#_reentry

Mosquitos or some sort hum an awful tune and you don’t know why you can still hear them underground. Their noise has faded into your background like tinnitus. Your fingers have remained curled around the handle of your pistol for so long that they hurt when you uncurl them to feel along the cave wall. Waiting for any reason to pull it out where it’s been shoved into your belt and shoot. You put your weight on your good foot, using the wall to support weight. Nothing felt broken, at least you had that going for you.

Even if you found Ashley right now, you doubt you’d be able to protect her.

One minute, you and Leon were escorting her though the Spanish forestry. The next, a mob of villagers with ratted clothes and torches and bulging parasites swinging from their heads were descending upon you. When the bedlam cleared, Ashley was gone. Two people cover more ground apart than they do together, and so you and Leon split up in search of the president's daughter. 

You twisted your ankle somewhere along the way. You think you did, anyway. Hurt like hell to walk on. All that fighting, making every last bullet count, chipping the barrel of your gun by slamming it against the head of one of your attackers. You’d gotten careless somewhere, not watching your step, foot caught into a gryke in the rocks. It left you with a sprain and blood coming from your nose onto your upper lip from falling face forward.

Nothing to be done but keep moving forward. 

A sudden breeze of air brushes over your face and through your hair. Wind coming from further into the cave, the scent of dirt and outside being carried with it. Outside. The entrance or the exit of this shaft was up ahead. Leon might be up ahead. A cold hand comes to wipe crusted blood off of a cut in your brow, and you pick up your pace.

The breeze gets stronger, and to your relief, it isn’t a larger cave in the system. It really is outside. It’s much darker now than it was when you and Leon separated. How many hours has it been? The sun is setting in the distance, the sky is a deep orange beneath a darker blue. You fish your radio out from your pockets, fiddling with it to get anything useful. No dice. From here, wherever here is, you can’t see the silhouette of the castle anymore. Must be the other way.

Dark trees sprawl and wind upwards like wire cages in a stadium, the leaves have already begun to fall. Wood cabins and huts lay deserted and in one of them you find a handful of bullets. Enough for a fully loaded gun and then some. Leon must have been around here, then. Maybe he knew you were in the area. Improbable, but it could’ve been a lucky guess. Either way, you’re grateful.

Though… it is an awful lot of ammo to leave behind on the off chance that your partner would be lurking around. Maybe he found extra? More than he could carry. There’s a piece of paper, too, under the cardboard boxes the ammo are supplied in. Torn out of a notebook, there’s a few words pressed firmly onto the lined page. See you soon.

It isn’t Leon’s normal style of handwriting, but you can’t afford to think too much about it. So Leon left you some ammo and a note to show he’s still alive. That’s good. Benign. You’ll see him soon. On the off chance it isn’t him, at least you have enough bullets to defend yourself now. You keep going, and the orange has faded from the sky now. Clouds roll in the distance and you’re worried they’ll block out the moonlight. Your flashlight still works, but you aren’t sure how much you want to be swinging around a military-grade night light in the pitch blackness of the woods. Might as well toss out some confetti while you’re at it.

Aside from the crunch of leaves beneath your boots, there isn’t a sound in the valley. You can’t hear the insects anymore, and there aren’t any crows or night animals or even people in the distance. You’d been thankful earlier for the absence of the locals, but you’ve passed through multiple signs and small cabins, outposts and the like. The silence is beginning to hurt your ears, and each wooden hut you check is empty aside from spiders and dust. 

Where is everybody?

You get your lighter from your pockets, striking the wheel with your thumb. Once, twice, a third time. Just when you think it won’t work, it lights and you hold your arm out in front of you to guide your way. The cold wind blows the heat from the small fire back into your face, something more welcome than you’d have thought. It’s cold, very cold. It seeps under your clothes and rattles your lungs. You’re certain that you’re being watched, but you can’t say from where. 

It can’t be Ashley or Leon, either one of them would’ve come running to catch up with you by now. You could be walking into an ambush by the locals, would explain the lack of people. Maybe they’re all hiding, with axes and rakes and their brains bulging against the suture lines with the parasite. Las Plagas. You found a few scattered papers in the mines, scrabbled journal entries and something that looked important left behind. You pocketed what you could and left what you couldn’t.

