
A wolf threw itself at him, claws and teeth tearing into his already wounded arm. He snarled right back at it, pulling his combat knife from his belt and digging it into fur and flesh. The wolf didn’t cease its attack until its back had become nothing but shredded skin, matching the arm it’d been tearing into as it finally slumped to the ground. He put his knife away, only to put a bullet in its skull. The charges were ready.
“We need to move, now--” He twisted on his heel, but it was too late. A lion leapt from the shadows, a flash of teeth and a blur of fur as it ignored Cross in his entirety. It threw Adams into the nearest wall, a sickening crack resounding through the stale air. Adams, known for his sharp wit and ability to keep up the team’s morale, let out a blood curdling scream as the lion sunk its teeth into his chest. Cross rushed over, firing bullet after bullet into the beast’s pelt, but it wasn’t phased. Why wasn’t it phased? Why wouldn’t it stop?
A hand locked around his ankle. Cross watched in horror as Adams’ half-disemboweled form clung onto him, blood pooling beneath them both as the lion finally raised its massive head. Amber eyes fixated on Cross, a fresh meal; he didn’t have to look at it to know he was its next target. It let out a low growl; Adams let out one final plea.
“HELP ME!”
The lion lunged.
__________________
Cross clamored out of bed, gripping a knife and looking around the dark room with an uncharacteristically wild look in his eyes. Something moved in the dark, and he threw himself at it with a snarl, the blade inches from the offender’s throat when a hand locked around his wrist and forced him to a halt. He made to grab at them with his left arm--only to abruptly remember his prosthetic was across the room. Fuck. He started to pull away, but they forced him against the wall like he was nothing, one hand firmly on his shoulder while the other continued stopping his blade. They said nothing, but the way their icy eyes gleamed in the dark made something click in the back of his mind. Slowly, he released his grip on the knife; it clattered to the ground between them, and the intruder promptly kicked it under the bed.
“Mercer.” Alex’s grip loosened, head tilted upward in recognition. Cross immediately broke free of him, putting a good few feet between them with a scowl. Right. It was 2008, not 1998. He wasn’t in Springfield. He was in a New York apartment, tucked away from the Red Zones; Blackwatch thought he was dead. After a moment, he narrowed his eyes, glancing the virus over as he adjusted to the dark. Above all else, though, he had one question.
“...Why the fuck are you in my house?”
“Heard you screaming.” Alex furrowed his brow, though when his attempt to rest a hand on Cross’ shoulder was met with a sharp glare, he let it fall to his side. He wasn’t even bothered by the attempt to slit his throat--Cross forgot how resilient the bastard was. “Are you okay?”
“Am I-...” The specialist sighed, rubbing his eyes. He did not have the energy to deal with this right now. “It was just a nightmare. Not an excuse for breaking and entering, either.”
“I know what it was.” He retorted, almost audibly offended by the implication that he didn’t. “I wanna know how you are.”
“I’m tired. Can you leave now?”
Rather than answer verbally, Alex merely took a seat on the floor, his piercing gaze still fixated on Cross. That was a no, then. He slunk to the ground not long after Alex, back against the bed as he stared blankly up at the ceiling. One of them would get bored eventually--that, he was sure of. Alex would leave, or Cross himself would accept his fate and get ready for the day. It was only a matter of time.
The silence hung between them for a good, long moment. When he heard the floorboards creak with Alex’s shifting weight, he figured he knew what Alex was doing. Leaving him all the more surprised when Alex sat beside him, brows creased even as he put his focus on the ground. He prodded at it idly, running a pale finger along the divide between the wood panels.
“...What was it about?” He spoke quieter than usual--an impressive feat, really. “The nightmare.”
“You’re really doing this, aren’t you.” Cross scoffed, but his features soon darkened; even naturally stoic, there was something especially sullen in his face. “...It was nothing, Mercer. I mean it. Just an old mission.”
“Springfield?” Cross inhaled sharply despite himself, digging his fingers into his leg. Alex ducked into his hood, turning his head away entirely. “...Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Even so, he swallowed hard, the unease grating on him. He should have been over it. It was so long ago. “Whose memory did you get that one from?”
Alex grimaced, the gesture emphasized by a few tendrils thrashing off his back. “Randall.”
“Eugh.” A simple response, but it summarized both their feelings on the deceased general well enough. Cross avoided that topic like the plague--what with his former profession. After a pause, though, he finally answered the virus’ question, shifting his shoulder idly. “...Yeah. It was Springfield. But what else is new.”
Alex finally looked at him directly, reaching for Cross’ shoulder yet again. This time, Cross didn’t pull away. Soon, both of Alex’s arms were around him, and he was trapped in a stiff but plenty sincere embrace. It wasn’t comfortable by any means--kind of like being hugged by a brick wall. At the same time, it was pleasant. Pleasant, and not something he’d felt in a long time. He didn’t return the embrace, but Alex didn’t seem to care, only tugging him closer.
“You don’t gotta deal with this shit alone, y’know.” Alex mumbled. “The rest of us are here for you. Me, Dana, Ragland. Even if Dana calls you an asshole.”
A small frown flicked onto Cross’ scarred features.
“I’ve killed Walkers that smell better than you.”
Alex pulled away immediately, scowling. “I’m tryin’ to be nice, asshole.”
“And now you see why Dana calls me that.” A pause. "...Thanks.”
“Yeah, well, don’t expect anything like it again if you’re gonna be a piece of shit.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, still glaring--though the look hardly had the same effect it might've before. And with a few creaks of the floorboard and a closing door, Alex was gone, off to check on another one of his allies. Cross stayed on the floor even after he left, arm wrapped around himself. The rest of us are here for you.
He shook his head, smiling despite himself. Stubborn pain in the ass.