Chapter Text
Fire.
The pain was endless.
A living thing, vicious and devouring.
Lucidity and awareness came in waves. The pain never changed, but there were moments when it was familiar enough to become background noise. Where dissociation was sufficient to allow for a moment of thought in an eternity of agony.
Could a god be sent to Hell?
Was this Hell?
Lakes of endless fire.
It was difficult to imagine any pain worse than this. But there was enough sense of self to recognize the pain of organs boiling, limbs being eaten away as they rebuilt themselves, eyes bursting in their sockets, over and over again…
It was a physical pain. Mercilessly, unrelentingly physical.
Was he dead?
He was not dead.
He could not die.
The pain would never end.
Immortality was no gift, it was a curse. The worst curse any god could bestow.
As the pain flared again, his heart popping like a blister, everything turned to static agony. After another eternity, clarity returned.
With clarity came one of the rarest shifts, a moment of thinking about after. After the pain, after the fire, after an end of some sort…
This could not be forever. It would not be forever.
And after…
Vengeance.
Death would be too easy. Far, far too easy.
A memory flared somehow, neurons reconstructed enough to rebuild a scene behind non-existent eyelids. Half delirium, half eerie clarity. A helicopter, cold metal biting against mutated flesh that already protested the volcanic heat. Desperate, thoughtless fury. Seething hatred as volcanic as the lava below, spurred by a feeling he hadn’t been accustomed to since… long ago.
Fear. Fear and hate.
I will not die alone.
That face, familiar for so long, remembered even now. Even when the agony was so great that he didn’t know his own name. He would never forget that face.
On the one (burning) hand, he didn’t die alone. A victory?
He didn’t die, which was the problem.
On the other (boiling) hand, he was glad he’d failed in that last, maddened attempt. After all, that face, that man…
CHRIS.
Surging pain, fleeing thought, all reason or sense of self fading into the agony.
Pain, fire, burning, gone.
Pain…
Clarity returning. Focus. What was the last thought, before the agony?
Ah, yes. Christopher Redfield was human. Stubbornly, persistently, tenaciously human. (Apart from whatever broken remnants of previous viral RNA gave him the ability to pick a fight with a boulder and win. He knew the man had the sheer gall to do so, but being able to follow through was another matter entirely.)
(Burning, agony, fire, hate, hate, hate…)
(Focus.)
Human. Death was a foregone conclusion in the lava below. Seconds, not even a full minute of excruciating pain, then nothingness. The idea of such a fate, the simplicity of it compared to this eternal suffering, was an injustice. Revolting.
Not enough. Not nearly enough.
Another wave of pain.
Another brief moment of consciousness.
Over and over and over…
Until something new came.
The pain shifted. It wasn’t an end to it, but it was a change.
Long moments passed. No ears to hear, no eyes to see, just some core, indefinable piece of self that refused to die, no matter how much easier it would be. Some remnant of the mutant t-virus remained stubborn enough to cling to life somehow, even as Uroboros burned to ash and less than ash.
Then, suddenly, he wasn’t alone.
Twisting, coiling, something crawling into him and carving out a home for itself there. Cold and dead, but still lingering. Grave dirt, sunken and smelling faintly of rot. Not Uroboros. Uroboros was his creation, he knew every strand and molecule of it since its inception, this was not right. This was not his. It was not him.
No arms or legs with which to fight, no mouth to protest, nothing but himself and even that was being invaded.
Albert Wesker.
A name. His name, whispered (shouted) (sung) (burned) into the tattered remnants of his mind. His mind, his own. Fractured, boiling like lava, little but pain and shifting sands now.
(Focus.)
Who? It was a thought, more distinct than even his better moments in the fire had been. His mind was recovering already, but more slowly than he would like.
Rest easy, child. I mean you no harm.
Distrust. Anger. Don’t patronize me. Who are you?