Everything in this region was backwards. You could feel something like pity if you gave it enough thought. People living like their ancestors with no way out of a land ridden with flapping parasites and worms. Even the birds around here couldn’t go anywhere else, fly as they might. Their bellies accustomed to stinking flesh and picking at dead overgrown things, sorry excuses of life. Where could they migrate to? Who would take them? Valdelobos is one vast sepulchre. It’d be yours if you weren’t careful.

There’s an equal chance that whatever is watching you is just wolves. That would be a safer explanation for the lack of birds and such, too. In any other scenario, a pack of wild animals would be more troublesome than some ratty villagers. You’re sure the wolves would be nicer, eat you up before you got sacrificed or mutated into something else. You force yourself to think about something else, anything else. Ashley is the priority, not morbid fantasies about your own death.

The sky darkens with each passing minute, and even though the moon is full and bright, you still use the lighter to see where you’re going and for warmth. More walking, and you’ve almost forgotten that one leg is bad. Not bad, no. Just sprained. It almost feels natural to walk favoring one side. The dirt path splits, a wooden sign that’s been chewed and scratched so much that you can’t read what either arrow points to is planted in the ground a few feet ahead. You stop in the dirt, looking both ways as if you had enough light to see where either path leads.

A loud crack comes from somewhere behind you. It sounds much louder with how still the night is. Far enough away and yet too close all the same. You nearly drop your lighter, the flame flicking wildly. The fire startles and moves like it’s trying to get away from you to save itself, but it’s bound tightly to the lighter. Don’t burn yourself. You whirl around, holding out the lighter as if it were a weapon to protect yourself with.

If it’s Ashley, you’d be leaving her to die by not going to help. If it’s not Ashley, you’d be walking to your death. Another noise, and much closer to your ear. A sharp whistling sound, and the culprit lands a few feet  behind you, stabbed into the dirt. 

A knife.

There’s a blooming pain in your arm, and you realize you’ve been nicked a few inches down from your shoulder. Not deep, not that you can feel. The fabric of your shirt is torn, though. You look to the knife, then back in the direction it was thrown from. Heart hammering in your chest; you hope to God they’re within shooting distance. As you’ve fumbled to replace your lighter with your gun, something else has gone in the air. It lands behind you with a grunt and it sounds much heavier than a knife.

The figure plucks his knife from the ground, wiping the blade across his pants to get the dirt off before sheathing it in a practiced motion. 

“There you fuckin’ are, been waiting for you all night.” 

It’s Major Krauser–or just Krauser. He left the military as far as you were aware, or something like that. He still has that red beret, sitting at an angle on his head. Neither you nor Leon were given any details on the matter, essentially being told to drop it. You didn’t press Leon on it or the mission that preceeded Krauser’s discharge. You both look at each other, maybe five, seven feet between you. You’re within grabbing distance, something you both know. Your lighter has fallen to the ground, casting eerie shadows across Krauser’s face.

His face looks different, it’s dark enough that his scars blend in with his skin and you can’t quite see where they start and where they end. The flame is reflected in both of his eyes, which are looking into your own with some feeling that makes your skin crawl. You look back at him as if he were a conglomerate of things masquerading as a person. He can see the wheels turning in your head yet makes no offer to supplement your scattered mind. It takes you all of five seconds to assess that for whatever reason he’s here–in Spain of all places, at the same time as you and Leon’s mission, he hasn’t come to you as a friend. “What’s that look for? Aren’t you happy to see me?” He mocks, palms out. 

He must be able to tell that you’re not in fighting condition, and in a way you feel self conscious. How pitiful you must’ve looked, tottering like a drunk with one good foot and a lighter held out like an offering. How long had he been trailing you? The smell of smoke and ash from your lighter and blood and sweat from Krauser are blown into your face by the wind. He smells like an animal.

You try to ignore the pain in your arm, levelling your gun at him preemptively. Krauser doesn’t move, not taking any inch of you seriously. Standing languidly, waiting to see what you’ll do. If you do anything at all. He’s putting the ball in your court so willingly that it makes you uneasy. What is he doing? Why isn’t he doing anything? Don’t think about it, just take the opening and feel bad about it later. 

