Umbra Mortis (SI! Resident Evil x Dying Light)

Arsenal597 · 2026-02-08T01:19:59+0000

I laid there longer than I should have, staring at the ceiling and listening to the house breathe. The heater clicked on, then off. Pipes knocked somewhere behind the walls. The fan on my dresser hummed like it was trying to convince me this was normal—just another night, just another round of thoughts I'd already chewed through a hundred times. My phone sat face-down on the nightstand. No notifications. No missed calls. I already knew what it would say if I checked it anyway.

Nothing had changed.

My body still hurt. Not sharp pain—nothing dramatic—just that deep, lingering ache that never quite went away once it settled in, the kind that made you hyper-aware of every movement. The kind doctors nodded at and called temporary, like time alone was supposed to fix everything.

I shifted onto my side and felt my wrist protest at the awkward angle. I ignored it. I'd gotten pretty good at that lately.

The room smelled faintly like laundry detergent and old carpet. Familiar. Safe, I guessed. I'd lived here long enough for it to feel like a holding pattern, like life had paused and forgotten to press play again. Every plan I'd had felt like it was sitting just out of reach, waiting on something—money, clearance, luck—that never came when I needed it.

I closed my eyes, but that didn't help.

Faces came up instead. People I used to talk to every day, people who said they'd be there no matter what. Funny how fast no matter what turned into silence when you stopped being useful or fun or convenient. When you didn't have the energy to keep pretending you were fine.

I wondered, not for the first time, if I'd been asking too much—or if I'd just finally asked the wrong people.

My chest felt tight. Not panic, just pressure, like something was sitting there, heavy and unmoving, daring me to acknowledge it. I focused on breathing instead. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Slow. Controlled. Another thing I'd gotten good at.

I thought about Grandma.

I didn't mean to. It just… happened. It always did when I was tired enough.
Her voice was fuzzy in my memory now, edges worn smooth by time. I hated that. I hated that I had to work to remember her laugh. But the promise—that was still clear, stuck with me like it was carved into bone.

I'd kept it. Every part of it. Even when it would've been easier not to.

Sometimes I wondered if that was strength or just stubbornness.

The thought drifted away as exhaustion finally started to win. My eyelids felt heavy, my limbs following suit, sinking into the mattress like gravity had doubled when I wasn't looking. The noise of the house faded into something distant and indistinct, like I was underwater.

I remembered thinking—right before sleep took me—that I didn't need things to be perfect.

I just wanted them to be different.

And then the dark came down.

At first, I thought I'd stopped dreaming.

There wasn't the usual nonsense—no half-formed images, no memories stitched together wrong. Just darkness, complete and absolute. It didn't feel like my eyes were closed; it felt like the space around me was gone.

I couldn't tell if I was lying down anymore.

I tried to move. I didn't know if I actually did.

Something shifted in the dark.

Not a sound, not really—more like a pressure change, the kind you felt when a storm was rolling in even if the sky still looked clear. My stomach tightened on instinct. That part of me that never quite shut off went on alert.

Then something called out.

I couldn't understand the words.

They weren't loud or quiet. They didn't echo. They didn't come from any direction I could point to. They were just… there, present the same way the dark was present, like they'd always existed and I was only just now noticing them.

I strained to listen, but the harder I focused, the more the meaning slipped through my fingers. It felt like trying to remember a sentence I'd just read, only to realize the words had already faded, leaving nothing behind but the intent.

And that intent made my skin prickle.

It wasn't threatening. Not exactly. There was no anger in it, no cruelty—just weight. Purpose. The kind that didn't bother asking if you were ready.

The sensation it left behind was wrong.

It wasn't painful. It wasn't frightening in any obvious way. It was just unfamiliar, the kind of wrong you noticed before you understood it, the kind that settled in and refused to leave.

I became aware of myself in a way I hadn't been before—every regret, every doubt, every quiet, ugly thought I'd tried to bury under routine and responsibility rising to the surface all at once. None of it was judged. None of it was dismissed.

It was simply seen.

The darkness pressed in closer, or maybe I was falling. There was no sense of motion, only the certainty that something was changing and I wasn't the one guiding it. The feeling settled deep in my chest, heavy and electric all at once.

Otherworldly didn't even begin to cover it.

There weren't words for what it felt like to be acknowledged by something that didn't belong to my world, to realize—without being told—that whatever was happening wasn't random and it wasn't an accident.

I tried to speak. To ask a question. To say no.

I didn't know if I succeeded.

The dark deepened, thickened, wrapped around me like a closing hand. And just before everything slipped away completely, before even thought dissolved into nothing—
I felt it.

Not hope. Not fear.

Possibility.

And then there was nothing at all.

I opened my eyes and immediately knew something was wrong.

Not the subtle kind of wrong, either. Not the "something feels off but I can't place it yet" kind. This was instant, gut-level certainty, the kind that hit before your brain had time to start lying to you.

I wasn't in my room.

I was sitting on the floor, my back pressed against a wall that looked white enough to hurt if I stared at it too long. Not painted white—white white. Flat. Featureless. Like someone had taken the idea of a room and stripped it down until only the concept remained.

I inhaled sharply and felt it in my chest.

Cold. That was the first thing I noticed. A deep, creeping chill that settled into my skin and stayed there, like I'd been left outside too long. But at the same time—somehow—I felt warm. Not comfortable-warm. More like heat radiating from inside me, trapped beneath the cold, nowhere to go. The contradiction made my stomach twist. It didn't make sense, and that bothered me more than it should have.

My heart started racing before I consciously told it to.

Okay. Okay. Breathe.

I pushed my palms against the floor, expecting rough carpet or hardwood or something familiar. The surface was smooth, almost glassy, but not slick. It gave just enough resistance to remind me it was solid. Real. That thought didn't help.

I got to my feet slowly, legs shaky, and turned in a slow circle, trying to take everything in at once. The room was huge—far bigger than it should've been. The walls stretched out in every direction, meeting the floor and ceiling without seams, without corners sharp enough to ground my eyes. Everything blended together in a way that made it hard to judge distance, like depth itself had been turned off.

There was no door.

No windows. No vents. No lights. And yet the room was perfectly illuminated, bright without a source, shadowless in a way that made my skin crawl. The kind of lighting that felt wrong because it refused to behave like light should.

"Hello?" I called out, my voice echoing back at me a half-second later, thin and lonely.

Nothing answered.

I took a few steps forward, then stopped, suddenly unsure if I was actually moving or just convincing myself I was. The walls didn't get closer. They didn't get farther away either. Perspective refused to cooperate, like the room didn't care about my attempts to measure it.

"What the hell…" My voice sounded small in there. Smaller than I liked.

I walked to where I thought one wall was and reached out, fingertips brushing against the surface. It felt wrong. Not cold. Not warm. Just… there. Like touching something that hadn't decided what it wanted to be yet. I knocked on it with my knuckles, half-expecting the sound to come back hollow.

It didn't.

The sound was dull, muted, swallowed almost immediately, like the wall didn't want to acknowledge the impact. I frowned and knocked again, harder this time, then pressed my ear against it. No vibration. No echo. Nothing on the other side. Because there was no other side. Not really.

I pulled my hand back slowly and stared at it. Still my hand. Still shaking.

This wasn't real, I told myself. This was a dream. It had to be.

Dreams were weird like this. They loved big empty spaces and impossible geometry. They loved messing with scale and lighting and making things feel off just enough to unsettle you. That's what this was. Just my brain misfiring, dredging up something abstract and unpleasant because I'd gone to sleep already wound too tight.

Right?

"Okay," I muttered, mostly to hear my own voice. "Fine. If this is a dream, then wake up."

I closed my eyes hard, clenched my fists, and waited for that familiar lurch—that sudden snap back into my body, back into my bed, back into the ache and the ceiling fan and the hum of the house.

Nothing happened.

I opened my eyes again.

Same room. Same blinding white. Same impossible stillness.

A spike of panic shot through me, sharp and immediate, and I sucked in a breath that felt like it scraped on the way down. My pulse hammered in my ears, loud enough that it almost drowned out my thoughts.

No. No, no, no.

I started pacing, footsteps quick and uneven, the sound of them weirdly flat against the floor. I walked faster, then faster still, circling the room—or at least, circling where I thought the center was. It was hard to tell. There were no landmarks. No points of reference. Just endless white stretching out until my eyes gave up trying to follow it.

"How did I get here?" I asked aloud, my voice cracking despite my attempt to keep it steady. "I was asleep. I was—"

I stopped short, suddenly aware of how little I remembered about the moment between the dark and this. No transition. No sense of movement. Just absence, followed by this.

The cold-warm sensation crept deeper, settling into my bones. My arms prickled, goosebumps rising and falling without reason. I wrapped my arms around myself and laughed once, short and breathless.

"Please," I whispered, the word slipping out before I could stop it. "Please tell me I'm dreaming. Please, for the love of—"

My voice echoed back at me, thinner this time, like the room was growing tired of repeating me.

I pressed my hands to my face, dragged them down slowly, grounding myself in the feel of skin and bone and breath. I could feel my heartbeat in my throat. In my fingertips. Too fast. Way too fast.

Think, I told myself. You're panicking. That's not helping.

But the room didn't give me anything to think with. No clues. No edges. No answers. Just white and silence and the growing certainty that I was very, very alone.

Then the air changed.

I felt it before I heard anything—a low vibration that rolled through the floor and up my legs, subtle at first, like distant thunder. The walls seemed to shudder, not visibly, but in a way that made my teeth click together. The light flickered, not dimming so much as warping, bending inward like the room itself was taking a breath.

I froze, every muscle locking in place.

The vibration deepened, spreading through the space until it felt like it was inside my chest, rattling my ribs. The air pressed down on me, heavy and charged, and I suddenly had the overwhelming sense of being watched—not by eyes, but by something far larger than that.

My heart slammed once, hard enough to hurt.

Then the voice spoke.

It didn't come from one place. It came from everywhere, echoing off the walls, rolling through the floor, shaking the room around me as it settled into the space like it belonged there.

"Hello there."

"Who's there?" I called out, my voice bouncing uselessly around the room. "Where are you?"

There was a pause—not long, not dramatic, just enough to make my skin tighten—before the voice answered.

"Your fragile mind would not be able to comprehend my true form."

The words were flat. No inflection. No curiosity. No menace, either. Just a statement, delivered the same way someone might tell you the time. Somehow, that made it worse. I swallowed and glanced around again, half-expecting the walls to peel back or split open or do something to justify the way my heart was pounding.

"What?" I managed.

"I had hoped that someone with your creativity would be able to come to terms with your situation quicker. How disappointing."

That one hit a nerve. Not because it was cruel, exactly, but because it sounded… bored. Like I'd already failed some unspoken test.

"I'm sorry," I snapped, irritation bleeding through the fear before I could stop it, "but I just woke up to this bullshit."

"Oh, but you're not awake. Your body is still resting."

The words sank in slowly, rolling around in my head until they started to take shape. Still resting. Not awake. The room, the walls, the impossible light—it all suddenly clicked into a different category.

"So I'm…" I hesitated, then laughed once, short and breathless. "I was dreaming?"

The sound echoed strangely, but it was lighter this time. Nervous, sure, but not panicked. Something in my chest loosened, just a little.

"Hehe," I added, rubbing the back of my neck. "Great. Now my mind's playing tricks on me. Though… first time I've ever been in a lucid dream. Was that what this was?"

"If it were to make you more flexible," the voice replied, unbothered, "you may think of this as such."

That did it. The tension drained out of my shoulders in one slow exhale. A dream. Just a really vivid, really unsettling one. I'd had worse nights than this—nights where my own thoughts were louder than any disembodied voice.

