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Chris is lying in a pile of broken glass and trash, staring wide eyed at the ceiling. He doesn´t remember how he ended on the kitchen floor- must have
passed out sometime last night. Now, however, he´s wide awake. His pulse is racing.
Somebody is shooting at him.
Bang, bang, bang.
No, wait a moment. This isn´t the sound of gun shots. Somebody is hammering at his front door.
Chris forces himself to breathe more calmly. This isn’t a battlefield; this is his kitchen floor. No immediate danger.
If he waits long enough, whoever is pounding on his door will go away.
"Captain Redfield! Are you there? It's me, Piers Nivans. Captain, you were expected at the BSAA armory this morning."
Chris groans. Piers Nivans. That infuriating young man who had dragged him out of a bar in Edonia a few days ago, trying to convince him he was his long-lost captain.
Trying to make him remember.
The photos he’d shown him had stirred something in Chris—something he had wanted to drown in alcohol forever. He´d nearly succeeded.
Chris groans again. Evidently too loud, because the soldier on the other side of his frontdoor sounds a little frantic. "Chr...Captain, are you all right? Let me in."
"Fuck off", Chris croaks.
"All right, Sir, I´m coming in now. I´ve got your spare keys." Bright boy of the BSAA, Chris has named him in his head, as the name Nivans still doesn´t ring a bell.
"Good luck with that", Chris thinks. He has bolted the door with a chain. He always does.
The lock klicks as the key is turned but the door opens just as far as the chain allows—far enough, apparently, to give Lieutenant Nivans a glimpse of Chris on the kitchen floor.
You had to give credit to the young man: he certainly had energy, kicking the door in without a second thought. If only he didn't make so damn much noise doing it.
The lieutenant nearly trips over Chris when the door finally gives way.
"What the hell, Chris... what th.... this place looks like a war zone." Nivans takes in the dozens of broken bottles, empty junk food container and wet clothes on the floor.
Chris lets out a humorless laugh: "Because it is, lieutentant. This is my war zone. My own privat battle."
"Against what?"
"Well, make a guess. Against myself. Against my memories, my failures. PTSD, that´s what medics would call it. Alcoholism, probably, too."
"But..." Bright boy obviously isn´t getting it. He hasn´t seen what Chris has. But, that´s wrong, he must have seen some of it. He had been with him when he lost his team. That´s what they told Chris, at least.
"Why, Sir? How has it gotten so far? So out of hand?" Piers gestures to the broken pantry door which has a fist-sized hole and at Chris`s broken and bloody nuckles. "Can´t really remeber. What does it look like you, I probably punched a hole through it. Im great at punching things."
"Don't talk nonsense. I don't mean your damn kitchen cabinet. I mean you. How could you sink so low? Why do you have to drown your past in booze?"
"You´ve seen it yourself. You where the one to tell me. I lost my men, lost all of them. Again. First STARS, now the BSAA. All dead."
"Bullocks." Nivans sounds defiant.
"Bullocks? They are all dead and lost forever."
"I am not. I´m not dead. You haven´t lost me. At least, not yet. I´m still your second in command, remember? I´m still part of your team."
Chris doesn´t remember. Not really. But he cannot bring himself to blurt the news out to the young hazle eyed man. He feels drained.
Chris inhales deeply and shakes his head. "You´re a sniper, right? Nice. But you know what?" Chris makes a sweeping gesture around the room.
"This is not your battle. You´re young and naive. You aren´t armed for this kind of war."
Nivans gets up and throws his sports bag at Chris. T-shirts, uniform trousers, and two containers of painkillers come to light."I´m always armed, Captain."
Chris has no answer to that.
I’m not leaving you alone. Not unless you order me to, Captain Redfield." Nivans begins picking up the glass bottles
and tossing them into the trash can; then he rummages through Chris’s kitchen cabinet for a glass and starts filling it with water
from the tap. Chris listens to the sound of his boot soles on the sticky linoleum. "Well, Captain, what are your orders?"
Chris couldn't accept help. He had always known how to fight his battles on his own. The next words therefore took an immense effort for Chris to utter: "If you’re so keen on making yourself useful,
there’s a bucket in the closet. I think I’m going to throw up." He couldn't bring himself to say any more. His pride—no, his defiance—wouldn't allow it.
He didn't need to say anything else.
"I’m your lieutenant, Redfield. We’re a team. We’ll get through this together. Now go get your bucket yourself."