He points to your gun. “You going to use that thing? Or are you just going to stand there?” You don’t answer him, throat dried up and the gun feeling too heavy in your hands. You get a weird feeling at being chastised by him, it takes you back some years. “What, you’re too used to Leon telling you what to do?” He says Leon’s name with disdain. The words you want to say crowd on your tongue and finally you get some of them out.

“What the hell are you talking about?” You want to ask if he knows where Leon is, but he probably wouldn’t tell you if he did. Must be crazy. As crazy as everything and everyone else here is. Krauser doesn’t answer nor does he seem entertained anymore. “Anyone else would’ve killed you for hesitating so much.” Hesitating. You realize he’s right, though unable to pinpoint why he’s positioning himself in this way. A second realization that you’re still hesitating, and you go back and forth with yourself mentally. 

Think about it all you want later. You’re here and he is there. If you don’t act now, in a few minutes he will still be there, and you’ll be in the ground.

Taking him to mean well on his unspoken threat, you aim at him properly—which seems to be what he wanted—right between the eyes. You don’t want to shoot, you don’t even know why he’s here. It doesn’t seem like he’s come to your rescue or aide, though. If you don’t do it now, you won’t get another chance. Finger on the trigger, you try to steady yourself. What other options did you have? Mawkishly try to appeal to him? The man sliced your arm open and is taunting you into attacking him.

You fire, but it doesn’t hit him. He’s bridged the gap between you quicker than you could comprehend, and in a swift motion, he’d grabbed your wrist and made you lose your aim, wrenching it up and your gun out of your grasp. The shot rings out and your bullet is wasted. His hand swings back to hit you across the face, forcefully knocking you to the ground with a yelp. He’s fast, faster than you remember and faster than you’d expected.

The wind is knocked out of you when you hit the ground, not having been able to use your arms to block the fall. You can see your gun where Krauser threw it aside. Slid across the ground and into the rocks and half decayed underbrush. He kicks you onto your back with his boot, staring down at you. Really getting a good look. “You’re in worse shape than I’d thought you’d be.” You can’t tell if he’s finds it funny or if he’s disappointed. 

You push yourself onto your elbows to get up, and Krauser in response presses his boot down on your abdomen. There’s a million questions you could ask, most of them starting with the letter ‘w’. You open your mouth to speak, and his presses digs deeper and he gets a breathless squeak out of you. He likes that.

Sometimes, during training, years ago, you’d mess up or fail to parry Major Krauser (no–just Krauser, now) on purpose just so he would reprimand you. It was wrong, and probably made you seem less competent in his eyes, but being handled roughly was a guilty pleasure of sorts. Your one respite in an otherwise soul-sucking period of your life. You’d like to think he didn’t catch on, you hope not. You don’t know why you’re thinking about it now.

Krauser isn’t holding back, and you shouldn’t either. Your knife, your knife, get your fucking knife. Your arms still work, do something. Clumsily grabbing your knife from its holster in your belt, opposite side of your gun. Stab him, stab him somewhere just get him off. Your free hand grasping at his leg, you drive the blade as far as it’ll go into the side of his shin. 

Krauser grunts in pain, though it sounds like it didn’t hurt him all that much. “There you go,” you look back up at him, and you think he’s smiling. “That’s more like it.” He lifts his foot from your abdomen and you visualize him stomping right over your organs or kicking you as hard as he can in the jaw. You take the chance to move out from under him while he yanks your knife out of his leg as if it were a mere splinter. 

Scrambling to your feet, sweat collects on your forehead and your palms. Your gun is next. Sweet, loaded and heavy in your hands. He threw it over here, right? You have to find it; even if you run and lose him now, Krauser isn’t the only danger around here. You think you see it, moonlight shining across the cool metal. 

Just as your fingers brush against the handle of the gun, a heavy force shoves you back to the ground. It makes you groan in pain and your tongue gets caught between your teeth. A knife to the leg didn’t slow Krauser down, hell, it didn’t even make him sweat. Your arms are able to break your fall this time, though you think you’ve hurt your already injured ankle even more. At the very least, irritated the sprain. You’re pushed onto your back again and this time Krauser is crouched over you, his knife held against you like a ward to keep you still.