Alright. Fine. If this was my brain firing on all cylinders, I could work with that.

I adjusted my stance, rolling my shoulders, grounding myself in the way my feet felt against the floor. Solid. Real enough. I took another breath, slower this time.

Okay. I'd play along until I woke up.

"Alright," I said, more evenly now. "So why am I here?"

"I heard your prayer."

I snorted before I could stop myself. "Prayer? What, you're a god now?"

"That is what your kind may call us, yes."

Us. I latched onto that word, turning it over mentally, but didn't comment on it yet. Instead, I shook my head.

"Wait, no, hold on. I didn't pray. I don't do that."

"Were it not you that wished for a chance at a new life," the voice asked, unprompted, "one where you could ascertain a level of control to the outcome?"

The phrasing was stiff, almost clinical, but the meaning hit close enough to make my stomach tighten again.

"I mean… yeah," I admitted, shrugging. "But it wasn't a prayer. I'm not really into that religious stuff. Never have been."

"Regardless of your predilection," the voice continued, cutting me off mid-thought, "I have answered the call. I come to you now, offering the chance to give you exactly what you desire."

There it was. The hook. The line that made my skepticism flare back to life, even in a dream.
I'd heard this one before. Not from voices in white voids, but from stories, movies, myths. Genies. Devils. Cosmic entities with a sense of humor that always seemed to land on the wrong side of human suffering.

"Yeah, see, that's usually where things go sideways," I said, folding my arms. "There's always a catch. A loophole. Something that turns the wish into a living nightmare."

"What is in it for you?" I added. "I mean, why answer any 'prayer' at all?"

"That does not matter," the voice replied without hesitation. "Your decision is what matters."

"No," I said immediately. "Come on. You don't get to drop something like that and then brush it off. Tell me what this is. Is this entertainment? Some kind of cosmic reality show where you see how badly people screw things up?"

There was a pause again, longer this time. The room hummed faintly, like the air itself was thinking.

"My others," the voice said at last, "might find entertainment in this. But I do not."

That gave me pause. I didn't know why. Maybe it was the implication that there were others like it. Or maybe it was the way it said might, like it was distancing itself from them.

"So what," I said slowly, "you're just… doing this out of the goodness of your heart?"

"I ask you now," the voice replied, ignoring the question entirely, its tone unchanged but somehow heavier than before, "do you wish to have a second chance?"

The words reverberated through the room, through me, settling somewhere deep in my chest where all the things I didn't like to think about lived.

"If I did… what happened?"

The question slipped out before I could overthink it. That surprised me. I'd expected more hesitation, more internal arguing, but instead it felt natural—like asking what happened after you stepped onto a plane you already knew you were boarding.

"I will give you it," the voice answered. "You shall become someone new, and given your affinity for action, heroics, and horror… it shall be a life befitting that theme."

I frowned, scrubbing my thumb against my palm. The words sounded grand, theatrical even, but they were maddeningly vague. That flexibility I'd settled into a moment ago tightened just a bit, skepticism creeping back in around the edges.

"What the hell did that mean?" I asked. "That's not an answer. That's a movie trailer."

Silence. Not the awkward kind, more like the pause before someone repeated themselves because they didn't feel like rephrasing.

"Do you accept?"

I let out a slow breath through my nose, staring at the blank wall in front of me. The surface still looked fake, like painted light pretending to be solid. If this had been a dream—and I was still pretty sure it was—then my subconscious was doing a hell of a job staging it.

"What happened if I didn't?" I asked. "What if I said no?"

The air felt heavier after that, like the room was listening closer.

"Then I would leave," the voice said. "And you would be left to the life you claim to be tired of. But if you accepted, you might find precisely what you were looking for."

That landed harder than I expected. Not because it was threatening—there was no malice in it—but because it was accurate in a way I didn't love. The life you claim to be tired of. There was no accusation there, no judgment, just an observation. Somehow that made it worse. It forced me to confront the fact that I'd said those words, thought them, whispered them to myself during long nights where the ceiling fan had been the only thing answering back.

I shifted my weight again, jaw tightening. "That's a pretty convenient pitch," I muttered. "Still sounds like a trap."

"You were free to refuse."

"Yeah," I said, exhaling. "You kept saying that."

I ran a hand through my hair, staring down at the floor now, trying to organize the noise in my head. If this had been a dream, then it was pulling from somewhere real. Old wishes. Old frustrations. That quiet, persistent desire to matter in a way that felt tangible. To do something instead of just thinking about it.

"Did I get to choose who I became?" I asked suddenly.

"Yes," the voice replied without delay. "Once you were placed into that life."

I looked up again.

"Once?"

"But who you were before insertion," it continued, "was set in stone. That was not malleable."

Insertion. Great. That wasn't ominous at all.

"Wait," I said, holding up a hand even though I had no idea if it could see me. "I wasn't starting out as a baby, was I? Because that was a hard no. I wasn't doing diapers and algebra again."

"No," it said simply.

That earned a short laugh from me, more amused than nervous this time. "Okay. Cool. That's… reassuring, I guess."

I paced a few steps, then stopped, planting my hands on my hips. My heart wasn't racing anymore. There was still tension there, sure, but it was quieter now, replaced by something else. Curiosity. Maybe even a flicker of excitement, though I wasn't ready to admit that outright.

This thing—whatever it was—hadn't lied to me yet. It also hadn't promised specifics, which felt deliberate. Like it knew that if it spelled everything out, I'd start poking holes in it until the whole offer collapsed.

"You were really serious about this," I said. "You weren't going to sweeten the deal. No guarantees. No safety net."

"Correct."

"And if I accepted," I pressed, "I didn't get a redo."

"You did not."

I nodded slowly. That tracked. Nothing worth doing ever came with a reset button.

The room felt different now. Not visually—nothing had changed—but the weight of the moment settled in, pressing down on my shoulders. This was the kind of choice stories loved. The kind that looked obvious from the outside and felt anything but when you were the one standing there.

I thought about the life I'd wake up to if I said no. The routines. The what-ifs. The endless sense that something bigger was always just out of reach. It wasn't unbearable. I'd survived it just fine. But surviving wasn't the same as living, and I'd known that for a while.

"I will ask you one last time," the voice said, echoing softly through the room. "Did you accept?"

I didn't answer right away. I let the silence stretch, not because I was unsure, but because I wanted to acknowledge what I was about to do. Even if this was just a dream, even if I woke up afterward and laughed it off, the choice felt real in a way most dreams didn't.

Then I shrugged, a small, easy motion that surprised me with how natural it felt.

"Yeah, sure," I said, waving my hand dismissively. "Why not?"

"Very well… you shall be reborn—given the chance to become everything your mortal mind has ever dreamed of. If you choose the right path, you may be the difference between life and death."

The words hung in the air longer than the others had, heavier somehow. Not louder. Not sharper. Just heavier. They sank into me instead of passing through, settling somewhere behind my ribs where instinct lived. Something about it didn't sit right. It wasn't fear exactly—more like the uneasy awareness you got when you realized you'd stepped onto ice that hadn't cracked yet, but might.

"Wait—" I started, and that was as far as I got.

The floor vanished.

Or maybe it didn't vanish. Maybe I did. One second my feet were planted on that impossible white surface, the next my stomach lurched as my body lifted hard and fast, like gravity had been yanked out from under me by something impatient. My arms jerked instinctively, but they didn't move. Nothing did. It was like I'd been pinned in place, invisible restraints locking every muscle down at once.

My breath caught. Not because I was holding it—because I couldn't draw one.

"Wh—what was happening?" The words scraped their way out of me, thin and panicked, my chest burning as I fought for air that wouldn't come.

"Integration is commencing… do not worry," the voice said, as calm and detached as ever. "The life you inhabit will be part of a world you are familiar with, albeit with some special variables procured specifically for your experience… good luck. Until we meet again at the end…"

Integration.

The word echoed in my head, colliding with everything else at once. My pulse roared in my ears now, loud enough that it felt like it might drown out the voice entirely. My heart slammed against my ribs, frantic, betrayed. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. This was supposed to be a dream. A conversation. A choice with a rewind button.

The room started to change—or maybe it was me. The white around me intensified, brightening until it hurt to look at, until it stopped feeling like light at all and more like pressure. Like the air itself was turning solid and squeezing in from every direction. My skin prickled, every nerve ending screaming that something was very, very wrong.

Then the pain hit.

It wasn't sharp at first. It bloomed, spreading outward in waves, starting deep and rolling up to the surface until it felt like my body couldn't decide whether it was burning or freezing. My thoughts scattered, panic shredding any attempt at calm. I tried to scream. I knew I did. I felt my mouth open, my throat strain—but nothing came out. No sound. Not even a breath.

It got worse.

The sensation twisted, intensified, became something I didn't have language for. It felt like my skin was being peeled away layer by layer, not torn off violently, but separated, like it was being unstitched from whatever was underneath. Like I was being dismantled with deliberate care. I could feel everything. Every nerve. Every place where my body knew itself as me was being rewritten in real time.

I wanted to fight it. God, I wanted to fight it. To thrash, to claw, to do something—but I was trapped inside myself, a passenger in my own unraveling. Thoughts started slipping through my fingers, memories blurring at the edges as the pain spiked again. Faces flashed through my mind—people, places, moments I hadn't thought about in years—each one slipping away before I could grab onto it.

I didn't know how long it lasted. Time stopped meaning anything. There was only the pain, the light, and the terrifying certainty that whatever I'd been a moment ago was being stripped down to parts.

My chest tightened further, and for one awful second I was convinced this was what dying felt like. Not dramatic. Not cinematic. Just overwhelming, impersonal, and final. The idea that this thing—the voice—might have lied never even mattered. It didn't need to. I'd agreed. I'd stepped forward. Whatever happened now was on me.

The light swallowed everything.

There was no gradual fade. No soft transition. One instant I was suspended in blinding white, my entire being screaming in protest, and the next—

Nothing.

No sensation. No sound. No pain.

Just dark.

Not the comforting kind. Not sleep. It was absence. Like the universe had taken a breath and forgotten to let it out again. I didn't know if I still had a body. I didn't know if I was thinking or if the thoughts were just echoes, replaying out of habit. There was no up or down, no inside or outside. If I tried to focus, there was nothing to focus on.

For a fleeting, terrifying moment, I wondered if this was it. If this was the end the voice had mentioned, not some distant meeting, but now—me dissolving into a blank space that didn't care who I was or what I wanted.

Then something stirred.

It was faint. Distant. A pressure, not unlike the one that had warned me before the voice spoke the first time. But this one was different. Heavier. Anchored. Like something solid waiting just beyond the dark.

I didn't have time to question it.

The void pulled tight around me, compressing, folding inward like it was preparing to spit me back out somewhere else. There was a sense of momentum again, of being moved, and with it came a final, jolting realization that whatever life I was about to wake up in—

It wouldn't be mine.

Not the way this one had been.

And then even that thought disappeared, crushed under the weight of everything going black all over again.

When I opened my eyes again, there was no pain.

That was the first thing I registered, and it was strange enough that it almost felt wrong. After everything—after the light, the tearing sensation, the certainty that I'd been pulled apart down to the smallest pieces—I expected agony. Screaming nerves. Fire. Something. Instead, there was… quiet. Not peace, exactly, but an absence. Like my body hadn't decided what it was feeling yet.

Then the headache hit.

It bloomed behind my temples, deep and relentless, a pressure that made me wince and squeeze my eyes shut again. Not sharp, not sudden—just awful. The kind of headache that felt soaked into your skull, pulsing in time with your heartbeat. My mouth tasted like bile and regret. My tongue felt thick, useless. Swallowing made my stomach roll in a way that sent an immediate warning shot of nausea up my spine.