Shifting, changing… Healing. Something popped and sound rushed in, neurons firing frantically as the auditory nerves knit themselves back together. The wailing of tinnitus rang in his recovering mind for a few moments, then began to fade.
He could hear something. A thrumming sound, beating and pounding at the air. Familiar.
(Flashes of memory. Descending on ropes, lifting off again with a sense of satisfaction in a job well done, cold metal against an outstretched limb as he sought to wrench it down…)
A helicopter. He was in a helicopter.
I am Mother Miranda. Your mother.
Buried in his own mind as his body knit itself (was knit) back together, he struck out in the firmest rebuke he could muster. Arrogant fool. Get out before I force you out.
The responding mental slap was strong enough to white-out his consciousness once more, a flash-memory of burning agony that lit up every recovering nerve. Do you wish to return to your grave, child? The voice darkened, becoming sharp as a scalpel and just as cruel. My agents did not have to retrieve you. I do not NEED you.
Through the pain, a fragment of conscious thought caught onto the edges of that message. There were shades of a lie there.
Then why waste your efforts? He responded, once he had recovered some mental ground on which to stand. Why seek out a dead man?
A helicopter was far from nothing for most, and retrieving the molten remnants of organic life from the volcano in Kijuju represented a significant investment of time and resources. Beyond that, it required that someone bother to look for him, and him specifically. She claimed she did not need him, but her actions suggested otherwise.
There was a pause. Her hesitancy steadied him, as the memories of pain faded rapidly into his subconscious once more. Remarkable, how difficult it was to remember pain clearly, once it had passed. A mechanism of evolution, the thin psychological shield meant to protect the fragile human mind.
We have a common enemy, Albert. I had hoped we could be of use to each other. The voice was softer now, sickeningly gentle. It had the honey-sweet tone of a Venus flytrap.
A croaking laugh rang in his ears. It took him a moment to realize it was his. His current recovery rate was much more rapid than he would have expected. Clearly whatever had been done to him by this ‘Miranda’ had some fascinating benefits that he would need to look into later.
He had a feeling he knew to whom she referred. But first, to take stock of the situation.
Other senses began to make themselves known. His skin finished regrowing, and nerves lit up at the feeling of cold metal against his wrists, his forearms, his ankles and knees. His waist.
His eyes opened.
Blurs of color took some time to resolve themselves into recognizable shapes, flares and shadows of light and dark shifting in his vision as the ocular nerves regenerated.
The interior of a helicopter, cold metal and leather seats. Figures in combat gear with advanced weaponry, firearms that he couldn’t quite identify. How long had he spent in the volcano? They were shifting, some of them. Rearranging their gear, planting their feet, playing with their seat belts as they stared at him through the unreadable goggles of tactical helmets. But even if he couldn’t see their faces, he could read their movements like a child’s board book.
They were afraid.
He was very thoroughly restrained, pinned to a slab of unbending metal by numerous bands of cold steel. Still healing from an eternity spent drowning in lava. Half-mad from near-endless agony and clawing to win his mind back from insanity and invasion.
And they were afraid.
He smiled.
Tell me, Miranda, he thought back, imitating her sickly-sweet tone as best he could. It came more naturally than he would have expected, which raised concerning questions about the level of influence whatever she had done – whatever she was – held over his mind. Whatever has Christopher Redfield done to offend you? It was a guess, but he'd wager it was a good one.
The Vessel. My DAUGHTER’S Vessel. Miranda’s voice was bitter and acidic. He could feel the anger and possessiveness layered in it, instability lurking beneath the surface, the mind of a wounded animal that would sink its claws into anything that came near. He STOLE her from me. But he will not keep her. I will not allow it.
And there, beneath the twisted pain of a grieving mother, something much older and more hollow lurked just beneath notice. Ancient and inhuman, something using Miranda’s voice and obsessions like a ventriloquist’s puppet.
The thing beneath Miranda pressed one thought into the wound that she'd pried open in his mind.
