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“...What do you know about soulmates, Chris?”
His mother hums as she cards fingers through his hair, soft and gentle. Chris is four years old, but he's not quite old enough to stop wanting lullabies.
“Soulmates?” Chris frowns, cheeks puffing out. The word sounds familiar. “Like Mommy and Daddy?”
“Yes, like Mommy and Daddy,” his mother laughs, eyes bright and warm. “Everyone—me, Daddy, you, even Grandpa and Grandma—has a soulmate. Your other half.”
“Huh,” Chris responds. His head tilts. “When do I get to meet them?”
His mother hums consideringly. Her mouth twists, pupils flicking about as if she's remembering something. Then, her face firms, and she nods.
“There’ll come a time when your life is on a knife’s edge,” she says slowly, sighing as she speaks. Her hand reaches out, and she cups his cheek, tucking a stray hair behind his ear. “When you're given a choice.”
She holds out her other hand. Looping penmanship snakes around the pinky in vibrant red. Chris isn’t great at reading yet, but it’s simple enough that even he can read it.
‘Stay,’ it says.
“When your soulmate says your kairos , everything falls into place. Even if all seems lost, fate always has another thing in store,” his mother smiles, motioning at the word branded into her skin. Suddenly, her smile turns melancholy. She lets out a deep sigh, hugging Chris tight. “Soulmates have a way of finding their way to us right when we need them most.”
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Everything aches. Bruises dot along Chris's ribs and race up his neck and face like poppies. He's pretty sure he's missing a tooth from a lucky blow a few rooms back. His heart is racing, sweat slick against the grip of his pistol. Wesker's going to destroy the goddamn world, and they're the only two in a position to stop him right now. Their only shot is a serum they don't even know still works. This is insane .
“Do you really think you can defeat me?” Wesker asks, sizing Chris up. Confidence and disgust mix in his tone like coiling vipers.
Chris's hands tighten on his gun. He doesn't think about the fate of the world. He doesn't think about how screwed they are trying to save it. He doesn’t think about anything. It's instinctual, almost. The words just… come out , same old script dancing along his tongue the way it always has.
“Either way,” Chris spits, baring his teeth. “I’m not gonna stop until I'm dead!”
“Well then,” Wesker chuckles. Mirth lines the sound, ice cold. His smile is like broken glass as he continues. “I’ll just have to kill you first.”
Suddenly, Wesker grunts, a grimace flashing across his face.
Chris barely even notices. His pinky feels like it's on fire. What the hell—
Cursing, Chris strips off his glove, pain lighting up every nerve. Before his horrified eyes, red is climbing up the length of it. Sheva gasps at his side like someone being strangled.
No. Nausea roils in his stomach. Nononono—
Chris lets it go, moving it to try and desperately take a closer look. It still feels like someone's carving into it with a fireplace poker, but there's so much adrenaline lighting up his veins he can barely even feel it now. He feels sick.
‘Do you really think you can defeat me?’ wraps around his finger like a tomato vine creeping along a trellis. The pain is finally starting to die down. It's replaced with an entirely different kind of pain.
“Why?” Chris croaks. This—this is a nightmare. “...Why did it have to be you?”
Wesker glances between their respective kairoi . He folds his arms behind his back, face unreadable. He doesn't look surprised, but Chris can count the number of times he's seen Wesker surprised on one hand.
“And why now?” Chris growls, frustration growing. He would have been overjoyed a decade ago. Now, he's fighting back the urge to break something.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Wesker says. Motioning towards the missiles scattered around the room, he sneers. “With Uroboros, the world is on the precipice of a new age.”
Chris frowns as Wesker begins to pace back and forth, heavy boots clicking on the metal floor.
“It’s on a knife’s edge,” Chris frowns, deja vu suddenly hitting him in waves. For the first time in years, his mother's words run through his head.
“There’ll come a time when your life is on a knife’s edge. When you're given a choice.”
Chris rubs at his kairos . The skin there is still raw and tender, Wesker's words freshly branded into the tan, calloused skin. Something old and scarred aches deep within his chest like nails poking out of an old floor. Gnawing at his lip, Chris looks down. The serum is still in his hand. They could win this.
Or they could die.
“We can’t keep going like this,” Chris admits. He doesn't have the strength to look over at Sheva as he says it. He can't stand to see the disgust in her eyes he already knows is there. Chris believes what he’s saying right down to his bones, but it still hurts to say it. “We’re on a cliff. Any sudden moves, and one of us is going off.”
Damned if they do, damned if they don't. Wesker’s stopped his pacing, but he still isn't attacking. Maybe, just maybe, Chris can—
“Nice of you to finally recognize that you're outmatched,” Wesker smirks, eyes calculating and reptilian. The excited red in them is already starting to die down into a soft, searing orange. It's strange to see him without his glasses like this.
Chris isn't sure whether he likes it. It's certainly unsettling to be able to read Wesker this easily. He can tell just by the look in Wesker's eyes that he's confused. It's subtle, but he sees it. A twitch of the brow, the jitter of pupils moving back and forth. The gears are turning in Wesker's head.
“Maybe it’ll be you,” Chris continues, staring Wesker down. His fists clench, body tensing like a spring. He swallows. “Maybe it’ll be me.”
Wesker’s eyes narrow. “What are you saying?”
“This is a choice,” Chris shifts in place. Either this works or it doesn't. They don't have much of a chance either way. “A warning.”
“A warning?” Wesker echoes. For once, he actually sounds intrigued.
“This stops,” Chris rasps. His voice strengthens with resolve. “Right here. Right now.”
Wesker scoffs, incredulous. “Or?
A terrible realization hangs over Chris's thoughts. His kairos, Wesker's kairos—they're the same. That single exchange is their whole relationship nailed down in one disastrous repartee. The only reason their kairoi are showing up now is—
“It ends,” Chris's smile is bitter. “All of it.”
It's their last chance.
Wesker looks at him like he's seeing him for the first time, a flash of red lighting up serpentine irises like Christmas lights. In that moment, for the first time in a long time, Chris sees right through Wesker. He’s scared. Wesker’s scared, and the irony of it hits Chris like a ton of bricks, because Chris—he isn't scared at all. For once, it all makes sense.
There's no winning here. Not really. The choice—it’s an ultimatum. They're stuck in a cycle of self destruction, and the entire world is about to suffer for it. This is their wake-up call. Chris doesn't want to die, and he knows Wesker doesn't either. The only way to win here is to refuse to play the game. Break the mold.
“We both have a choice,” Chris murmurs. “I know mine. The question is…”
It’s like the world’s frozen around them, the very metal beneath their feet holding its breath. Tension holds them like a red string, strangling as a garotte and only half as deadly. Softly, Chris breaks through it, whispering tenderly into silence strung satin and fragile as a spider’s silk. It's a terrible sort of sacrilege.
“...do you know yours?”