He’s looking at you like you’re something in a jar. Something that he can poke at and tap the glass until you give him a reaction. One of his knees is pressed between your legs, right up against you in a way you think might be intentional. No, no, it’s not. Don’t think like that, do not think like that. You can’t believe yourself. There’s a thin layer of blood crusted over his face, it makes his eyes stand out and look even crazier. You doubt it’s his.

“You can’t do anything else, can you?” You don’t respond to his half-taunt, but he already has his answer. “All out of tricks,” He laughs, tapping the flat edge of the knife alongside your face, trailing it down to your neck. The blade presses a little harder against your thin flesh. Your fingers dig into the dirt and grass, clinging to the earth like a safety blanket. If nothing else, you can’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid, don’t give him that satisfaction. “All that training, and you’re still just a weak link. Wouldn’t have done Leon any good if you were with him.”

He can see the wheels in your brain spinning and getting caught on each other to come up with a way out of this, and he puts a little more force on the knife against your throat to draw your attention back to him. Krauser doesn’t press hard enough to draw blood, rather checking to see if you’ll whimper or squirm and cut yourself on your own. You breath hitches and you look like an animal that knows what’s coming, but you don’t move against him. He pulls his knife back from your throat and sheathes it again. “Don’t worry, I’ve got something for you.” You’re given no room to move out from under him, and he’s replaced his weapon with something else from his pocket. The moon’s light filters through its transparent parts and bounces off the metal ones.

Whatever feeling you were trying to shoo off in your lower abdomen quickly dissipates when you see what's in his hand. A capped syringe, the barrel filled with a translucent liquid. The needle isn’t any kinder looking, a strong 16 gauge. You finally find your voice again, eyes wide and throat rasping. “What the fuck is that?” Krauser’s scarred mouth turns upwards into a self-satisfied smirk. “This,” He holds up the syringe, shaking it slightly for effect. It’s filled with small red beads that look like fish eggs. “is for your own good.” 

Your stomach lurches and instinct kicks back in. Whatever is in there is about to go inside of you, and you scramble to get away from him. Gotta get the fuck out of here. Gotta find Leon. Krauser wrestles you to keep you pinned beneath him, and he must’ve set the syringe down because both of his hands, large and calloused, are on you and grabbing your arms to keep them down. You try to get up, and Krauser drags you back down. You’ve ended up on your stomach in an attempt to crawl away and Krauser straddles you to keep you there. 

One side of your face pressed into the dirt and gravel, you struggle to get a good look at him. It’s harder to make out the expression on his face now, your lighter must’ve been gone out. His knees on either side of your hips, Krauser grabs your arms to pull them against the small of your back. He holds them there with one hand, having picked the syringe back up and trying to get a good angle for injecting this thing. It’s supposed to go into a vein, and neither of your arms are a good choice in this position. 

Like a small animal, you kick and struggle and thrash and call him every name under the sun. Demand to know what he’s doing, and why he’s doing it. He makes no attempt to cossete you, only increasing the force applied to your body until you can’t move. If he had the patience, he might’ve let you squirm a little longer until you started pleading with him. Wouldn’t that be a sight? You only stop moving when he makes a threat of breaking the one arm he’s got pinned behind you. Had to squeeze the circulation out of it to get you to listen.

At least Leon was able to put up a fight. To your credit, you weren’t caught in a good position. Something that shouldn’t have happened, wouldn’t have happened if Leon was more careful with you.

Well, good thing that you’re with him now, instead.

He uncaps the syringe with his teeth, spitting the plastic top off to the side. “You’ll thank me for this,” He can’t get a good enough opening on your arm to inject like he wanted to, so he settles for the side of your neck. Before you can get out more than two words, Krauser guesstimates where your jugular vein is and gets the needle in. You let out a strangled shriek, and if he were a better man he might have felt bad for doing this to you.

