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The world was coming to an end, and there was no hope in sight.
Edonia had been in a state of civil war for two years, but all hopes of peace were shattered on Christmas Eve, 2012 when what was a rebellion between the dysfunctional state and the liberation army turned into a nightmare. New, infected rebels never seen before now filled the street with brutality and horror. There was no refuge, there was no hope. The BSAA operative team that got sent in to save the day was reportedly all killed in action, their leader was gone, their operatives turned to monsters. Small squads of peacekeeping operatives came after that, but they did little to help the locals except guard a few key areas. Mostly operatives were roaming on 2 or 4 man teams on intel missions. Nobody ever knew what they were looking for, or what they were going to do, or how they were going to help. Town after town had fallen to disarray between the fighting, the looting and the threat of the abominations known as J’avo. For a civilian in Edonia, life has become hell on Earth.
In the heart of winter, there was a curious man roaming the tired windy streets of a town called Eskavar. The locals called him The Outsider. He was a very peculiar man, a man who was at once gentle and monstrous, formal and crude, strong and fragile. Nobody knew where he came from, and his presence was only noted since that fateful night when the liberation army rampaged and shattered the peace of the town forever. It was a wild night of shooting, looting and pillaging, leaving the otherwise peaceful community mourning and broken in its wake.
It was shortly after dusk when the first rebels arrived, signalling their entry with a hail of gunfire. They helped themselves to whatever they could. Food, supplies, riches, women. Those found resisting were shot without question, and casualties mounted among the civilians and officers. Screams of terror echoed through the street against a disillusioned backdrop of bullet spray, roaming boots, shattered glass and cries of the young. The Outsider was one of the few caught on the street, a calm anomaly set amidst a scene of chaos. His footsteps were steady, his face was gaunt. Maybe he had seen too much tragedy and death. Maybe he had nothing else to live for. His eyes were the eyes of the reaper. His soul was the dead of the night. The rebels ran at his sight, and the civilians kept their wide berth.
The Outsider found himself at an alley, hearing a woman cry in anguish and the sobbing of a child. He saw a body in the corner, and the taunts and sniggerings of a small group of rebels. The Outsider was walking on, his heart already numb from losses all around. The rebels were relieved, pausing only to let him pass before resuming to tease the abandoned widow. She let out a scream, tying so desperately to dash towards her only hope as a rebel held on to her scarf and pulled her to the ground. She closed her eyes in fear, thinking that all was lost until she heard the sounds of bodies hitting the ground.
She looked up and found herself in the shadow of The Outsider.
He didn’t know why he had chosen to act. All he knew was that a bolt of lightning had struck through the otherwise blank and numb canvas of his mind. Before he knew what he did the four armed rebels were knocked cold and bleeding onto the ground.
He studied the scene, seeking to find the trigger for the illusive flash. She wasn’t all that young, nor was she particularly pretty, yet there was something about her. She shuddered in the night wind as it caught her hair which is flying in the wind. Her hair was kept wrapped in a green shawl, but it was now loosened from the struggle and fluttered in the chilly air. Yes, that was it. The rebel breathed his last when he was pulling on the scarf, and as it danced helplessly in the wind it had caused a ripple of familiarity to stir through The Outsider’s heart. He reached out a hand to help the widow up. He watched her in silence as she placed the scarf around herself again to ward off the deathly winter chill, and as he watched, the first spark of warmth had returned to his long hollow, empty pupils.
She called for her boy, and a small boy came running from the bin where he hid. The boy was young, he couldn’t have been more than 12 or 13, but at his sight The Outsider felt again a jolt through his mind. He studied the boy, looking over his dark brown hair, thin statue and uncertain eyes but found nothing. He reached out to scratch the boy’s hair when he felt the little spike of the bangs on his forehead. His mind flashed again. There was something about the hair.
He stayed with that family since, helping them rebuild somewhat from their own heavy losses and grief. He still didn’t know where he was from, or where he was going, but for now, he had a purpose, and for the longest time in a while, something that felt like a home.