WE WILL NOT ALLOW IT.
(̶̷̴̨̨̢̢̥̤̪͙͙͇̮͙͚̳ͬ̀͊ͪ̃ͨͮ̂ͫͯ̓ͦ̈́ͧ̾͐ͪ͘͜͡ͅW̷̴̤̬̫̻̟̼̤̟̱ͧ̇͒̅͊̈̐͠͝͞E̴̢̹̟̩̞ͧ͗ͫ́͡_̯͍̬ͥ͋ͭ͐̂ͧ̂͐͞_̰ͤ W̧̧͗͑ͣ́͡I̶̢̛͓̯͖̣͇̲̦͍̠͙͑͌͛͗̽̃̈́͆̏ͦͦ̾̈͂͢L͎_̧̯̻̯͓͙̩͔͚̪̣̉̇̏̃̾̂͂̃̾̊̓ͬ̃͑̀̊ͫͩ̋͋̈́͞͠ͅL͈̖͍̤̺̤̭̠̺̗͓̹̖̱͑ͣ͐ͯ̿ͫ̔͛̑̂̇̂͐͑́ͯ̓̾͑͝_̃ N̖̬̙ͯ́Ó̸̸̷̘͔̭̖͓̘̳̞̭̞̟̲̪̋̽̐ͧͨ̊͋ͨ̐̔̆ͩ̑̀̒̑ͯͩͣ͞͝Ṯ̸̡̛̹͓͓̠̥̜̟̠̼̞͖̤̦̩̟ͫ̍͒̑̏̂ͫ̍̎̀̿̎͌̐̓̐̔͡͞ Ḁͬ̊̄Ļ̷̗̲͖͕̹̞̘͓͓̝͖̳̯͎̰̺ͯ̈́ͨͨ͛̾̿̔ͦ͒ͯ̽̓̌ͥ͘L̨̮̻̱͙̗̙̰̺̻͋ͤͤ͂̋̈́́ͯ̓ͯ̅ͨ̑ͨO̙̪̔W̶̶̧̢̛̯̦̙̱̮̼̦̪̋̂͑̏̃̈́͋͊̊̇̌͗̆̄̃̍̇̄́ͯͣ͌́̕͟͡ I̶̷̴̙͔͎̪̫̯̺͇̲ͧ͋́̉͂́͑̾̌Ț̵̡̠̹̗̋̉̑̾͘͢͠.̷̸̢̨̗̥̣͎̝̼̟̖̋͋ͣ͋ͫͬ̂ͫ͜_̧̨̺͓̖̰̆̀ͭ)̸̵̢̤̮͎̠̦̺͉̭͖̗̯̻͖ͭ̏̔̿̏ͬͭ̊̃́͒̄͌̋̈ͤ̓͜͢͡͞
Pieces of his nearly-shattered mind began to draw back together, jagged edges slotting into place. It was difficult to tell how much she could hear from him, he could sense many things from her, but there were still matters beyond him, murky and indefinable in her subconscious.
The mind was a fascinating thing.
(̶H̶e̶ ̶w̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ ̶h̶a̶v̶e̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶s̶t̶r̶e̶t̶c̶h̶ ̶i̶t̶s̶ ̶l̶i̶m̶i̶t̶s̶ ̶i̶f̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶ ̶e̶v̶e̶r̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶b̶e̶ ̶f̶r̶e̶e̶ ̶a̶g̶a̶i̶n̶.̶)̶
A faintly trembling hand reached over from the seat to his right, water offered to him for the first time in an age. He drank sparingly, ignoring the desperate thirst that took this opportunity to drag its claws up and down his throat. No point in wasting water because he couldn’t keep it down yet.
And he was enjoying the soldiers’ fear too much to ruin it by vomiting.
When he could breathe without a rasp, he licked his lips and spoke aloud. It was good to hear his own voice again, after so long in the fire.
“Where shall we begin?”