Chapter Text
She's not sure where she is. She knows how she got to where she is, physically in the space- she can remember picking the locks, but the why, the where she came from and more alarmingly the who are all a glowing white empty in a head that feels like glass. She's someone who can pick locks, seems like an important thing to note. Someone who can do so with one terribly hurt shoulder says something too, but as the panicked confusion grows she's realizing she doesn't know anything about her own identity and the gaping maw of what that might mean is terrifying.
Why she's injured breaking into someone's first floor apartment almost completely out of breath after clearly running from something is as missing as the rest. All she'd like to do right now is sit down and cry like a child. She doesn't really know what kind of person she is but she'd like to think that she might be level headed enough to figure this out calmly.
A quick check of the small apartment shows a kitchenette that's clean and looks moderately well used, well worn couch with a rather clunky outdated television and a hallway leading to presumably a bedroom. It's sparse to say the least; this stranger providing little in the way of decorating has left the place feeling half lived in. Above the fake fireplace on a thin mantle there's a picture in a small wooden frame, and hey, it might give the slightest bit of insight into the owner and why she came here so she'll take it.
In it, a pretty woman with reddish brown hair is smiling up at a dark haired man. The woman is mid-laugh and it lights up her face in a way that makes people want to smile with her, while the man is more subdued, looking down at her with a smaller smile. He's military, or some equivalent- the blurry chain around his neck look like dog tags and he's built like a tank, which adds substance to the hunch that he's served. Touching the glass on the frame, she grimaces in frustration. These people, strangers maybe, feel like they should be someone to her but no names come up when she looks at them. Well, she has no name for herself currently either so she shouldn't be too surprised.
She sets down the picture and moves on. Maybe a mirror . It has to help. It has to. And if she's telling herself lies to cope she's not going to fight it.
The ache in her shoulder is growing steadily more poignant as she feels her way down the wall for the light switch. It's a demanding sort of pain but it feels as if part of herself is compartmentalizing it, like a routinely practiced response to pain. It only adds to her fear and curiosity of who the hell she is. The bathroom light flickers on as the attached fan roars to life. It’s uncomfortably loud but she ignores it, bracing herself to face her reflection.
As far as reflections go she doesn't feel as if it'd be vain to say the person in the mirror is pretty. Late twenties, maybe early thirties with big, pale blue eyes shadowed by prominent yet delicate bone structure. Her hair is a too-pale shade of blonde and in her quickly forming opinion- not her color, which surprises her. Why it shouldn't be that color she can’t say, but it makes her uneasy to see the pale color there around her shoulders. The rest of her is as much as it feels: lightly muscular, a little too thin, and not incredibly tall, but she can see an assuredness in her stance that makes her feel confident in her own fairly unknown abilities. Unfortunately facing her reflection didn’t spark anything in her like she’d hoped it would. She looks like she's been on the run, as she’d felt, but from what or who is unclear. Upon further inspection she's surprised to find that she might be military, or something along those lines based on the simple uniform-like clothing. The pale fabric of her shirt is dirty like she’s rolled around in mud and grass.
Okay. There's at least some things I know, compile them, and figure this out. Who ARE you?!
I can pick locks.
I might be some sort of trained officer.
I came here, to another officer's house.
I'm injured.
I must have come here to seek help.
There's no more time to ponder on it though because apparently this apartment isn't empty; there's the barking of what sounds to be a not-so-small dog coming from the one bedroom. The low echoing bark mixed with the droning of the fan and bright overhead light is doing something to her. Suddenly thinking begins to feel like trudging through thick mud or snow and the sensation numbs the rest of her body. Outside of almost needle-like pain in the center of her chest, she can feel nothing but the thrumming in her ears. Clasping her hands over them, she stumbles out of the tiny bathroom. She can come back later if it's really so important-
Her nose hits canvas first and the rest of her collides with a wall of mass before she can stop her own momentum. She would gasp, but the cold press of rounded metal to her temple stops her breath and she freezes so completely it might be that she's also turned to metal. She can't look up- can't focus: the fan, the barking, someone's heavy breathing, is building and she is riding that build up and away from herself. She can’t breathe, the air in her lungs a sharp pressure, it's unbearable, it has to stop , until she feels the sensation of falling and then nothing else.
-
"Jill."
Something is moving her face.
Ah, there's her face.
The feeling of weightlessness is fading and finding her way back to her body is becoming easier and easier. What's moving her face is a hand, a big hand with a calloused palm and fingertips that smell of an oil that she must know the name of, but like a lot of things it currently escapes her. The hand is gentle though, despite the callouses, and warm. Not something to be frightened by, to be sure. She could almost smile.
The rest of her doesn't come to so peacefully though, the ache in her shoulder has developed firmly into a throb and no longer able to be ignored, especially as her arms seem to be suspended above her, and the wrists sure feel like they're restrained, so no more gentle hands on her face to enjoy. She needs to be awake and aware now.
Her eyes fly open and roll wildly, trying to focus as her breath accelerates to accommodate the rush of fight or flight coursing through her. When they do focus, the man from the photograph is in front of her in an easy crouch and everything about him is screaming dangerous. A thick green kevlar vest over a short sleeved white shirt, a silver chain glinting at the neck. Attached to the vest is an obscene amount of ammunition (to which if she were less panicked she'd be puzzled to know she knew the names of), a large knife in a holster next to an equally alarming gun holstered on his left hip and an intimidating handgun held loosely in his right hand. If she were a little saner, or at least thinking clearer she wouldn't try it, but with all the disoriented thoughts jumbling chaotically in her head she tries something stupid. To kick him in the face.