You’re only still for a few seconds before resuming your squirming. First, fruitlessly trying to get away while he pushes the needle plunger down (he’d been told to do it slow, something neither of you are enjoying), to which Krauser has to tell you to Cut it out before you skew the needle the wrong way. He watches the last of the eggs squeeze through the hub, then the shaft, and under the skin through the bevel, into your body. 

You lay limp beneath him for a few seconds before more movement. Spasmodic writhing, jerky twitching motions that are uncoordinated and accompanied with more pained noises. When the needle is done with, Krauser tosses it to the side so he can use both hands to keep you still. One hand holds both of your wrists behind your back, the thumb of his free hand presses on the injection site. He feels your pulse against his thumb, and when he retracts it there’s blood in the ridges of his fingerpad.

After what feels like minutes, your movements slow to a stop. You wallow under him quietly, no trying to claw your way out or twitching your hips against his. Only shallow breathing and limp muscles. In. Out. In. Out. When he thinks you’re ready to listen, Krauser speaks again, tone marginally less abrasive. “I offered this sort of power to Kennedy, but he thought he knew better.” He scoffs, you can’t tell if he’s speaking with amusement or disdain. “And look where that got him. But you,” He pauses his sentence, looking back down at you. 

Grey in the face, clammy and unfocused. You’re not in any state to listen to what he has to say after all. He thought you had finally calmed down, but you look too sick to speak right now. A thought comes to him that he needs to get off of you and take some steps back in case you start to hurl. Would hate to get vomit on himself. 

He knew there would be a brief adjustment period, Saddler cautioned him of much. It makes him a little more appreciative that he was able to withstand the parasite so well. You manage to get something out, however garbled and weak. Krauser almost mistook it as another pained noise, but it sounded close enough to a word. Maybe two? Though not getting up, he does slightly ease the pressure he’s putting onto your body.

“Whuh hatheth Lee?”

He leans down towards you curiously. So you weren’t completely out of it. That’s a good sign, he thinks. There’s drool coming from the side of your mouth, and he lets go of the arm he’s got behind your back to wipe it away with his thumb. You keep your arm in place, and your unfocused eyes don’t catch Krauser getting a taste of your saliva.

“…You’re gonna need to speak up.”

You don’t respond with anything intelligible at first, swallowing back something (a failed second attempt or bile, one of the two), before spitting it out finally. “Leon!” You say his name like you were pushing your head out of the water, gasping for air after nearly drowning. Like it meant something to you.

Of fucking course.

His lips twitch into a disgusted sneer. Leon, Leon, Leon, it’s always fucking Leon with you. You must not have known, then. He wonders if he should tell you, take you to where whatever’s left of him is. Suppose it wouldn’t hurt to let you go and stumble upon it yourself–it’s not like Krauser would be far behind. He puts that thought aside for now. There’s no reason to hurry or rush things, not anymore. All the pieces had begun to fall in their place. 

Whatever victory he felt is diminished by your call for help. “Your little boy-toy isn’t coming to save you,” You’re writhing like a bug under his weight. “It’s just you and me.” He leans down to say it in your ear, and relishes in the way you squirm underneath him. You smell like sweat and fear and all the things he likes. You try to get away from him again, and Krauser holds you in place, your legs kicking uselessly behind you. Stubborn idiot.

He’d thought once that whatever he felt for Leon would fade. Trickle into apathy, a sour memory. It wasn’t his fault alone, of course. And yet, months rolled into a year and it never felt any better. Leon got to go back home, back to you. All for what? So you could cling to him like a fucking dog? Some runt with half the experience he had, while he was offered to rot in government housing, on a government pension, with an arm that doesn’t fucking work.

And look where that got him.

Time hadn’t cauterized his wounds, it’d made them fester and weep, and even now he doesn’t feel like they’ll heal anytime soon. The plagas didn’t ever heal his arm, not really. Just turned it into something useful. Something strong. Maybe he can use you to numb the sting, if nothing else. Weren’t you just the perfect victory prize?

