Chrisker One-Shots

One Last Time

Chris Redfield's exasperated sigh reverberated betwixt the silence of the Medical Storage room. Stiff fingers paused over the keys of the old typewriter after having put in a paragraph and a half on a crisp white sheet. Paperwork was never his favorite activity to do as a cop. There was nothing exciting about it. Putting his skills to use out in the field was better than having to write a paper his Captain would only rebuke and force him to redo anyways. But after the few hours spent that night surviving the horrors of the Spencer Mansion Chris needed an outlet. To get his thoughts together, to make some sense of the situation.

As much as Chris wanted to get back out there in search for his teammates writing down observations he's noticed about the zombies before heading out seemed beneficial to the situation at hand. Someone else may find this room and put what he's learned to good use.

Chris contemplated over how to describe what next on his mind. He's detailed Alpha Team's deployment in the first paragraph; Brad abandoning them, saving Jill from necrosis ridden canines, Wesker saving him from the necrosis ridden canines, and everything that happened after he got separated from the Captain Wesker, Jill, and Barry. There were very little clues on their whereabouts in the areas Chris has explored so far.

As he got halfway detailing the zombie's notable quirks in the second paragraph Chris heard a noise outside the Medical Storage Room. Stiffening, his fingers paused over the keys of the type writer. The sound of footsteps resonated throughout the empty hallways that should have remained empty.

Adrenaline spike in his systems directing him to turn and steady his shotgun on the back of his chair without a thought. Locked, loaded and aiming directly at the door he was ready for whomever an enemy desired entrance to his safe room.

The footsteps were too heavy to be a zombie's (certainly too heavy to be Jill's or even Barry's). Too sure of their environment, moving frequently with confidence. Nothing like the mindless almost gentle shambling from the Spencer Mansion's former occupants.

Chris's heart seemed to pound in rhythm with the footsteps as they got closer. His mouth felt of cotton as his hand ever so slightly shook the barrel of the shotgun. The S.T.A.R.S. member breathed deeply in attempt to calm this trigger finger lest he fire too soon. The sound of the door knob being gripped and twisted confirmed the fact it was definitely not a wandering zombie. And the young soldier didn't know which fact would have been better or worse.

The door creaked as it opened. Chris held his breath.

A figure in a uniform stood observing in the doorway. Tall, intimidating, and fierce looking. Chris would have pressed down on the trigger if it were for one thing about the enemy.

"Wesker!" he cried, surprised yet relieved.

"Chris," Captain Wesker closes the door as he fully enters the room. He said pleasantly, "it's nice to see you in one piece."

"Thanks," Chris sets the shotgun aside. "Sorry about the shotgun to the face. I thought you were a hostile."

"Noted," said Wesker, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. He looked around the room as he continued, "the occupants do adhere to unpredictable behaviors. It is only logical to be weary."

And weary Chris was as his Captain creeped closer. He looked prepared to say something else only to restrain himself. Then next thing he knew Wesker snatched his paper from the type writer. Behind those highly unnecessary sunglasses ice blue irises scanned the paper; shaking his head with a low hum with any and all flaws he found in the paper's contents. Wesker scowls the typos and misused wording like he'd expected it but still disappointed to see it. Chris could feel his face grow hot through his frown. Tempted to sass his captain for the contemptuous critic he is, snatch the paper back or something. He held himself and his tongue back, however. This was not the time or the place to be picking a fight with his superior.