“What is your name?” It wasn’t easy to learn the local language. The Outsider sure as hell knew he wasn’t from around here. According to the locals he spoke American English, but he had no recollection of who he was. They gave him an old American newspaper. He glossed over the pages but found nothing of interest. He scanned the names as if to evoke a memory but his mind drew blanks. He decided to just pick something to call himself. He saw a name. Justin. There was something about that name, that sound that was oddly familiar. A syllable perhaps, or a tone. Justin. JUS-tin, Jus-TIN. It will have to do.
“My name is Justin.” A name. That’s all he’s got for now. The Outsider became one of them, a man who called himself Justin.
“My name is Maria, and this is Daniel.” Justin again ran his fingers through the hair of Daniel. Maria offered him a small room downstairs, and that’s where he had stayed.
“Good morning, Justin.” Maria set two mugs down to the breakfast table, instantly filling the room with the bitter but alluring smell of hot coffee. Justin had forgotten what coffee was, but at his first sip he felt revitalised from the bitter beverage. He had always had his coffee black, relishing in the sharp kick, but he watched with interest as Maria slowly added milk to cover half her coffee. He stared as in a trance, watching the deep brown liquid turn to a sweet and alluring creamy caramel brown. She called her drink a latte.
Latte. He felt as he watch the creamy liquid swirl that he knew of someone who also drank latte. The warm earthy colour conjured memories of an American farming landscape, of fields of golden wheat, of ranches, of light brown stalks bending in the wind, of soft strands of latte brown with crowning spikes. Strands that he had often ran his finger through. Was he a farmer? Did he use to harvest wheat with his fingers? He added milk and sugar in his own coffee and dipped his finger in curiosity, hoping to capture the texture and the colour but came back empty except for the warmth. It was the colour, the warmth, and strands of something of that colour that he often ran his fingers through. That’s all he’s got. A name and a colour.
From then on his morning coffee is no longer the stout bitter coffee, but a sweet warm latte, and Maria was the only one in all of Eskavar who witnessed Justin’s gentleness every morning when he sat and sipped his morning latte in a dreamy trance, as if it was his life’s own sweetest, revitalising memory.
“Did you have a family? Anyone you used to know?”
Justin was always terrified of that question. He didn’t know. Surely nobody has been looking for him, or maybe he was looking for them and they got separated in the chaos. He couldn’t remember if he was loved. He couldn’t remember if there was someone in his heart. It tore him to pieces trying to figure out if there was someone important to him, if he was important to somebody. He wished he had company, but considered himself unworthy of love. A part of him was mad that nobody else cared. What did he do to get himself abandoned? If it wasn’t for Maria and Daniel he would have been be a stranger to the world, and the world would have been a stranger to him.
Was there somebody by his side? Did he have a partner? Did he matter to somebody? Did someone used to call him at night and hold him close? Did someone call him Justin? He felt there must be. Justin always sounded so familiar. He couldn’t put a finger on it, but it…clawed at a patch of tenderness in his heart that he didn’t know he had. Yes. There must have been somebody. Somebody that called his name with admiration and love. Somebody who was in love with his or her Justin.
“Yes, there is somebody. I don’t know who it is, but they call me Justin.”
Daniel was starting to look up to Justin ever since that night he knocked the rebels out cold. Daniel was afraid they would come again and hurt him and mommy. He wanted to be strong, like Justin. He would always ask Justin to teach him how to fight and defend himself. He wanted to be a tall, stout and solid man like Justin was when he grows up so he can keep his mommy safe.
Justin spent his nights as a bouncer at the bar nearby, his stature and ferocity easily quelling any disturbance. Daniel was young but he was enthusiastic, and Justin taught him how to use his agility and statue to his advantage. He’d practice sparring and wrestling and training with him. It was an oddly familiar sensation. He liked sparring and training. He liked teaching the eager boy with the spiky hair. At the end of the sessions Daniel would always run and give him a hug, his dark brown eyes welling to the brim with admiration, respect and longing. It was a look that always made Justin warm and fuzzy. There was something familiar in that look. There must have been someone out there who used to look up to him, to learn from him, to be just as good as he was at whatever he was doing. Somebody with soft hair who sipped latte. Somebody who used to called him Justin. Somebody, who perhaps wore a green shawl around her head and neck to keep out the cold. I wonder if she’s still out there, looking for me, Justin thought.