Hungover. That was the closest comparison my brain could come up with. Not just "had a few drinks" hungover, either. This was the full package. Dry mouth, dizziness, a body that felt both too light and impossibly heavy at the same time. Like I was wearing myself wrong.

I groaned softly and forced my eyes open again.

The ceiling above me was cracked and stained, the paint yellowed with age and neglect. There was a faint water mark spreading outward like a bruise, frozen mid-creep. A single bare bulb hung slightly off-center, casting weak light that made everything feel smaller, sadder. This was not my bedroom. Not even close.

My heart stuttered.

I sat up too fast and immediately regretted it. The room tilted violently, my vision blurring at the edges as a wave of dizziness crashed over me. I braced myself on the edge of the bed—no, not a bed, a narrow, lumpy mattress on a cheap metal frame—and breathed through it until the spinning eased enough that I didn't feel like I was about to pass out again.

The room was tiny. Barely big enough to turn around without bumping into something. There was a rickety dresser shoved against one wall, its surface scarred with old scratches and cigarette burns. A chair sat in the corner, one leg shorter than the others, leaning like it had given up pretending to be useful. Clothes were piled haphazardly nearby, not dirty exactly, but not clean either. Just… worn. Lived in. The air smelled stale, tinged faintly with old coffee and something metallic.

This felt real.

That thought landed harder than the headache. Dreams didn't usually come with this much sensory detail. Dreams didn't make your stomach flip when you shifted your weight. They didn't leave your muscles aching like you'd slept wrong for three days straight.

I swung my legs over the side of the mattress and nearly fell on my face when I stood. My knees buckled, strength lagging behind intention. I caught myself against the wall, my palm pressing into peeling paint that flaked slightly under my touch.

"Okay," I muttered hoarsely, my voice sounding rough, unfamiliar even to my own ears. "Bathroom. Priority one."

I didn't remember deciding where it was, but my feet carried me there anyway, like they already knew the layout. The door creaked when I pushed it open, revealing a cramped bathroom that looked like it hadn't seen proper maintenance in years. The sink was stained. The mirror was fogged over, clouded by steam that shouldn't have been there because I definitely hadn't taken a shower.

I barely made it to the sink before gagging, dry-heaving as my stomach threatened to revolt. Nothing came up, thankfully, but the effort left me shaky and breathing hard. I turned on the tap and splashed cold water onto my face, gasping slightly at the shock of it. The cold helped, grounding me just enough to keep my legs under me.

I gripped the edge of the sink and let my head hang for a moment, water dripping from my hair and chin. My hands looked… different. Not drastically, but enough that my brain tripped over the sight. Long fingers. Callused in places I didn't remember having calluses. There was a faint scar across the knuckle of my right hand.

Slowly, reluctantly, I lifted my head.

The mirror was still fogged, reflecting only a vague, distorted shape. My pulse started hammering again, harder this time, anticipation and dread tangling in my chest. I wiped my hand across the glass, smearing away the condensation in one uneven swipe.

The face staring back at me was not mine.

It was younger. Sharper in places. Blue eyes that looked too alert despite the exhaustion weighing them down. Brown hair, messy, falling into a familiar, stubborn part no matter how much it had been slept on. There was a faint shadow of stubble along the jaw, like someone who kept meaning to shave and kept forgetting.

My breath left me in a rush.

"Oh," I whispered, my voice barely steady. Then, louder, more reflex than thought, "Oh, you've gotta be shitting me."

I knew this face.

I'd seen it in cutscenes, promo art, remakes and remasters. I'd watched it get bloodied, bruised, terrified, and determined. I'd watched it survive things no one should. The realization hit all at once, heavy and undeniable, slamming into me with more force than any pain ever could.

Leon S. Kennedy stared back at me from the mirror.

Horror, the voice had said. Action. Heroics.

My hands trembled as they braced against the sink.

A hollow laugh slipped out of me, thin and disbelieving.

"Son of a bitch," I muttered, staring at my—his—reflection. "So, that's what you meant."

I am so screwed.

Arsenal597 · 2026-02-08T01:20:41+0000

Alright, so let's just get this straight for a minute. This had to be the worst dream I'd ever had, and that was saying a lot given I'd had some fucked-up dreams. I'd dreamt about alien tornadoes, being stuck in my house while it was lodged at the bottom of a river (I didn't know, either) as King Ghidorah stalked through the darkness, and I'd even had a dream where Tobey Maguire's Spider-Man somehow wandered into the Tom Cruise War of the Worlds film.

Yet this—this was where I felt the most shocked.

I was looking at Leon Kennedy's face in the mirror. I was a fucking Resident Evil character.

In a way, I supposed it made sense. The entire time I'd been off work, I'd been playing those games non-stop. I'd been trying to get through the RE2 Remake so I could get ready for the new game coming out in February. Saying it in my head didn't make it sound any less insane, but there it was. In a way, I guessed it tracked. I'd been off work for months, burning time and sanity playing these games like it was my job. RE2 Remake, over and over. Trying to squeeze every last achievement out of it, trying to be ready for the new game coming out in February like it mattered more than anything else going on in my actual life.

Well. That plan was officially dead.

I'd never thought I'd end up in one of my favorite franchises, but here we were. And honestly? I could've stood there and completely lost my shit about it. Screamed. Hyperventilated. Spiraled until I threw up.

But after the last few months of lying awake imagining what it'd be like to wake up as someone else… what was the point? If there'd been time to ease into this, sure, I probably would've been on the floor having a moment. But I didn't have the luxury of easing into anything. Not as Leon Kennedy.

There was baggage there, obviously. But Leon's history, for the most part, wasn't talked about beyond a few key things. His family had ties to crime, and it ultimately led to his entire family being killed. The only thing that had held Leon together during that time was the aid of a single police officer, which inspired him to follow a similar path. If one person could make a difference for him, he wanted to do the same for others. Everything up to the fall of Raccoon City was vague, but he'd been able to graduate from the police academy at twenty-one and had personally requested to be assigned to the RPD, all because of the murders surrounding the Arklay Mountains.

Beyond that, the only thing that mattered to me was whether it was before or after September 29th, 1998. That was the key to everything. It was the one date that had always stuck with me throughout the Resident Evil timeline, just because of how important it was. It was when Leon and Claire went to Raccoon City. So as much as I wanted to freak out about the fact I might end up facing hordes of undead nightmares, the date mattered more.

I stepped out of the bathroom for the first time since getting up, taking in the apartment completely. The place screamed late nineties in a way that was almost aggressive—like someone had been trying to perfect the aesthetic of the time period. Cheap beige walls with uneven paint coverage. A sagging couch upholstered in a fabric pattern that probably looked trendy once and now just looked tired and outdated. A coffee table with a chipped corner and a ring stain that never quite came out. The carpet was thin, worn down in high-traffic paths, darker where years of footsteps had pressed the life out of it.

The place almost reminded me of the apartments my uncle used to take care of—not that he'd been a shitty maintenance guy or anything, but the tenants always ruined them. He'd have them all set up nicely, and by the time the tenants were gone, normally within a year or two, the place would look like a hurricane had come through.

Stepping further into the apartment, I noticed newspapers littered everywhere. And I meant everywhere. They were scattered messily across the table, the arm of the couch, half-folded on the floor. Headlines blurred together when I tried to skim them—politics, local crime, sports scores—different days, different weeks. They ranged from late 1997 to mid-1998. From what I could tell, the most recent paper seemed to be from around July.

That at least narrowed it. Less than two months. Great.

The TV sat in the corner of the main room, bulky and boxy, the kind that could probably survive a fall from a moving truck. I hit the power button and was rewarded with static—a dull gray snow hissing at me, like the television was sighing for even bothering. I flipped through the channels anyway, my thumb tapping the button with growing irritation. Give me some local news. Public access. Cable. Something.

Of course not. Nothing but static.

I shut it off and let the sudden silence settle. Without the static, the apartment felt louder in its own way. The hum of the refrigerator. The faint tick of a clock somewhere. Too mundane, given how I'd gotten here. Part of me almost wished I'd woken up in my friend's Harry Potter universe instead, just because I'd have been working with more familiar territory.

While I'd been a fan of Resident Evil, I'd been too much of a pussy when I was younger to really handle it. My cousin had the GameCube remake of RE1, and that damn thing had given me nightmares. Being around my dogs had been impossible for a few days out of fear they'd try to eat me. She'd never let me live that one down. I'd been able to watch the films with Alice in them, though anything beyond the first movie had felt like too much of a departure from the territory I knew and loved.

I'd only gotten deeper into the series when 7 came out. Something about the first-person perspective had struck a chord with me, probably because the first horror game I'd ever finished completely was Alien: Isolation. Thank God I hadn't gotten dropped into that world. I'd have been fucked ten times over. I'd played 7, then Village, before circling back to the remakes. Sure, I probably should've gone to the older games, but I'd watched Let's Plays on YouTube due to a lack of hardware. I hadn't had a computer and mostly played on console. Only in the last year or two had PlayStation decided to bring the older generation of Resident Evil games to their catalogue.

Besides, knowing my luck, there was going to be something different about these events to keep me on my toes. I wasn't omniscient, and I doubted the "god" that sent me here would let that happen.

I was losing focus on what mattered right now. Barely twenty minutes into a new world, and I was already reminiscing about my old one. Typical.

I turned away from the TV and kept moving, slower and more deliberate now. The kitchen barely deserved to be called a kitchen. One narrow counter with laminate peeling at the corners. A sink with hard water stains etched permanently into the metal. The cabinets were mismatched, one shade darker than the rest, like it had been replaced after something went wrong and no one had bothered to make it look right. Inside were a handful of dishes, a couple chipped mugs. Nothing that stuck out.

On the side of the fridge, half-hidden behind a pizza magnet, was a calendar.

My breath caught.

It was one of those cheap ones you got for free from a local business. White background. Blue text. A smiling cartoon dog advertising a veterinary clinic at the top. The dates were printed in thick black ink, easy to read from a distance.

August.

Several days were crossed off in pen, quick slashes from someone who didn't care about presentation. My eyes traced them down instinctively until they stopped.

August 22nd.

Nothing past it was marked.

I stared at it for a long moment, my pulse ticking up despite myself. August 22nd, 1998. Over a month before September 29th.

Relief tried to creep in, but I didn't let it get comfortable. A month wasn't long. A month was a blink. Especially when you already knew how the story ended.

I stepped back, scanning the rest of the kitchen. A landline phone was mounted on the wall, the coiled cord stretched slightly too far, like it had been yanked off the hook one too many times. I considered picking it up, checking for a dial tone, but stopped myself. Calling random numbers would raise questions I didn't have answers for yet.

Not smart.

The only clock in the apartment hung crooked above the doorway back into the main room. Analog. Black plastic frame. White face. Roman numerals. The second hand ticked loudly enough to be annoying once you noticed it. I squinted at it, half-hoping—stupidly—that it might tell me more than just the time.

It didn't.

"Oh come on," I groaned, rubbing my eyes. "You couldn't spring for one clock with a date?"

I didn't even know why I was annoyed. It was 1998. This was normal. Digital clocks with date displays existed, sure, but not everyone had them, and Leon didn't exactly strike me as a "fancy clock" kind of guy.

I wandered back into the main room, letting my hand trail along the back of the couch. The fabric was rough beneath my fingers, pilled in spots. Someone's jacket was draped over one arm—leather, worn soft with age. I lifted it, feeling the weight, the faint smell of cigarettes and motor oil clinging to it.

Everything here felt lived in, but not loved. Like the place was temporary, even if Leon hadn't consciously admitted that to himself yet. A crash pad. A stopgap. Somewhere to sleep until the real thing started.