You’ve gone still again beneath him, occasionally twitching in a way you can’t control. Your fingers claw at the packed earth, dirt getting further caught under your nails. While he was in his own head, you’d coughed something up. Phlegm tinged with blood.  Whimpering and whining like a sick child beneath him. Less force is needed to hold your arms back, and you don’t try to wrench them away or fight against his grasp, so he keeps both arms held with one hand instead of two. His free hand smooths out your hair, petting it in a way that feels awkward. He’s not sure if it’s helping or not.

That hand trails from your head to your shoulder, then down to your side. Krauser’s fingers feel your side, feeling the flesh of your torso and where it curves to your hip. Is this a view Leon got to see often? Don’t think like that. He can make guesses and get himself worked up over the idea, but he can’t pinpoint the true extent of you and Leon’s relationship. Maybe he’ll draw the truth out of you one day. 

He can’t say which is a more appealing thought: That Leon never got the chance to get his hands on you and taint you—or that he could force you to admit that Leon could never please you like Krauser could. He could fuck you here, right now in the dirt. It’s too bad he ran into Leon before you, he could’ve kept Leon alive. Make him watch Krauser fuck you properly. Like a real man. Maybe it isn’t too late, he can dig up Leon and get Saddler to do something.

…There’s a few risks with that fantasy that makes him decide it isn’t worth it. Besides, he’s already asked for one favor too many.

His attention is drawn once again by your now marked lack of movement and quiet. You haven’t lurched or babbled any half-sentences in a while. He looks down, and your head is turned to the side. Your respirations have become irregular, and though it’s hard to tell in the dim light, he thinks some of the veins around your face have darkened. A finger feels at your injection site, and it’s warm. The rest of you is pretty cold.

“Hey!” He tries to jolt you awake. Damn it, that old geezer didn’t give him a faulty strand, did he? Your breathing becomes even again and Krauser is able to draw another noise out of you. He can’t tell if you’re trying to talk again or if you’re just in pain. His own go with the parasite hadn’t been nearly this bad, albeit he got a stronger and perhaps more stable strain. 

…Well, all the more reason to get you out of the woods and somewhere warmer. Somewhere with adequate lighting so he can better monitor you. (If anything did happen, it’s not like he could call up Luis to take a look at you). He just got you, doesn’t want to break you before he’s gotten a chance to do anything with you. You’re lethargic, and a thought that you’re playing it up to get out of conversation with him is quickly stamped out. You’ll come around soon enough, see that this was the right decision. 

Krauser cautiously lifts himself off of your prone form, watching to see if you’ll bolt or make any sudden movements. You don’t. He crouches down to hoist you up and over his shoulder like a sack of grain, one hand on your back to keep you in place. You start moving again, not staccato twitching but actually trying to move off of his shoulder. Sluggish and slow squirming, Krauser tightens his hold and his other hand comes to steady your legs.

“Hold still. Faster I can get you to where we’re going, the faster I can put you down.” He isn’t sure if any of that meant anything to you, because you don’t respond to him. You don’t writhe anymore either, whether it be from his words or that his grip has tightened. Hopefully he can get you to the island before you regain full consciousness and control of your body. 

You wouldn’t be like those ganados, stupified and lumbering over themselves. Not if Krauser could help it. Saddler hadn’t—couldn’t have cheated him. Not after all the work he’s put in. No, you’ll be better, stronger. 

I don’t think either one of them is particularly gentle with you. Maybe Wesker has a steadier pace and is more openly paying attention to you. He makes you tell him how good it feels and how you want it, where you want it, etc. I think Wesker is a little bit better with aftercare, too. He isn't winning any gold stars, but he does make sure that you're physically fine afterwards and not too upset or anything.

Not to say that Krauser is inattentive. I mean, a little bit. It’s more like he’s taking an internal note of all your reactions and making sure you aren’t totally not into it. Possibly an ego thing to make you feel good. Feel better than any other guy could make you feel and all that. blah blah. aftercare leaves more to be desired, I think.

I have more thoughts on Krauser and while I think he’s for sure the more dominant one during sex… at the end of the day he’s used to following orders. even if you arent giving him any and are letting him do most of the work (seldom does he let you take control)... I can't put it to words properly grrrrrr I think he does look for some validation from you. he will never ever tell you that, assuming it ever slips his subconscious into his conscious mind and he realizes such.