He blocks it with disheartening speed, knocking away her ankle as easily as someone swats a fly. To add to panic, disorientation, and now slight embarrassment, the movement has tugged on her shoulder hard. Hard enough to bring tears to her eyes and a gasp of pain as it rips up her left arm with enough intensity to cause her to pull herself as close to fetal as she can get. Biting back sobs, she almost misses his next words.
"Jill? Jill Valentine? Can you understand me?" His voice is deep, almost a low rumble in his chest, as if he isn’t used to talking in a lower volume. There’s something behind his words she can’t place, but the words themselves make no sense. Clearly he thinks her name is Jill Valentine, and he knows her, but why would he think she doesn’t understand him?
"Jill, it's me, Chris Redfield. We were…. partners. Do you know where you are?" There is something behind his words: pain. Deep enough that it seems as if he can barely contain it, the word ' partners' having a weight all it's own. It resonates with her in a confusing way.
"No." The word escapes as a hiss from her throat and she feels a flicker of surprise at her own voice. To her, it sounds desperate, like a kitten that hisses at you even though it's shaking, and if she were being honest that's completely how she feels. Scared, vulnerable and confused. His face pulls on an expression that feels like a mask, features hardening into false neutrality at the sound of her voice. Hiding something.
Chris Redfield. Jill Valentine. Redfield. Chris…
The names swirl together in a strange pattern. They sound right. They sound right together, even stranger. The hint of something she should know to her core flickers at the back of her consciousness, frustrating in it's intangibility. The ghost of a feeling lingering.
It feels like a bad idea to show weakness in the current situation, but the feeling of wanting to cry like a toddler lost in a grocery store has come back, more demanding than before.
" Who am I ?" The tears threatening to spill do so at her admittance, the broken whisper feeling too loud. She struggles to wipe her eyes on her right arm, trying not to jostle the left. The tears won't stop though, and the tears turn to sobs and she can't catch her breath, chest heaving irregularly with hiccupping sobs. She hears the sound of him swallowing, a thick sound followed by him clearing his throat. A moment passes, then two as she tries and fails to contain herself. Rustling fabric and the shift of his presence into her space pulls her attention but has a hard time keeping it. The tears just keep coming. She flinches at the hand that comes towards her face again, watches it pause before continuing its trajectory towards wiping the tears from her cheek. It's incredibly gentle for someone his size, making her wonder again in a distant sort of way who he is, and who she is to him.
"I-" A cough, clearing his throat again. "I'd like to un-cuff you, but I want to make sure you won't attack me again. I really don't want to hurt you." She meets his hard stare with a bewildered one of her own, blinking rapidly to clear the tears still coming. Attack him? Again? Who would be stupid enough to try? Well, she grimaces internally, she was- but that was only one kick, surely not enough to ever pose an actual threat to him. Regardless, she wasn't about to try that again. Shaking her head slightly, she finds her voice again to choke out:
"I? I won't- I don't- I?" A jumbled mess of half questions, too many to ask, too many unknowns. She tries again, "I don't know what you mean." The hiccups are subsiding and she's grateful to feel that she might stop crying soon.
His dark eyebrows furrow, forming a crease in his mask as he considers her. He's thinking something, but what- she can't read. He stands and tips his head to the side to gesture towards a bedside table. She realizes with a start that she's in the bedroom, registering it way too late. Taking in the scratchy carpet under her and the cold metal of the bed frame against her back it takes a second to understand what it is he wants her to see on the low table. He watches her face intently as she processes a knife laid neatly out on it, still messy with a red stain. She recoils, realizing that it's blood and looks back to him with wide eyes scanning as fast as they can.
High up on his right bicep, almost covered by his shirt sleeve, is a neatly placed white bandage.
"You… you think I did that?" She just passed out when she ran into him in the hall, that's it . She can't have done that, she was unconscious and sure of it. She didn't even have a knife, she thinks, this must be a trick. With what goal, she doesn't know, and the not knowing sends a jolt of fear shooting through her again. She's alone, injured, and half his size, completely at his mercy. She tries not to let the terror show on her face but one glance at his, she knows she's failed. The mask slips slightly again, his eyes narrowing in what she thinks is concern, with a hint of contemplation.
He opens his mouth to say something, pauses, then closes it again, the searching look on his face stopping him from whatever he was going to say. He's about to try again when a scratching at the closed door accompanied by a low whine interrupts him. He glances at the door and the reprieve from his eyes is instant and soothing. Short lived though as he quickly glances back at her and sighs, digging into a deep pocket. He crouches again and ignores her cowering with only a small frown. Gently, again, with almost tenderness he uncuffs her left hand and, holding it by the wrist, lowers her arm slowly down against her chest. She holds it there protecting it from further harm, watching warily as he clicks the lock on the other wrist and let's it go.
Task done, he slides cuffs and key into that same pocket, striding over to the table to collect the knife. He approaches the door without looking at her. Murmuring something under his breath to the door, he opens it carefully, using his knees to corral a dog's face that is trying to worm into the room. Her earlier intuition was right, it is a big dog. A very big dog. The German shepherd shoves uselessly at the man's- Chris' legs, trying to get closer to her in the small space.
"-purnia, no. " His voice, quiet enough for her to miss the first syllable but not the fondness in it as he takes the dog's collar in hand to hoist it out of the room. Giving her one more long, searching look before dropping his eyes with a rough "I'll be back soon'" tossed her way, Chris Redfield leaves.