Justin has a growing cork collection.
He remembered the day when a stray cork flew through the air from the bartender and he caught it by reflex. He studied the projectile and found his mind flash again. There was something about the cork. Was it the smell? The texture? The colour? Or maybe it was a combination. He liked the colour. It went well with green and latte. It was a colour of camouflage and comfort, warm in tone but strong in character. He liked the texture, coarse and rough on the surface, but still soft to the touch. Firm on the inside but with a little bit of a give. It felt like the personality of someone he had known. The leathery texture. The colour.
Whatever it was, Justin has since kept every cork he saw from the bar, hoping with each piece that he could build up a collection to help with his recollection. He wanted to remember. Remember something that shared the pale tan colour and gentle but firm personality and a leathery texture.
He left the bar at the end of the shift, clutching his own green scarf around his neck as he braved the early morning chill for a few more hours’ rest. Perhaps he might dream tonight of someone he once knew, and if nothing else, in a few more hours he could stare in comfort again into his next latte.
Justin knows his guns.
The local guards tried to get Justin to join them on patrols, knowing he would be a good asset and would always cover their backs. Justin declined. He still felt empty and hollow at war and confrontation, but he remembered agreeing when the guards let him take a few shots with their pistols at their range.
Justin’s mind flashed as he felt the familiar touch. He realised his hands had light callouses that fit fairly well around handguns. Maybe he used to fight. Maybe he was a soldier. Maybe he was a mercenary for hire who took whatever job that paid the bills until the unit got wiped out. He was a good shot. He could shoot a can off the end of the range with a split second aim. He liked to shoot, and he hung out at the range during the day, but he doesn’t like to kill. Not anymore.
He remembered the day at the range when he heard the rifles. The muted cry of the bullet echoed at the canvas of his mind. There was something about the cry of a rifle. Of a sniper aiming at the target. He remembered going in a trance watching the young sniper practice, not realising time had passed until the sun was going down. There was something about the concentration, the aiming, the stance, the hunch on the ground, the kick on the shoulder, the eye in the scope. The young man became self-conscious, and let Justin try for himself. Justin found himself a surprisingly gifted marksman. He had no issue hitting anything anywhere, but he still preferred handguns. He absent-mindedly gave the wide eyed sniper some tips about how he found his mark. Somewhere in his mind though, he felt the security of a bond with a sniper. He felt the severed tendrils of a lost partnership.
Perhaps there was a sniper in his mercenary squad, someone who watched his back and gave him cover while he played point man and drew attention. He’d came to see snipers as friends, their echoes and muted shots a greeting from 500 yards away saying I’ve got your back, Justin. Perhaps he was a sniper, that he was the one watching his team’s backs and made sure everybody made it out and that he’d be the first one to put a bullet to any threat he saw.
Maybe there was a sniper he’d known who he trained and sparred with. Who looked up to him with admiration and kept him safe. Maybe she liked to sip latte in the mornings and wear a green scarf around her neck. Yes, that made sense, as he watched the young sniper taking a drink with his black tactical scarf tight around his neck. Maybe she also liked to sip wine in the evenings and had a habit of collecting corks. Maybe she would call him Justin at night and moan his name as they laid and tumbled in passion in the evenings. Maybe they had a young boy, no more than 12 or 13 with spiky hair and equally eager eyes who wanted to grow up and be strong just like daddy. A boy whom he would hug and run his fingers tenderly through his soft hair and hiss on his cheek telling him how proud he was and remind him to be careful and stay safe. A boy who smelled faintly of gun oil and latte. A boy who reminded him of home and what all this fighting was for.