That thought stuck with me as I moved toward the window. I pulled the blinds aside just enough to peer out. Sunlight spilled in, warm and unassuming. The street below was alive in the most boring way possible. Cars rolled past at a steady pace. Someone had parked crooked at the curb, either in a hurry or not caring. A woman walked her dog, tugging lightly on the leash when it tried to sniff something questionable. A guy in a delivery uniform jogged across the street, waving apologetically at a driver he nearly cut off.

No screaming. No sirens. No panicked crowds. No hint that in a little over a month, the world was going to tilt on its axis and never quite right itself again.

I let out a slow breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.

Of course, it was only after that exhale of relief that I realized how utterly dumb it was. If it was August 22nd, there was no reason to be freaking out like the apocalypse was unfolding outside. Leon hadn't gone to Raccoon City yet. He hadn't been assigned to the RPD just yet.

Raccoon City was still just a destination, not a death sentence. Which meant every choice I made from here on out mattered more than I liked.

Standing around in the apartment wasn't going to give me anything else. I'd wrung it dry. Newspapers wouldn't tell me more than I already knew. The TV was dead. The clock was unhelpful. And the calendar had already given me the most important piece of information it could.

I glanced down at myself again. Sweat-damp shirt. Rumpled jeans. That lingering nausea curling unpleasantly in my gut. If I was going to step outside and start engaging with the world—Leon's world—I couldn't do it like this. Not sloppy. Not half-awake. Not smelling like regret.

I needed to clean up. Clear my head. Look like someone who belonged here.

I turned away from the window and headed back toward the bathroom, the decision settling in my chest with quiet finality.

One month.

I didn't know yet what I was going to do with it.

But I wasn't wasting it sitting in that apartment.

I got myself presentable first. That felt important, like if I could get the outside right, maybe the inside would stop vibrating like a blown fuse. A shower helped—mostly. The water stayed lukewarm no matter how much I twisted the knob, and the pipes rattled like they were offended I'd even asked. I scrubbed until my skin felt raw, trying to shake the lingering haze out of my skull. Leon's body was leaner than mine, shoulders broader, muscle memory settling in strange places. When I caught my reflection again, dressed this time, it still felt like borrowing someone else's life without asking. Jeans, boots, a simple jacket that smelled faintly of cheap detergent and something metallic I couldn't place. It fit too well to argue with.

The keys were on the counter by the door. An old-school keychain with a chipped Chicago Bears logo hung from it. I pocketed them and stepped outside.

The air hit me first. Late summer, humid without being unbearable, cicadas screaming like they were being paid by the decibel. The apartment building sat quiet behind me, sun-bleached and tired. Parked along the curb, like it had been waiting for me specifically, was a Jeep Wrangler.

I stopped and stared at it longer than necessary. Olive green, a little scratched up, soft top faded from years of sun. Somehow, I'd forgotten Leon drove a Jeep. I snorted under my breath, shook my head, and unlocked it. I'd always wanted one—something rugged, something that felt like it could survive bad decisions. Funny how life worked out like that. Or unlife. Whatever this was.

Unlike the games, I intended to keep the thing intact for as long as possible. No dramatic explosions. No scripted wrecks. Just me, four wheels, and a rapidly shrinking margin for error. I wasn't optimistic.

The engine turned over with a throaty growl, and I pulled out into the street, driving with the kind of caution you only had when you weren't sure if traffic laws still applied to your existence. The town unfolded slowly, block by block. It was small. Not blink-and-you-miss-it small, but close. One main drag, a couple of side streets branching off like hesitant thoughts. Brick storefronts with sun-faded signage. A video rental place still proudly advertising new VHS releases. A diner with chrome trim and a handwritten sign promising the best pancakes in three counties. It felt normal. Aggressively normal.

Illinois, as it turned out. I found that out from a road sign near the edge of town, pointing toward places I half-recognized and couldn't emotionally afford to investigate. For a moment—a dangerous one—I considered driving toward my real hometown. Seeing what it looked like before everything got complicated. Before I got complicated. But that door stayed shut. Some ghosts were better left unsummoned.

I grabbed food from a little place that served burgers wrapped in wax paper and fries that tasted like they'd been fried in the same oil since George H. W. Bush was president. I ate in the Jeep with the radio on low, classic rock crackling through bad reception. The DJ talked about the weather, a county fair coming up, and then a passing mention of increased disappearances in the Arklay region. That made my jaw tighten. I killed the radio and finished eating in silence.

It was strange to hear that on the radio, but it had never occurred to me where those mountains were supposed to be. Hell, I hadn't even really considered where Raccoon City was. It had to be in the Midwest, if I remembered correctly.

I spent the next hour just driving. Learning the streets. Memorizing turns. Noting where the police station was, the clinic, the gas station that stayed open late. It felt like reconnaissance, even if I pretended it wasn't. When I finally felt like I wasn't completely blind, I parked and pulled out a folded map from the glove compartment. Actual paper. I traced a finger along the roads until I found what I was looking for.

Gun store. Ten minutes away.

Because here was the thing: having just a pistol wasn't going to cut it. Not if even half of what I knew was about to become reality. I wondered if the zombies would be as annoying as they were in the games. If they could withstand multiple headshots, I might as well let them take me now.

The store sat just off the main road, squat and unassuming, with barred windows and a faded American flag hanging by the door. A bell chimed when I stepped inside, and the smell hit me immediately—oil, old wood, and something faintly sharp, like ozone. Racks lined the walls. Rifles, shotguns, handguns behind glass. It felt real in a way that made my shoulders tense.

The owner looked up from behind the counter and blinked.

"Leon?" he said, eyebrows lifting. "What are you doing here? Thought you were gonna head outta town with Lori for the weekend."

Who the fuck was Lori?

I opened my mouth, stalled for half a second, then recovered. "Uh, I still am. Just wanted to see what you had in stock."

He chuckled, leaning back against the counter. "You break the news to her yet?"

"The news?" I asked, raising an eyebrow before I could stop myself.

He squinted at me. "Oh, you drinking again?"

"Had a party last night," I said, rubbing the back of my neck. "Guess I overdid it."

"Well, maybe being near a gun right now isn't the best thing for you then," he said dryly. "But I was talkin' about your assignment. We were talking about it the other day when you came in."

"Right, right." I nodded, hoping the confidence looked real. "Sorry. No, I haven't told her actually. Was going to do it this weekend."

He studied me for a second, longer this time. "Sure that's the right idea?"

"It's better if I tell her sooner than later."

That earned a slow nod. Whatever doubts he had stayed unspoken, and for that, I was grateful. He moved down the counter, unlocking a case as he went.

"How's the VP70 treating you?"

I smiled despite myself. "It's good. But I'd like to broaden my arsenal."

"Rick's wearing off on you, isn't he?"

"You could say that."

He laughed, the sound easy and unguarded. "Might as well get to it. You seem like you're fiending to let off some steam."

I chuckled under my breath, eyes drifting over the racks, the weight of the future pressing in on me from all sides.

Oh, that guy had no idea.

I'd never pretended to be anything special with firearms. I wasn't a crackshot or some range god who could split a playing card at fifty yards, and I'd never told myself I'd suddenly turn into an action hero under pressure. What I did have was familiarity. Enough hours at ranges, enough instruction, enough muscle memory to know what felt right in my hands and what didn't. Enough to be dangerous to the right people—and more importantly, not dangerous to myself.

The owner slid open the glass case and started laying pistols out one by one, the movements easy and practiced. This was routine for him. For me, it felt like shaking hands with old ghosts. Polymer frames, steel frames, different grips, different weights. I picked them up, tested the balance, sighted down imaginary targets on the far wall. Some felt too light. Others too bulky. A few felt fine, but not right. I didn't rush it. Rushing got you sloppy, and sloppy got you killed. I could almost hear that lesson echoing in my head, even if I couldn't tell you where it had originally come from.

Eventually, I settled on the 1911. It felt solid, reassuring in a way modern designs sometimes didn't. Chambered in 10mm, double-stacked with an extended magazine. More punch than I'd strictly need for most situations, but I wasn't shopping for most situations. The weight of it in my hand felt honest. No frills. No nonsense. Just a tool that did what it was designed to do—violently and efficiently.

The owner raised an eyebrow when I told him my choice. "Going old school, huh?"

"Something like that," I said, rolling my wrist, getting a feel for it. The grip sat naturally in my palm, like it had been waiting there.

He nodded approvingly and started pulling extra magazines from beneath the counter. I grabbed a few myself, lining them up like chess pieces. Six magazines total felt right. Enough to last without turning me into a walking ammo crate. A few dozen rounds followed, boxed and stacked, the quiet promise of survival sealed in cardboard and brass.

From there, the conversation drifted toward long guns. He asked questions, I answered, and somewhere in between the shop turned into a blur of wood stocks and matte-black metal. I tested a rifle first—shouldered it, checked the sights, imagined the recoil. It was tempting. Range, accuracy, versatility. But my eyes kept drifting back to the shotgun rack.

In the end, I went with the Benelli M4.

It was overkill for zombies. I knew that. Anyone who'd played the games knew that. Shotguns were great for knocking things down, not so great for conserving ammo or dealing with targets that didn't care about pain. But I wasn't just thinking about shambling corpses. I was thinking about things that ran. Things that climbed. Things that hunted. I was thinking about enemies you didn't want getting close in the first place.

The M4 felt brutal in my hands. Purpose-built. No wasted motion. I cycled it once, feeling the smooth resistance, imagining the thunder it would unleash in a tight hallway. This wasn't a weapon you hesitated with. This was something you committed to.

"Planning on fighting a bear?" the owner asked, half-joking.

"I'd rather be prepared," I said with a smile.

Knives came next. Practicality over flash. A solid combat knife for my belt, balanced enough to be useful without feeling like I was compensating for something. Then the boot knife—small, slim, easy to forget about until you absolutely needed it. Insurance. The kind you hoped you'd never have to cash in.

The machete was his idea.

He pulled it from behind the counter like he was introducing an old friend. The blade was wide, heavy, and wickedly simple. No serrations. No gimmicks. Just sharpened steel and a handle that fit my grip like it had been molded there. I gave it a few experimental swings, slow and controlled, feeling the weight carry through the arc.

"Korek," he said, tapping the flat of the blade. "Good for when you're in the wilderness. It's my go-to."

The name tugged at something in the back of my mind. Familiar, but slippery. I couldn't place it, and that bothered me more than it should have.

"Thanks," I said anyway. It sat well in my hand. That was what mattered.

By the time we were done, the counter was cluttered with receipts, boxes, and the quiet aftermath of big decisions. Leon's finances—my finances, I supposed—were good enough to cover it. No maxed-out cards. No second thoughts. Just a clean transaction that felt ominously final.

The owner rang everything up while I stood there, rolling my shoulders, flexing my fingers. It felt like dust was being shaken loose. Like my body remembered things my mind was still catching up to. The stance came back easily. The way to distribute weight. How to breathe. How to move without thinking about it.

When I finally gathered my purchases, the weight was substantial but manageable. A duffel bag slung over my shoulder, heavier than it had any right to be.

As I stepped back outside, the bell chimed again, cheerful and oblivious. I loaded everything into the Jeep carefully, methodically. Each piece had a place. Each choice had a reason. When I closed the tailgate, the sound echoed a little louder than it should have.

I leaned against the vehicle for a moment, breathing, letting the weight of it all settle.

At least I didn't feel like I was going to be defenseless in a fight now.

The drive back felt automatic, like my body handled it without asking me first. Same roads, same turns, same stoplights, all of it stitched together by muscle memory that didn't belong to me. The Jeep's engine hummed steadily, tires rolling over cracked pavement, and for a few minutes I let myself pretend nothing had changed. That this was just another errand, another day I'd forget by next week.

