Lilmarman

And some bonus parts of the comic I couldn’t finish…

The blood in his veins freezes,  solid like ice,  leaving his heart to stutter pathetically in the chilled hollow of his ribs.  All he can do for those passing moments is stare at the living ghost from his past,  a waking nightmare taken form in the flesh— Albert Wesker watches him calmly,  an indiscernible look crossing his features,  the faintest twitch of a pale pale brow in what Chris misreads as concern,  something bordering along aged fondness.

It’s familiar— too familiar.  For a moment, the past & present begin to blur,  a haze where he swears if he squints just hard enough,  just long enough— he can pretend Wesker’s eyes are blue,  not red,  that they’re back in S.T.A.R.S.’s offices & not locked in a standstill in an eerie Blue Umbrella base with far too much blood on either man’s hands.

He almost deludes himself into feeling he hadn’t seen it.  It keeps him level headed enough, anchored,  teeth pressing together tight,  an accompanying groan of his jaw where he strains his bones,  swallowing tensely in an effort to soothe the panic-quickened flutter of his rabbit heart back down again.

Rooted in place,  legs refusing to move forwards or away, Chris swallows everything down,  tries his damned best to calm the storm brewing behind his mind’s eye as he holds direct conflicted contact with dawn-toned sights.  When he’d come here looking for answers on who the hell ran this group,  he hadn’t… expected an old face to be situated right at the helm.  He holds tight to his anger,  his fury.  Uses it to settle on the rising bits of frustrating longing that still,  even after all this time,  begin to rise.  Something’s happened when he’d lost his memory after Edonia. It’s still a blur, but… he has questions.  Wesker has answers,   So he’d start there.  He’s too old,  too tired to do their old song & dance. At this point if anyone can give him something solid to make sense of it all, he’d gladly take it.