He remembered the day the first mutants headed near the town. They were not mindless in body but were mindless in purpose. He remembered the panic of the guards as their fire and bullets made wounds that did not kill but made them stronger. He remembered dashing to the armoury to help the team bring them down, emptying clip after clip of ammo with precision but with ill effect. It wasn’t until he took over the rifles from the trembling young sniper that the J’avo finally fell and burned to ash. It was a sign. The infected drew near, and life in Eskavar may never be the same again.
Snipers were our friends. They were important to taking out J'avo. He’d taken over as the lead sniper with the guards now. He feels nostalgic every time he took his position. There has been no more J’avo for weeks, but he trained with the guards just the same. It felt good to watch someone else’ back, to keep them safe from fear. Somewhere over the hills and valleys, Justin hoped that his sniper was watching his back, keeping him safe from fear.
Justin made sculptures out of his cork collection. At first it was something he did absent-mindedly while he held the corks and rolled them in his palm trying to conjure up memories. He tried making many things, but in the end he always made sculptures of cork and wire that resemble sniper rifles, lining the corks to showcase the sleek, lean and slender body. A weapon of immense accuracy, concentration and aim. A weapon that in the right hands would always be steady and never miss its target, which covered his allies and laid into the enemies from near or far. That always watched out for him whether he was in its sight or otherwise. He’s the sniper now to cover his team, but as he carved his sculptures he still wondered who his sniper was, who wielded the weapon that kept him safe near and far. What were they doing now? Were they still alive? Were they still sipping latte and brushing their soft hair out of their face? Or were they scanning their surrounds with a scope hoping to see him in their sights?
He gave the sculptures as toys for Daniel to play with. The boy liked guns. He wanted to keep his mommy safe. He wanted to grow up big and strong like Justin, and be just as good a shot as he was in case the town needed him to watch their backs. He would duck behind cover with his rifles of cork and yell bang bang as Justin walked pass. The big man would clutch at his chest, dropping and pretending to take a shot only to tackle the boy as they try to pin each other on the floor in snippets of screaming and laughter. After that he would look up with admiration in his eyes and leave a peck on Justin’s chest, that was as high as he could reach. Justin would run his fingers through the soft dark brown hair and tell him what a great job he did. Yes, this was what he had used to do. To train, look out for and inspire somebody who looked up to him.
He saw one day the biggest group of J’avo encroaching the town. They were drawn here in pursuit of a unit. Of something, someone.
Justin watched a solitary soldier in an unusual tan uniform return fire as the battered Jeep headed for cover and reinforcements at the town. There driver took precise shots with a machine pistol as he swerved and ducked his way to dodge all the bullets he could. He could see through his scope there was a sniper rifle at his side. His heart skipped a beat at the seemingly familiar shape.
Justin was impressed by the skill of the driver and has the pursuers tight in his scope. BANG, BANG. He took two down in quick succession, his explosive rounds causing them to quickly turn to flame. Two more had leapt to the Jeep and seek to corner the driver. The car spun out of control and Justin could not get a clear shot. He held his breath and fired at the one furthest from the driver, managing to sever a limb which was now growing back. The driver had rolled out of the jeep, taking a very rough tumble and Justin managed to place two more shots to take the J’avo down as he and the guards close in to help the man. He was planted face down on the road, passed out from exhaustion or injury.
He was wearing a leather jacket with the same colour his cork sculptures, and as he carried him towards the barracks the texture of his camouflaged vest was eerily similar to the many sculptures Justin had crafted.
Justin and the guards took the visitor to the barracks and gave first aid. He was still out from the impact, but apart from a few cuts and bruises he was otherwise unscathed. Justin felt emotions stir within at the sight of the army green scarf around his neck, and a familiar, evocative smell of gun oil and latte. He reached out a hand to stroke the light latte coloured hair, the tired, messy but spiky strands standing like sheaves of wheat on an American country farm. As his fingertips touched the hair, he felt something tugging at his heart and a searing white pain splitting his skull. The last thing he remembered was the cry of surprise from the troops as he collapsed right next to the one man who had gone through heaven and hell to retrieve the Captain and love of his life.