That illusion didn't survive the parking lot.

I shut the engine off and sat there longer than I needed to, hands resting loosely on the wheel. The duffel bag in the back held weight that wasn't just physical. Preparation. Intent. A future already leaning toward violence whether I liked it or not. Eventually, I grabbed my things and headed inside.

That was when I noticed the answering machine.

The small red light blinked steadily, patient and insistent. One missed call. One message. It felt ridiculous how much weight that tiny light carried. I set the duffel down carefully, like I was afraid it might hear me, and crossed the room. My finger hovered over the button for a second longer than necessary before I pressed it.

Lori, as it turned out, was Leon's girlfriend. She was the one who'd left the voicemail. Her voice filled the apartment, recorded and distant, like it was coming from another life entirely. She sounded tired. Not angry. Not cruel. Just resolved. She explained that she'd stopped by the night before, that she'd known for a while what was coming. She talked about New York. About school. About how distance had a way of turning uncertainty into something sharper. She said she'd found out about Leon's assignment to the RPD and figured it was best if they went their separate ways. She admitted doing it through a machine wasn't fair, but it was easier. Easier than seeing it on my face. Easier than second-guessing herself. She said she hoped I understood.

By the time the tape clicked off, the apartment felt even smaller.

I didn't feel heartbreak. No sharp pain. No tightening in my chest. Just a dull awareness that I'd stumbled into the aftermath of something already decided. Like reading the last page of a book without having read the rest. I understood the logic of it. Long distance. Big life change. Fear. None of it surprised me, even if the person it was happening to technically wasn't me.

Lori existed as a concept. A role. Someone Leon had loved, or had been supposed to love, enough for this to matter. I felt adjacent to it. Close enough to recognize the shape of the emotion without actually holding it. At the end of the day, she was nothing to me—as bad as that might have sounded.

I rewound the tape, listened to it one more time, and then erased it. Carrying it around wouldn't change anything.

There were no tears. No dramatic collapse onto the couch. Just a slow exhale and the understanding that this, too, was part of becoming someone else. Leon Kennedy had a lot of empty space in his life right now. Space I'd just inherited.

I got to work.

The rest of the afternoon blurred into motion. I spread the newspapers out more deliberately this time, sorting through them instead of stepping over them. Arklay Mountains. Missing persons. Strange animal attacks that didn't quite read like animal attacks. Hushed speculation buried halfway down the page, written carefully enough to avoid lawsuits. Umbrella came up more than once, always framed as a benefactor, a cornerstone of the local economy.

Pharmaceutical giant. Research labs. Charitable donations. The kind of company that made sure its name showed up smiling in print.

That alone set my teeth on edge.

I took notes. Dates. Names. Locations. Anything that felt even slightly off got circled. I made a list of the RPD's Special Tactics and Rescue Service members—the ones whose names showed up more often than the rest. Veterans. Transfers. People with military backgrounds. People who didn't scare easily. There was a pattern there, subtle but unmistakable. If anyone in Raccoon City had an idea of how bad things really were, it would be them.

When the newspapers ran out, I moved on to what passed for digital research in 1998. The dial-up connection screamed its way to life, and I waited through it with the patience of someone who knew better than to rush inevitability. Pages loaded slowly, each one feeling like it was being dragged through molasses. There wasn't much. Official statements. Sanitized press releases. Forums full of speculation that danced around the truth without ever quite touching it. Still, every scrap mattered.

By the time the sun started to dip, my eyes burned and my head throbbed, but I felt steadier than I had all day. Knowledge didn't fix anything, but it gave shape to the fear. Made it manageable.

I packed what I could for the inevitable trip. If I showed up too early, I could be a victim. If I showed up too late, something could have gone horribly wrong. Given I remembered correctly, Raccoon City would have been infected for roughly a week before the city was destroyed.

I doubted I'd make much of a difference, but I wanted to try. Leon didn't know what he was getting himself into, but I do.

So, I grabbed clothes that made sense. Nothing flashy. Nothing sentimental. I laid the weapons out once more, checking everything, then stowed them properly. There was a rhythm to it that felt grounding. Familiar.

When that was done, I turned my attention to my body.

Running shoes came out of the closet. Old, but serviceable. I changed, stretched, and headed back outside as the sky deepened into orange and purple. I didn't go far. Just laps around the block at first, feeling out the pace, listening to my breathing. My lungs protested more than I liked. My legs followed shortly after. I pushed anyway.

I ran until the apartment building blurred past me again and again. Until sweat soaked through my shirt. Until the noise in my head quieted enough for me to think straight. I knew what was coming. I knew I'd need stamina more than strength, speed more than brute force. There would be no time to stop and catch my breath when it mattered.

I had a few weeks to prepare myself.

I just hoped that by the time I went to Raccoon City, I'd be ready.

If I wasn't, I'd be a dead man.

Arsenal597 · 2026-02-08T01:24:21+0000

July, 1998.

When Rebecca Chambers awoke to the smell of disinfectant, the steady beeping of a heart rate monitor, and the texture of a rough cotton-polyester blend on her skin, all she felt was disconnect. She remembered going to the Arklay Mountains, but she couldn't remember if she had left it. A part of her was sure that, if she hadn't, Umbrella wouldn't be so considerate as to provide adequate medical attention to someone who tried to tear their experiments down and expose them for all their wrongdoings. So, the probability that she was safe was high.

Except, stranger things have happened.

Perhaps she was too quick to assume she had escaped the horrors she went through. An unconscious reminder that some of the most vile and twisted people imaginable called Umbrella their boss, so this could very well be a cruel game orchestrated by those very people. She was the youngest and less hardened of the S.T.A.R.S. members after all, so she might be susceptible to further psychological damage that was, somehow, worthy of study. Whatever the hell that meant.

When a nurse came to check on her, her paranoia about Umbrella blended with her confusion and fear, so she tried to grab his pen and stab him with it to escape. Later, she would be glad that her injuries were still fresh and all she managed to do was mangle her arm due to her yanking on the IV needle, because that stopped her from hurting an innocent man.

She howled in pain and begged to be let go and, to her shame, tried to bite the nurse when he held her to the bed and called for a doctor. When she saw Barry rush in to see what was going on, she cried and didn't even notice the physician inject her with anesthetics before darkness overwhelmed her.

Blissful unconsciousness was followed and swallowed by images straight out of a nightmare. Horrible monsters, claws and teeth, fangs the size of a man's torso, so much death and despair, followed by the barrel of a gun and white hot pain that engulfed and suffocated her. Then she woke up sobbing and in a cold sweat in the middle of the night before crying herself to sleep as a nurse approached with a needle again.

What brought her out of this spiral was that, one morning, she was given a small flan by the hospital staff to eat. It wasn't anything special; the caramel wasn't as syrupy as it could be and the texture wasn't to her liking, but it reminded her of her grandmother. She'd always made sweets when Rebecca visited her as a kid and flan was her favorite.

Out of everyone she knew, there was a high likelihood that she'd be the only one to find comfort in a sugary treat. Some of the other members of the squad might even make fun of her for that, but right now, she was inclined to tell them all to fudge off.

Even so, her mind never strayed far from the pharmaceutical company. Umbrella couldn't… shouldn't, be aware of this much. The thought that she was still a captive and this would all come crashing down around her was a weight that sprouted wings and bled out of her body, replaced by conviction and reassurance. She escaped. She survived. It was then that she knew she was going to be okay. Perhaps not now, but… one day.

If the events of the mission had taught her anything — besides a deeper appreciation for fire — it was that she wasn't cut out for field work. She was trained, sure; could handle herself in a fight, and shoot a tight cluster ten yards out, but she didn't have the stomach for dirty work like Chris or Jill did. She was only eighteen for Chrissake!

There was a chance that, had the job eased her into things, she could have become the kind of operative that the other S.T.A.R.S. members were. Tough as nails, able to brave everything, and a little bit more mature by necessity. But, with the Ecliptic Express and the Spencer Mansion Incident being her first assignments, that chance was bombed to hell and then some. What a way to baptize her into the big leagues that was; rather than a little hands on experience, a commendation for good service from her superior, and a ticket to better opportunities, all she got was trauma and a bullet to the shoulder.

The last one was the true breaking point. The doctors were quick to point out her good fortunes as the bullet missed her heart by an inch. She smiled at the doctor on duty and off-handedly said she'd be thanking her guardian angel for the luck, but deep down she knew that Captain Wesker could've killed her if he wanted to. The only reason she lived was because that psycho working for Umbrella had ulterior motives and, after seeing the kind of stuff they'd kept hidden, she shivered and blanked out when thinking about what those could be, so she tried not to any more.

After all, if reanimated corpses, mutated leeches, giant serpents, and walking weapons of mass destruction were just the tip of the iceberg, Rebecca surely didn't want to know what else they were capable of.

After that, the doctors started administering sertraline to her too, and while she understood why, it was another thing to be bitter about.

Everything was going to hell in a handbasket and the main thing she'd latched on to was that it was all so unfair. She hadn't asked to be at the center of a massive conspiracy involving one of the biggest, most powerful, and wealthiest conglomerates on the planet. She hadn't asked to be sent into a literal waking nightmare all because of the agency she worked for. But she did, and now she was fearing for her life.

Further reflection of the 48 hours of hell left her thinking back to Billy Coen. He was a clean slate, despite everything. She would keep her word and report that he had died in the MP vehicle crash along with the other casualties, and the team was forced to leave his body behind. That wasn't a problem. Rebecca's trek from the wreckage of the Umbrella facility to the Spencer Mansion was nothing short of life-threatening. Even without the infected subjects running rampant, the wilderness was an unforgiving place.

She hoped Billy had managed to get somewhere safe away from all of this. The former Marine had the capabilities of surviving out there, but given the circumstances, she couldn't help but worry about him. Even if he had survived, trying to find him would be a fool's errand. So, Rebecca pushed herself to believe that Billy had survived the forest, made it out alive, and was starting fresh somewhere.

If she was lucky, perhaps they'd meet again one day. Now that was a thought that brought a smile to her face.

A knock on the door broke her out of her reverie. It was one of the nurses on shift saying she had a visitor. She didn't bother with much of a reply, not that it would have stopped the large, muscled man that walked in. His short brown hair was receding and the rest was combed back, stubble on his square jaw that was beginning to grow scraggly. He wore a simple S.T.A.R.S. white t-shirt, bootcut jeans, and a pair of Timbs.

"Hey, Becky." Barry said, baritone voice calm but with such a soft edge to it that it turned brittle.

The nickname would've brought a smile to her lips in the past. It was a cute and endearing name, but she wasn't feeling much like a 'Becky' these days. The silence stretched, and Barry tried to not fidget as she kept staring at the birds bathing in the soft morning light through the window.

"It's…. good to see you're doing okay."

She didn't feel the need to point out the lie. Barry pressed on, unaware of the way her eyebrow twitched at the sentence.

"They did a good job. The doctors, that is. The bullet went clean through so it was only a matter of stitching up the wound and bandaging."

"How long?" Her voice was hoarse from… she didn't want to think about it. Rebecca turned her head, locked eyes with the lieutenant, and she caught the minute flinch that Barry was a bit too slow to hide. It was clear that exhaustion had taken its toll on both of them, but Rebecca had an inkling she'd drawn the short end of the stick when it came to the look-like-death-warmed-over competition.

"Just short of three days. It's… it's over." He'd taken the few steps needed to come closer to her bed and sat on the visitor's chair next to it.

Rebecca searched his expression for a while longer then tore her gaze away to look down at her bandaged arm — offering a half-hearted nod that she'd heard him.

"I made sure to requisition S.T.A.R.S. for some of that emergency medicine the eggheads were developing. You just need to hang in there for a little while longer."

