Chapter Text
Except God
The weather blessed Piers' memorial service with clear skies and gentle breezes that stirred the folds of the tent pitched in the cemetery. Without a coffin or a body, the service should have been easier for Chris to endure, yet of all the funerals he had attended, it was among the hardest.
Including Piers', he had never cried at a funeral. Seemingly a lifetime ago, he maintained his stoicism even throughout the dual service held for his mother and father after their accident. It was for Claire's sake; as she wept, rubbing her face raw, he remained the sturdy pillar against which she could lean. No matter his quiet yearning to mourn openly, his facade never cracked. He could not afford to let it.
Walking away from their funeral without having shed a tear proved he could endure anything with a face of stone. Whenever it was time to grieve, that was all he wore, but the depths of his eyes always betrayed him.
Despite their grief, Piers' mother and father did not hold Chris accountable for what happened. They requested he mourn in their company—a privilege he did not deserve. In Piers’ honor, however, he obliged their invitation, seating himself at their side in the front row. As the pastor spoke, the emptiness in Chris’ eyes whispered that he did not share their sentiment.
He never told them—or anybody—what actually happened that day. They knew their son sacrificed his life to save Chris’, but the full story remained obscured. They were oblivious to the fact their precious boy transformed into the same monstrosities he pledged to fight.
In that lonely facility fathoms beneath the South China Sea, there was nobody else to witness what happened. It was just the three of them: himself, Piers, and the abomination that pursued them. The only living witness, Chris would take what he saw to the grave.
The reception proceeded peacefully. Friends, family, and coworkers exchanged embraces and gentle words. A table of light refreshments stayed mostly untouched.
A slender, uniformed man toured the scene, searching for the one to whom he was sent to speak. To find him, he simply needed to spot the aloof man who preferred the company of the oak on a distant hill. He sucked on the cigarette between his fingers as he watched the engraver etch Piers' final date into his pre-need monument.
Like many in their profession, Piers already arranged for his burial, opting for his headstone to wait among those of his forefathers—all military men as well. He died a death that would have made them proud, but it came far too soon. An early death ensured his headstone would be the last erected with his family's name. Favoring work over starting a family, he left behind no posterity to follow in the same footsteps he had walked.
Having trudged up the hill, the slender man looked up at Chris as he approached. His cheeks were smooth and brimming with youth, a foreign brightness in his expression—the trite optimism of a rookie. It had been a while since Chris last saw optimism on a young man's face. If death did not take him sooner, despondency would come for him eventually, for among those who battled the undead and the defiled, it came for all.
"Second Lieutenant Redfield?" he asked.
The unfamiliar rank attributed to his name was fresh, and like any new wound, it still stung when prodded, even if unintentionally. Chris accomplished incredible feats in Lanshiang, but his failures were just as plentiful—if not more so. Thousands, including his own, paid the price for his mistakes and impotence. A demotion was a light sentence, all things considered.
"Yep," Chris grumbled before taking another drag. The man clacked his boots together and saluted, attempting to keep his expression firm. He handed Chris a folder. Cigarette between his teeth, he took it, and as he flipped it open, he asked: "What's this?"
"New deployment orders, sir."
“Barely a month, and it's already back to the meat grinder,” he mused, his tongue sharp.
It did not feel like it, but it had indeed only been a month. Lanshiang was not a mission after which he could rest only briefly before springing back into action. Any reasonable person would judge that a recovery period was in order. Those in charge of him were evidently not reasonable people.
"I'm just the messenger," the other man peeped.
Chris' brows dropped as he further investigated what the folder contained. Along with other articles of interest, a paperclip held a plane ticket against a collection of documents. The included photographs depicted a city and locale he recognized. Expression unchanging, Chris' gaze resurfaced.
"Who sent you?"
"The colonel, sir."
Chris looked down to the tent where the service took place nearly an hour earlier. Plenty of attendees still mingled at the reception. Within the crowd, he identified the man in question. He was a tall, graying man—a window into what the future soon had in store for Chris himself, surely. Whether it was in the cards for his uniform to be as decorated by then remained to be seen.
Chris flicked his cigarette into the grass and smothered it with his heel. He then departed from the shade of the tree. The young man followed, the tips of his fingers bouncing off one another as he debated stopping him. Unable to find the audacity, he ultimately kept his silence, allowing Chris to approach the colonel without interruption, tweaking his route as other attendees crossed it.
The colonel, having finished expressing his condolences to Piers' mother, returned a scone to his saucer. He noticed Chris marching toward him. Upon arrival, his back straightened. Their heights matched, but Chris' wider frame granted him dominance. Indignation unhidden, he peered into the colonel's eyes.
"I don't bite, you know. You can come give me orders yourself next time," he said. It was subtle, but the aggression in his tone was brazen enough to invite reprimands. Speaking in such a manner to a superior officer was shortsighted, but Chris' nerves were frayed. Another demotion would hardly sting at this point.
Perhaps due to the somber context, the colonel ignored the slight.
"It's good to see you again, Redfield. I'm sorry it couldn't be under better circumstances," he greeted calmly.
"If you know these aren't good circumstances, why're you giving me orders here?"
“I wasn't certain if I'd have another opportunity.”
Vague it may be, Chris immediately understood the insinuation behind his words. His expression sank further, but instead of wading deeper into the matter, he held up the folder and wagged it subtly.
"If this is where you're sending me, there's someone I want to bring." Noticing the colonel kept still and quiet, listening for his demands, Chris continued. "It's a mercenary. Last I heard, he's here in the United States cooperating with the DSO."
"You already know we don't outsource operatives."
"Then make an exception."
"I'm willing to reassign any of our operatives to work with you, but we will not be cooperating with third parties,” the colonel reasserted firmly.
It had barely been an hour since the service for his most trusted and promising subordinate; Chris' mood had no room for diplomacy. Thus, he did not muddle his terms:
"Hire him or I quit."
The moment Chris saw a submissive glint flicker in the colonel's eye, he knew his demands were as good as met. Even if he had been taken down a peg, even if he were in his downturn, the name 'Chris Redfield' always commanded respect within the BSAA. If it meant keeping his word, he was willing to leverage whatever he had left.