Justin woke to the concerned gaze of Maria and Daniel, the revitalising smell of brewed coffee and a warm soft light from the windows. His head still felt sore, but as he cupped and studied the warm latte in his hands he felt his strength returning. He got up and strolled into the kitchen to see the form of a young man with latte coloured hair, sitting up straight, silently gazing into his latte with a dreamy look in his eyes. He had cleaned up, but was still in his combat gear, the light tanned shade of cork and camouflage. At the sound he withdrew from his reverie and looked up, the hazel eyes and distinct eyebrows evoking again a brilliant flash in his mind, piercing straight through Justin’s soul.
It pierced his heart and mind too. Justin felt a small part of him had broken open. “Pierced…Pier…ss!” The sound came to him in surprise. The hazel eyes widened and began to tremble with emotion and disbelief. He saw the right arm of the soldier lift, as if he wanted to salute, but he held steady and maintained the gaze, uttering a choked back syllable.
“—ap-tin.” The man called, in a soft, gentle voice filled with concern.
“What did you call me?” The voice and its tone had awakened slivers of flashing memories. He broke the glance when the memories got white hot, and he tried soothing his mind, taking deep breaths as his eyes focused on the green fabric around the soldier’s neck.
“My name is Piers. Piers Nivans.”
“Piers!” That name had struck a chord. It was a name he held dear. Justin kept repeating it, feeling the comfort and familiarity return at the sounds of the name. “Piers.... Piers.... Piers!” He lifted his gaze slowly.
“Captain!” The trained young man could no longer maintain his composure hearing his commander call his name. He stood at once and saluted.
As if that was the last pieces in the jigsaw, memories of the one who never truly left his side came flooding back to The Outsider. It was never Justin. It was Captain. He couldn't recall his name, because he wasn't looking for one. It was not a name, but a rank. Yet it was so much more than a name, and so much more than a rank.
He stared at the confident caramel boots on the ground, the strong lines on the beige pants lined with pockets of gear. The long slender shape of the anti-materiel rifle leaning against the desk, reminiscent of the slender but strong frame of the confident young man. His leathery jacket was the colour of cork, the protective vest with the springy but tough texture. The dark green tactical scarf around the creamy flesh. The firm jawline of determination, the soft full lips of pink, the burning eyes of hazel filled to the brim with emotion and unspoken words, and soft, spiky latte coloured hair that gleaned in the glow of the morning sun. Justin had never thought he would have the gift of two first impressions of the most important man in his life, but in this instant, the two images had melded into one. Justin lifted his palm to his brow from muscle memory and returned the salute.
“Piers.” He just liked how that name rolled off his tongue. He watched the sniper with a softened gaze.
“Captain.” Yes, that voice, that strength, that admiration. The look of pure enthusiasm and joy, of trust and respect. Of a sniper and lieutenant for his Captain, of a man to his partner. This was the sniper that he had been looking for. No, this was the sniper who had found him.
Maria stood at the entrance to the kitchen and watched in silence with tears running down her face as the two men pulled into a tight embrace. She watched as Justin reached out his hand and gently stroked the creamy latte hair, the most gentle and dreamy smile locked on his stubbled face. Her heart felt a glowing warmth as she recognised that Justin had finally been found by the one who had missed him the most.
“We’re bringing you back, Captain, one way or another.” The sniper said with determination.
Justin needed a moment. “Piers,” he called. "I will come with you, but…I’m not the same man I used to be. Maria, and Daniel, the guards, Eskavar…it’s going to be hard leaving them all behind. I don’t know how much use I’ll be on your mission."
“Captain.” The tone was not one of disapproval or complaint, but understanding. How could so much meaning be echoed in one word, one name?
Piers smiled when he saw Daniel come to Chris’ side, clutching his cork rifle and copying the sniper’s stance. He watched with tenderness as he saw his Captain affectionately lifted the child to a hug and run a hand through his spiky hair, just like he’d always done to him.