The earnest camaraderie caused her to purse her lips and to swallow a thick lump in her throat.

"Hey, it's okay. You'll be green soon enough and then we'll get even with Umbrella. Together."

Barry reached out to hold her hand, and that only heightened the guilt that gnawed at her insides. It was a nice sentiment, but it wouldn't bring Enrico, Kenneth, or Forest back. She wasn't even surprised to learn they had all died when Jill told her, which only hurt more. Then there was Edward and… she wasn't going to think about it.

Suffice it to say, she couldn't envision a future where she was a member of S.T.A.R.S. for much longer.

"Are Jill and Chris…?"

"They're okay. They've been talking about what we went through to anyone who'd hear; even I was getting in touch with other S.T.A.R.S. branches to see if they've encountered similar incidents, to mixed results. Captain Trapp from the Maine Branch mentioned he might be onto something, but it's too early to tell."

"And… what about…" Rebecca's mouth went dry. Her throat refused to move. She felt unshed tears prickle the corner of her eyes and the darkness came crawling from within, threatening to tear her out from within.

The pressure coming from the hand atop hers tightened and that grounded her. It was only then that Rebecca noticed that she was short of breath. A few seconds passed with Barry looking at her and rubbing her knuckles in a lazy figure eight with his thumb.

"He's gone, Rebecca. There was no body."

Somehow, the only answer she had to that was a hollow 'oh'. It was vacant and not at all enough to express the convoluted mess of emotions that she felt, but it was the only thing her brain could conjure.

"Chief Irons called a meeting of all remaining S.T.A.R.S. members of the RC branch as soon as he heard about what happened and read our reports. I'm sure we'll hear what the agency will do next."

Rebecca swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded.

"Okay…"

"Okay?" he repeated.

"Okay."

Barry paused as he searched her face for something she couldn't discern. After a while, he appeared satisfied by what he saw and he let her hand go. What followed were another twenty or so minutes of more idle talk and bonding until the nurse said his visiting hour was up. He placed a few Reese's cups next to her bed as a get well present and left Rebecca to recover.

She was thankful for his attempts at warmth and protectiveness, but she couldn't help but wonder if he too would be covered in blood and smelling of rotten filth when next they met. Rebecca turned away from the door and huddled in her rough, cotton-polyester sheets, in a desperate bid to seek comfort after that thought.

At least Barry wasn't lying when he said she wouldn't spend too much longer at the hospital. If there was something to be thankful to S.T.A.R.S. for was their excellent funding — which equated to equipping their operatives with the best gear possible, within reason. It was amazing to see her bullet wound disappear almost overnight and for her to be discharged by the end of the week.

So, all she had to show that she'd survived the Arklay disaster was her arm in a sling, and even that was more out of excess caution than pure necessity. Besides that, she now carried a Glock 20 chambered in 135gr. Jacketed hollow point 10mm AUTO in her holster, rather than the Beretta 92FS that was standard issue to S.T.A.R.S. members.

As much as Kendo's pride and joy served her well, the reality was that the Samurai Edge really wasn't up to snuff when going against the kinds of monsters that Umbrella could throw at them in droves. She wouldn't let an ineffective firearm stop her from protecting herself or her friends, ever again, regardless of her decision to leave S.T.A.R.S.. There was no way she could live with herself if she didn't give it her best.

That was all she could do besides offering a prayer, and God apparently had gone deaf as of late.

It was with this attitude that Rebecca walked into the R.P.D., sending a few polite hello's and good-to-see-you's to passers-by, and headed to the front desk to log her arrival. As she jotted down on the books, she kept noticing out of the corner of her eye how some officers were doing a piss poor attempt at masking their speed-walking around her. She could also pick up whispers and furtive glances that would halt whenever she'd look back at them. She rolled her eyes over the whole school yard charade.

"Jackasses," Rebecca muttered under her breath as she wrote the date and time.

"Can't really blame them." The man behind the counter said as she flicked her eyes to him before signing her name off with a flourish.

"Well, I didn't exactly sign up to be the main attraction for the shop's monkey zoo. If only these guys would take the hint for once." She pointed her pen to a group then sighed and sent a piercing glare at no one in particular.

The officer, a black man of average height and with his hair in a buzz cut, looked up from his work to look at her, back at the group, then shrugged.

"What did you expect? Twelve of our most well-trained boys go off on a mission and only five come back, injured to shit. That and details about the reports being sketchier and more redacted than the O.J trial? That gets people talking. Well, some more than others." Lieutenant Branagh shrugged.

Now that was a juicy bit of gossip she saw no problem partaking in, but that still didn't explain why everyone was treating her like she had the plague. Of course, given everything that went down, it was probably better to be safe. At her curious look, Branagh sighed then motioned for her to lean over as he did so, and Rebecca obliged.

"Look, I don't know what's going on. Redfield and Valentine have been very vocal about something or another, and the brass is not happy about it. Just… keep it cool a'ight? Wouldn't want you to get into a fucking mess that could cost ya more than you bargained for."

"Sure, I understand. Thanks, Marv." She nodded and smiled at the lieutenant, then handed him the pen.

"No worries, kid. Now, you might wanna get outta here. Chief Irons is waiting for you in his office."

Rebecca waved him goodbye and went on her way. She paid little attention to the odd, far too elaborate, and gaudy appearance of the R.P.D. with its marble floors and columns, varnished wood, and multitude of statues. Despite what most would expect, one could grow accustomed to it after enough time passed, even if the question as to why someone would retrofit a museum into a police department kept making the rounds among the force every few months or so.

She made her way upstairs and saw a group of officers, right outside the door to the waiting room, who were acting in such a way as to warrant a ticket for loitering. Rebecca suppressed a groan as she walked over, but she couldn't deny the feeling of smug satisfaction when they fell silent and scampered off at her baleful look. With a quick turn of the knob, she opened the door and stopped at the threshold dead in her tracks.

Chris and Jill were sitting on the two sofas arranged in an L-shape at the left of the room, each occupying one of them. Jill had her feet on the coffee table and arms crossed under her chest as she glared at Chief Iron's secretary behind the reception desk on the far side of the room, who withered under her glare, but also looked annoyed. Meanwhile, Chris sat hunched over and with his legs splayed, arms resting on his knees and hands clasped together, as he looked at the ground deep in thought.

Brad was on the right, opposite Jill and Chris, sitting on one of the armchairs and failing to pretend to read a magazine. He looked uncomfortable with the whole situation and, from what little she'd seen of the group, Rebecca couldn't blame him. After a short while looking for the big lug, she found Barry on the very corner of the room, next to the cold drinks vending machine, with his back leaned against the wall and arms also crossed.

He raised a two finger salute without uncrossing his arms when she saw him. Rebecca smiled at him as she closed the door behind her and cocked her eyebrow at Barry then tilted her head at the group in a silent question. The man's face fell from utter tiredness and raised his upturned hand and delivered a half shrug as if the gesture explained everything about their current situation. Which, to Rebecca, it somehow did.

Well, she'd long outlived her chance to complain about being the social lubricant to a bunch of dysfunctional and disgruntled police officers. At least these were hers.

"Hey Brad, it's good to see you well. I don't think I had the chance to thank you for coming through with the rescue, so thanks a lot for that."

That had an immediate effect as Brad perked up and looked somewhat abashed at the genuine and heartfelt compliment. He closed the magazine and proceeded to roll it up in his hands, which Rebecca figured was a way to deal with his nervousness.

"There's no need to thank me, I was just doing my job."

"Still. Had you called off the evacuation, I don't think any of us would've made it out of there."

The possibility caused a deep frown to cross Brad's face and he was quick to reject the mere thought.

"I wasn't about to let all of you down when you needed me the most. That's something that hasn't happened with S.T.A.R.S. yet and I'd be damned if I was gonna let it start then."

Rebecca smiled and raised her fist.

"And that courage is why you deserve the compliment. So just accept it, Brad. You saved our bacon."

He took a while to digest her words then nodded to himself in acceptance and sent her a wide, warm smile then bumped her fist.

"Thanks, Rebecca."

They allowed themselves to bask in the warmth of the moment for as long as they dared.

"So…" She dragged the word out and let it linger as she turned to address the room, "you guys been waiting for long or…?"

"Half an hour beyond the scheduled time, at least. Irons is playing games by jerking us around and reminding us of his authority. That would've been bad enough under normal circumstances, but we don't have time for posturing when Umbrella is still out there doing God knows what." Jill's tone was filled with venom and she had no compunctions about making her displeasure known.

"An investigation of this size needs to be airtight and above board and such a thing takes time, Jill. I've said this before." Chris sounded like he'd said these exact words at least half a dozen times.

Jill hit the coffee table with her foot, almost causing the potted plant to topple, then turned to her partner and started to gesticulate as she spoke in an even more agitated tone.

"I get that, but we could still be doing a preliminary investigation and gathering evidence to build a case while we wait for the op to be green lit. Everyone here agrees that Umbrella has to be stopped and we're all ready and willing to commit a hundred and ten percent to that goal."

Jill paused and, with a sarcastic smile, her voice went sardonic.

"Except, instead of the Chief sending us out there, ever since we got back all we've done is write reports then sit around with our thumbs up our asses. That's bullshit, Chris, and you know it."

Chris had nothing to say to that, but the way his knuckles turned a shade more white was very telling of his opinion. Rebecca wasn't about to intrude in whatever live wire mess whatever this was so she decided to just get cosy and wait. Which turned out not to be long at all as soon they were allowed to proceed to Irons's office.

Rebecca never liked Chief Irons's taste in décor. Although, she couldn't say she hated each individual part of it in isolation, or the overwhelming smell of glue and sandalwood. It wasn't the moss green gothic revival wallpaper, the taxidermy pieces, or the various trinkets and mementos from his career as a police officer on display. But, something about all of it put together in one room made her feel a clinging unease that she couldn't shake.

Truth be told, none could deny that all of it played a big role in someone's first impression of the Chief.

The man himself was, by far, the standout feature in his office. He was a man past his prime and portly, sitting behind his wooden desk on his large leather office chair. A substantial gut from a diet of red meat, bourbon, and cigars strained his graphite grey vest while his pressed white shirts always seemed a bit translucent from sweat. Both his short hair and moustache were slate grey in colour and he had beady eyes, with large bags under them, and his face was wrinkled and with pudgy cheeks.

He barely glanced up from the files on his desk to address them.

"I would tell you all to sit down, but this shouldn't take too long and there aren't enough chairs in my office for the five of you anyway."

Rebecca recognized the tone and braced herself for a tongue-lashing.

"Got some important developments to share with you: the National Guard stepped in to help us contain the forest fires that resulted from the incident and the press bought the story that this was a faulty gas line explosion, so we've avoided any possible fallout and widespread panic that could've come out of this mess.

"Your reports were read and passed on to Mayor Warren who, following my advice, felt it prudent to contact the FBI due to the more… spectacular events described in your accounts. Should they find anything actionable, they'll take over the investigation while we provide support for their agents.

"Suffice it to say, this is no longer under the sole purview of the R.P.D. so we'll be proceeding with the restructuring of S.T.A.R.S. into a new unit and reassign you to new positions."

A stunned silence reigned for several seconds afterward as the five of them processed what the Chief just said and Jill was the first to recover.

"You're disbanding S.T.A.R.S.? You can't be serious, why would you do that?" she asked incredulously.

"Valentine, this is not a disbandment. Think of it as a restructuring. The Alpha and Bravo units were built with appropriate tactics based on a core six man team and you've all lost too many members to operate at full combat effectiveness." Irons explained, closing the folder in front of him.

Jill took a few steps toward the Chief's desk.

"We can just get one of the new incoming recruits and train them up to fill the empty slots! We need all the hands we can get to stop Umbrella-"

"A year or two using department resources to train one agent up to S.T.A.R.S. standards is a cost we can't afford right now when I could get ten officers instead. The fires made a mess up and down the Arklay Mountains, we got dozens of missing persons reports since, and the Feds will want to make use of our manpower if they decide to investigate. I need more bodies right now, not deadlier guns."

"This is fucking–"

Jill's tirade was cut short as Chris placed his hand on her shoulder and gave her a meaningful look. She grunted and took a step back.

"With all due respect sir, but Umbrella is still out there and we don't know what they're up to. I feel that investigating them is of vital importance and our best bet is to make use of S.T.A.R.S. assets. At least let us start a taskforce and–"

"Let me stop you right there, son." The Chief interrupted by putting his hand up. "Redfield, I understand that you feel it's your obligation to step up and lead S.T.A.R.S. in these dark times after the unfortunate deaths of both Captain Wesker and Captain Marini, but you forget that this unit answers to myself and Mayor Warren first and foremost. I'm not about to let you go on a personal vendetta against a megacorporation when you could do more good elsewhere."

"But you read the reports, you know what happened and what we went through."

"Yes, but where's the evidence? It's the word of five of my agents against Umbrella, and no Judge is gonna go out on a limb and accept a case with no proof even if it's for officers of the law. To say that pursuing this – to put frankly – wild goose chase, would be a waste of time is an understatement. Hell, I got less than two hundred personnel on staff and I'd bet my left nut that number wouldn't fill half of Umbrella's Chicago headquarters. What would the five of you be able to accomplish really? It'd be different if there was any evidence to substantiate this claim."

"But sir-" Rebecca started to chime in, but the look in his eyes as he turned toward her made her blood chill.

"I understand this is not what any of you wanted to hear. I'm not happy about this, either. Losing six of our best in a matter of forty-eight hours over a situation like this isn't ideal. But please… accept that this case is completely out of your hands, let the Feds take care of things, and move on."

This was when Jill barged past Chris and slammed her hands on Irons's desk.

"Move on? Move on!? What about justice for our comrades, huh? What about all the empty caskets of those who served and died in the fucking woods because of Umbrella and that snake, Wesker? What are we gonna tell their next of kin? 'Sorry, but we couldn't do shit'? How could you suggest that!?"

The Chief's expression turned to absolute ice and an awful feeling crawled down Rebecca's spine as she saw something shift behind his eyes.

"Redfield, tighten the leash around your partner before her words dig a hole you can't climb out of."

"Umm… guys?"

The meek interjection caused every pair of eyes in the room to land on Brad, who swallowed his nervousness and pressed onwards.

"Maybe we should take the Chief's suggestion and step back for a little bit? It feels like we're being too gung ho about this."

Jill was the first to round on Brad.

"What the hell, Brad. You saw that absolute monstrosity that nearly killed us all on the helipad and you're telling me you want to let the people who can do that off the hook?"

"That's not what I said! All I'm saying is that maybe going in half-cocked isn't the best idea–"

"We know what we're up against now and we won't be caught with our pants down again. Which is why I want us to keep up the pressure! Umbrella is on the back foot and running damage control so they're bound to slip up. If we swoop in while they're vulnerable and secure better intel to hand to the FBI, the NSA, or whoever, we can stop whatever it is they're doing and take them down sooner."

Brad frowned and he squared up with Jill, now face to face.

"Even if it means putting S.T.A.R.S. and the R.P.D. into more risk?"

"I'm not about to let Umbrella get away with the death of our friends. I thought you all wanted to pay them back as much as I do, but I guess I expected too much from you."

Jill jabbed her finger into Brad's chest at the final word, but Barry stepped in and shoved her backwards and away from the guy.

"Knock it off, Jill. You're going too far." Barry tried to interject, but Jill pushed his arm away.

"You can't expect me to believe that you agree with this, Barry. After what Wesker did, you can't tell me that you're not-"

"I want this just as much as you do, Jill. But this is only proving the Chief right. We're not going to be able to accomplish anything if we stand here and fight like a pack of dogs."

"No, we're not. But it doesn't help when you got a fucking chickenshit that won't stand up for what's right!" Jill barked, pointing at Brad again. "Oh, I'm sorry… Chickenheart Vickers? Isn't that what people like calling you? I always thought it was them being cruel, but it's right on the money."

Brad stepped back, his lips curling downward at the nickname.

"Jill, come on…" Rebecca sighed disappointedly. "We're all on the same team."

"You left us to die, Brad! So what if you came back? You left us for dead, and only came back out of a guilty conscience!" Jill's voice was shaking now as Barry fought to stay between the two.

"What was I supposed to do? Huh? You saw what happened to Bravo Team's chopper! If I had stayed, I would have died! Then how in the hell would you guys have gotten out of there?"

"You could have done anything! But no, you ran away like a coward! And now that you have the fucking chance to do something, you're still too afraid! We got the resources at our disposal to make a difference and I'm being expected to do nothing? If only this fat son of a bitch stopped stonewalling us, we–"

That was when the sound of a heavy chair scraping the floor and a thunderous slam rang out through the office like a gunshot. The Chief had risen from his seat, almost knocking his chair over in the process, and his face was reddened and apoplectic with rage.

"Enough! I allowed you to air your grievances, but I won't tolerate this behaviour. You are all suspended until further notice, effective immediately, and S.T.A.R.S. will be restructured into a new group pending recruitment quotas and that's final. You can thank Ms. Valentine for that."

Then he jabbed his pointer finger, letting it scan across their group.

"And if I catch even a single whiff of any of you using R.P.D. resources to continue this misguided vendetta of yours, then you will all wish the only thing I'd done was strip you of your rank then throw your sorry asses out on the street for insubordination. Got that!? Now pack your shit and get the fuck out of my sight."

Once again, Jill was the first to move as she stormed out of the office and slammed the door shut behind her with such force that Rebecca could swear she saw the wall ornaments and trinkets wobble. Chris looked like he'd swallowed a lemon and rubbed his face before following to try to stop Jill from committing arson. Meanwhile, Rebecca sighed and was now filled with awkward and nervous energy.

That went about as well as she expected.

Any further talk with Irons over the suspension either led nowhere or he wouldn't even entertain it. Soon, it had been over a month since he kicked the now ex-S.T.A.R.S. officers out of the R.P.D. and, from what she heard Branagh say, he seemed pleased about the development. Well, if his enjoyment boiled down to petty paybacks at Jill, Rebecca supposed he got what he wished for. Kinda sucked she was roped into it, though.

With so much free time on her hands, Rebecca found the best medicine to the looming terror of Umbrella was to keep busy. She opted to make use of her skills and training to help the community; CPR and first aid lessons, volunteering as a nurse at the local hospital, and helping staff the city's blood drives.

Still, despite her trying, she had a few chunks of time to squeeze something in between volunteer work, physical fitness, and keeping her shooting sharp. Being studious was a trait she took pride in, evident by her getting her Bachelor's degree early. So, studying always came easy to Rebecca and the events up in the Arklay got her thinking.

All those experiments and cutting-edge science, mutants, zombies, and the T-virus. This was all a long-term project and Umbrella had to have pumped several millions – if not billions – of dollars into. They wouldn't stop after one setback or after the loss of a single facility. Something deep in her bones told her they'd only face deadlier and more grotesque creatures in the future and any advantage S.T.A.R.S., or whatever they'd call themselves from now on, could get was a precious one.

That was how she came to the conclusion to study and start her application process to get a PhD in virology. Umbrella had to have come across some basic principle or a core mechanism that enabled their experiments to progress to such a degree. There was logic behind it, they just couldn't see it yet.

So Rebecca took it upon herself to figure it out.

There was a bit of selfishness to this plan, truth be told. Unlike Jill or Chris, she saw little value in storming the gates of Umbrella with guns blazing like a bull in a china shop then walking away half-dead and bloodied. She'd much rather prevent these atrocities from happening in the first place or, at the very least, mitigate the damage they could cause and save lives in the process. That it also kept her away from the frontlines while still being able to contribute needn't be said.

She liked to think Barry would be proud of her decision. After the dissolution of S.T.A.R.S. he didn't really see a reason to stick around much longer and left to stay with his wife and daughter in Canada. If she were put into the same position, Rebecca figured she would have done the same thing. Having Wesker threaten his family must have put a horrible toll on him, and getting away from Raccoon City was probably for the best. She'd wished him the best, thankful for everything he'd done for her in the past.

He did leave her with Captain Trapp's contact for when he'd come calling after finding information and told her to give a kick in Chris and Jill's behinds if they started acting like boneheaded mules. That got a chuckle out of her and she promised to do so.

Chris didn't show it often, but he was very committed to bringing Umbrella down. He felt he'd failed the team with every loss they suffered even though no one blamed him for any of it. It didn't matter; he took to training and sharpening his skills with such a single-minded focus that it scared Rebecca to consider. The suspension Irons had ordered the team differed between each of the members, with Chris being back after two weeks. Though, Chris certainly was pushing his limit. Branagh had told her that it was to the point now that Chris had to be put on leave until further notice after an altercation with a fellow officer. While Branagh didn't specify what exactly happened, Rebecca concluded it must have gotten physical.

More so than anything, Chris would drop off the grid overnight and be unreachable until he showed up a week later and with new scars and bandages to match. Chris never talked about it, so Rebecca didn't ask. He reached out the other night to say that he was leaving the country to go to Europe for a 'much-needed vacation.' So, he wasn't going to be around for a while.

Brad was… a mixed bag. The pointed words he received from Jill bothered him something fierce, yet he was firm in his belief that they shouldn't be so cavalier about Umbrella; that it'd be dangerous to underestimate them, and Rebecca found herself agreeing with the man.

But she also thought that his speaking out against Jill's plan was a bad move, considering it showed S.T.A.R.S. wasn't a united front, which might have been the weakness that Irons needed to justify his hardline stance in dissolving their team. Alas, there was nothing they could do about it now. Brad was back at the R.P.D. and seemed the safest out of the entire bunch, even if it was due to the fact he was too timid to speak out against Irons; Rebecca didn't blame him though. While they were only suspended, pushing the matter would only mean Irons would fire them. This way, they were still getting paid.

That left Jill and, while Rebecca was quite sure the rest of the team had some severe issues with emotional constipation, the only other female member of S.T.A.R.S. was someone Rebecca knew she could relate to and find some middle ground with in all of this. She also wouldn't need to deal with machismo and being demeaned for her gender and age, so that was always a plus. Only, she had all but disappeared this last month and, unlike Chris, this wasn't her usual M.O. and Rebecca had a bad feeling about it.

Marvin was kind enough to provide her with Jill's address without too much of a fuss, which Rebecca was thankful for. A detour was taken to her favorite coffee shop in town, where she grabbed a few puff pastries and two cups of medium roast coffee to go. The car smelled of a delicate blend of caramel notes and fresh-baked goods.

After she parked and made her way into the building, stepping off the lift on the correct floor, Rebecca had to check the apartment number twice; not because she was lost, as she still had the note Marvin gave her, but rather that some stubborn part of her brain was unable to comprehend that someone like Jill Valentine would choose to live here.

The hallway had this distinct smell of mold, and she saw one of the largest rats she'd ever seen scurry around the far corner into a hole. The lights overhead flickered with the same tired rhythm as the emergency indicator ones in the Spencer Mansion. The eerie similarities made an uncomfortable knot form in Rebecca's throat as she clutched the paper bag a bit tighter. Jill always took her coffee black and Rebecca had remembered that, figuring it'd be a nice gesture — or a way to break the ice.

Now, she wondered if it'd matter at all.