“I’ll miss you and Maria, Daniel.” Chris was evidently attached to the pair, perhaps more attached to anyone than he had been his entire life outside of Piers and Claire.
“I’m going to grow big and tall like you, Captain Justin, and I’ll be shooting as well as you and Captain Piers. Don't worry, one day I'll be Captain Daniel, and I’ll keep mommy and the town safe.” The boy had a spirited look in his eyes as he was fixed in admiration at Piers in uniform. He took in sight of the patches on his arms and the blue logo that said BSAA. That was going to be his life’s dream.
“The BSAA would love to have a worthy man like you join us when you’re ready, Daniel,” Piers joined the hug, patting the boy gently on his back. He was glad that Daniel was there to comfort Chris when he wasn’t by his side. He knew Chris certainly wouldn’t have been the same man is today if not for the kindness and compassion from Maria and Daniel who were at once provider and outlet. Somebody who loved him, somebody the Captain could love. He rummaged through his pockets until he found a spare combat knife engraved with the BSAA logo, and gave it to the excited boy as a parting gift.
2nd July, 2013
“I’ll miss Eskavar, Piers, and the life that I’d known,” Chris said, as he sat side by side with Piers holding hands in their transport over the Pacific. It had been the craziest 48 hours of his life. From being Justin of Eskavar sniping at a couple of J’avo, to reuniting with his long lost partner, to being Piers’ Captain, being the man known to the world as Chris Redfield and to defending against the greatest threat of bioterrorism the world had ever seen in China. It had been their toughest fight ever against the monstrosity known as HAOS, but with their new found partnership and preparation the team knew that nothing would even get in their way. Piers wasn’t going to lose his Captain, and Chris wasn’t going to ever lose sight of the most important things in his life, always choosing safety over risk, protection over revenge. Their tenacity paid off, and both make it out safe and sound of the underwater facility even as it crumbled and boomed in a burst of flames beneath the sea. It had been one hell of a ride, and for the first time in months, Chris knew who he truly was, and he had finally remembered the man who he had been missing his whole life as their transport headed back to BSAA NA home base.
“I can’t believe it’s been six months, losing all my memory of who I was, what I did, where my future lay. All I had were short fragments of the life I thought I used to know. I thought I was a sniper, or a mercenary, a farmer even. You know, Piers, it wasn’t until you called me ‘Captain’ two days ago that I came to realise that every single fragment that I recovered, the ones that hung deepest in my soul were not memories of my own life, but memories of yours.” He gripped the hand firmly.
“In a way Piers, I’m so thankful that they weren’t my memories of loss, of suffering, of violence and of revenge, but of your hope, your admiration, your warmth, your comradeship, your love of life, of you.
The pieces fell into place and I realised over those months how much that missing person in my memory had meant to me. A sniper who always had my back in every fire fight, near or far. A second who’d always watched over me with radiant hazel eyes that burn with admiration and encouragement. A lover who kept me warm and shielded against the disappointment and bitterness of the world like the scarf around my neck. A soldier who was always gentle on the surface but firm in his character and beliefs. A friend who awakens and warms me up from the bottom of my heart like my morning latte. I had been searching for a long time wondering if it’s all worth fighting for. I thought I had the answers, but it wasn’t until I came to treasure the people in my life like Maria, like Daniel, like the guards and like you that I realise truly that for a future without fear…yeah, it’s worth it. Thank you Piers, for looking out for me, for being here in my life.”
He pulled the lieutenant to a tender kiss, savoring the soft touch of his lips, the pleasant, comforting texture of his soft, latte coloured hair, the faint scent of gun oil and latte.
Piers fell asleep in exhaustion as he laid his head on Chris’ shoulder, grateful that his six month journey through hope and anguish had also finally come to an end. He was glad he had the Captain back, full of life and full of determination. Full of hope in a future that they would rebuild together.
The world, and the man known as Chris Redfield will never know just how much of a debt they owed to a small town called Eskavar, and to a man who called himself Justin.