Rebecca took a deep sigh filled with only mild regret at the smell that assaulted her nostrils, then stepped forward and knocked on the door. There was no answer. She waited a full thirty seconds before a second set of knocks, full on fist pounds this time. The sound echoed down the hallway. A quick noise of something metallic colliding with glass emanated from within the room followed by a sharp, controlled inhale.

"Jill…? It's me, Rebecca."

Another pause stretched long enough to feel intentional; to see if this was a ploy, rather than a casual visit. Then came the rapid clicks of locks – far, far too many than it'd be necessary for a run-of-the-mill MDF door – being undone. The action was devoid of any hesitation due to muscle memory, or a reflex drilled too deep to unlearn.

After what felt like an eternity, the door opened but an inch, the chain still on, and one bloodshot eye, ringed purple, appeared in the gap. It scanned the hallway beyond, left then right, followed by Rebecca's hands, before those blue irises – whose colour appeared dulled – landed on her face. The door slammed shut again without warning and Rebecca flinched. Before she had time to process it, she heard the chain slide free and the door opened again, wide enough for her to enter.

Rebecca managed to take only a couple steps beyond the threshold before she forgot how to breathe. The small studio apartment looked less like a living space and more like the aftermath of an explosion. Papers were everywhere; not stacked or filed, but scattered like cellulose avalanches, taped to the walls, or layered over furniture.

There were newspaper clippings, corporate filings, handwritten notes, and grainy photographs, all stitched together with red yarn and brass tracks driven into the drywall at crooked angles. Printed emails and photocopied reports had entire paragraphs blacked out in permanent marker.

Umbrella logos were circled again and again until the paper tore.

The air was stale and morphed into a pungent concoction of sweat, old coffee, and something medicinal. There were empty mugs littered atop almost every flat surface, each had brown rings underneath them, while the ones that had toppled were glued in place by their dried up content. Take-out containers sat opened, many piled into one another, and found everywhere too while their contents were long past being recognisable for what they once were if it weren't for the logos that adorned the packaging. A trash bag slumped in the corner, overfull and split, its contents spilled like the guts of a disembowelled cadaver no one had the energy to clean up.

In the middle of it all was Jill Valentine and the sight filled Rebecca with guilt and pity.

This was a woman that had always been solid and assured. Someone who knew the steps needed to accomplish whatever she set her mind to and the will to see it through. Now she looked like someone had shattered her spirit and thrown her overboard without a compass.

Her hair hung limp and uneven, like she'd hacked at it with a knife weeks ago and never bothered fixing it. Her posture was wrong too, with shoulders too hunched over and spine bent as if she were a split second away from bolting as fast as her feet could carry her. The oversized S.T.A.R.S. sweatshirt she wore was threadbare and bore far too many stains that glued the fabric to her skin. Her hands, smudged with ink and highlighter residue, twitched and kept pulling at her sleeves to cover them like armour that no longer fit. She smelled like she hadn't showered in days. Or weeks.

Rebecca took a step closer on instinct, bag of pastries and cup tray between them, and Jill flinched. It was a quick thing, professional almost, but unmistakable to someone who's had the same training she did. There was sharp recoil, a tightening of her shoulders, her weight shifted to her pivot leg and her hand reached for a holster that she wasn't wearing. Rebecca froze.

"Sorry," Rebecca said, the word coming out on autopilot. "I— sorry. I should've warned that I was coming by."

"...You shouldn't be here." Jill's voice was hoarse and it took far too long for Rebecca to realize that her lips were chafed and cracked. She pursed her own.

"It's okay. It's just me. I got coffee and pastries. I offer baked goods as tribute." Rebecca smiled softly.

Jill's eyes tracked the cups and the bag as Rebecca lifted them to draw attention to them then they snapped right back to her face before sliding over her shoulder. The tension eased by a fraction, redirected somewhere else. Jill placed a hand on Rebecca's shoulder and pulled her deeper into her home before triple checking outside then closing the door and locking it.

"Okay. Just… just don't sneak up on me. And don't touch anything." Jill said as she walked past Rebecca to go back to working on whatever she was up to before the interruption.

Rebecca nodded and remained silent for now as she observed more of the space she found herself in. The couch was buried beneath binders and maps, while the paintings and photo frames from the walls were all pushed against a corner and covered by a layer of dust. In their place, a timeline stretched from floor to ceiling with 'Raccoon City, 1968' as the epicenter which branched out like a tumour. The blinds were drawn to block out the outside world and the only source of light was a faulty JVC television set to NBC that bathed the room in an ever-shifting kaleidoscope of bluish grey. There wasn't a bed in sight.

"I uhh…. figured you might've forgotten that food exists. So I brought you some snacks."

"That wasn't necessary. Calories are replaceable." Jill muttered without so much as expending any energy to think on the gesture.

"So are soldiers… doesn't mean they're expendable," Rebecca muttered under her breath which went unheard by Jill as she reached for a plastic overlay sheet and laid it atop the main map she was working on. "When was the last time you ate?"

Jill ignored the question, her demeanor becoming more agitated as she spoke again, pointing at the lines drawn.

"I was right, Rebecca. We're letting our opportunity slip. They didn't stop, won't stop. Umbrella never confirms anything directly; it's all subsidiaries, shell companies, and asset transfers. Tracking the money is useless, but people? You follow the personnel and patterns start emerging, but now we gotta dig sideways. That's how deep the rabbit hole goes, but that's expected. All we need is to stay sharp and not hesitate."

As Jill explained, Rebecca inched closer, but her foot clipped a table and a stack of dirty plates wobbled then collapsed. The ensuing crash was like a gunshot, ceramic exploded across the floor as shards skittered outward. By a miracle, Rebecca didn't drop anything, but it wasn't the plates that left her startled and with her heart lodged in her throat.

Because Jill now had a gun pointed at her. Despite the absolute mess, Jill knew where every little thing was, and in a single fluid movement she'd spun and her arms rose along with the Beretta to take aim. Her hands and breath were steady and the barrel settled on Rebecca's chest near her heart without conscious thought. Like Wesker had done. Rebecca saw the calculations behind Jill's eyes as she gauged distance and performed threat assessment.

"Jill… Jill, it's me." Rebecca would forever thank her lucky stars for her training, for her voice was far more calm and steady than she felt.

Jill took her form in; coffee cups and pastry bag still in her hands, far away from the firearm on her hip, and the open expression on her face. A tense moment lapsed. The gun lowered in a slow, deliberate fashion. Not enough to stop her from finding her target in a fraction of a second, but angled down so as to not be lethal.

"Reflex. You make noise, you get accounted for."

Her voice was emotionless and her eyes drifted, lazy, to the broken plates then back to Rebecca.

"I can't afford to hesitate. Not again. If Umbrella comes through that door and I'm half a second too slow, then I'm dead. And if I'm dead, then everything I've tried to accomplish is buried with me." She gestured to the space around them to prove her point.

Rebecca could feel the rush of blood in her head and her heartbeat thundered in her ears.

"I understand, Jill."

Only now did she put the gun down on the table, still within reach, then stared down at the maps as she continued to speak.

"Instincts kept us alive in that mansion. I won't let them dull from disuse; not when they're still out there, waiting. All they would need is one bullet. Enrico is proof of that."

Rebecca noticed how her hands twitched and tightened into fists; the shake in her arms and how her breaths became more shallow. Jill's voice hardened further and was laced with urgency.

"Every time someone lets their guard down, they die. Every time I'm not alert, they die. If I falter, if I get comfortable, if I grow complacent… everyone dies."

Jill shook her head and Rebecca could swear she heard her take a shuddering breath. She let a few seconds pass to see if Jill would say anything more and when she didn't, Rebecca took slow, methodical steps, being careful to make them audible, but not too harsh so as not to disturb her comrade. Her arm pushed a few papers strewn atop the table away so she had room to place the coffee and pastry bag on. Everything was done with such gentleness that it made the process almost feel like an offering to an angry spirit.

"Then let me help you. Exhaustion is the root cause of most mistakes and even sharp instincts can misfire when the body's failing."

Her words were steady and earnest and Rebecca picked one of the cups to hand it to Jill. She studied it then reached out and popped the lid to smell the now lukewarm liquid within. In the first genuine show of emotion that she'd seen from the older woman, Jill's lips quirked up in the faintest of smiles.

"…You remembered how I take it."

"I am very good at remembering things."

Jill brought the cup to her lips and took a single sip then she spent another few moments looking at nowhere in particular. Both her hands wrapped around the warm cup and Rebecca waited in silence. Jill let out a slow, controlled breath, sat the cup down, then reached for a chair that had been pushed aside to give Rebecca some room to sit.

"Fine, you can help me cross-reference, but if you slow me down…" She trailed off but the threat was implied. Rebecca sat on the offered chair, close enough to share the coffee and pastries, but not enough to crowd her.

"I won't. I'll be here and help you through this so you won't have to pull this off alone."

The comment made Jill look up and actually take in her surroundings now and the scope of it. The piles and piles of documents, the strings of connections, and scraps of evidence. Her eyes narrowed and her jaw set.

"Good. Because I'm not stopping."

Rebecca didn't comment, but she believed her and the conviction she saw crystallized her own. She would find her own path and support her brothers in arms as best she could, in any way she could, so none of them would ever again face Umbrella's horrors alone.

But if she was going to do it, she needed her friends to be in the best condition they could; and from where she was standing, Jill needed some serious rest. She was in a similar boat, herself. So often, Rebecca was haunted by the nightmares of Umbrella's creations. It was hard for her to sleep most nights, but she forced herself to because the latter option was to fall apart.

Rebecca refused to be a victim in all of this. Turning the pain she'd been dealt into something useful, that was the only route forward for her. There were no exceptions.

Barry and Chris were gone. Brad was… Brad. The only one Jill had now was Rebecca, and she'd be damned if she was going to let her keep spiraling down this rabbit hole without something to pull her back.

AN: I know many might see this as questionable. Why make the SI into Leon when it could be a new character entirely, or even make it a straight RE/Dying Light fic? Well, I wanted to add a fun element to things for myself to write. So, that's the easy part. Don't worry, there won't be a lot of slow burn build up bullshit in this one. I intend to have things rolling pretty quickly!

But alas, the writer of this chapter was that of TheZod, my friend and cowriter for side projects like Shatterpoint (only shown on FF and Ao3) and some of my Absolute Spidey stuff, which is yet to be revealed. I've had very minimal influence of the chapter beyond a guideline. The entire point of this chapter was to obviously give light to the other RE characters, specifically right after the ending of RE 0 and 1's events. I'll admit, we probably took some liberties with stuff, but we tried to make it be as faithful as possible to the world as possible.

Originally, chapter 3 was meant to be the starting action to get everything rolling. After some very careful consideration, I felt the RE characters would be more important in this moment and give some world building. Rebecca Chambers in particular was the person I felt would be perfect to act as our lens to this side of the story. She is a character I've always felt was underutilized in the series, and this was a great way to give her some much needed focus.

I hope you all enjoyed, I don't really have a whole lot to talk about here, but I will be getting some chapters built up for this story as a backlog. So, if by chance you're interested in seeing more of the story early, I do have a Patreon where you can get early access to chapters, character artwork that I get commissioned, story-specific character bios, side content that you might not see otherwise, and even original works that I'm writing. It's under the same username, Arsenal597. (Note, early access chapters for this story are yet to be available, but will be so soon.)

If you'd like to join the discord server I run and talk about the story, link will be below. Anyway, let me know what you think and I'll catch you all very soon.

THIS STORY IS CROSS-POSTED ON AO3, QQ, AND FF.

discord.gg/wU4wQ3mbZ6

https://www.patreon.com/c/Arsenal597

Umbra Mortis (SI! Resident Evil x Dying Light)

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