Chrisker One-Shots

In The Periphery

"I wonder how long we've been playing this game," says Wesker.

It's been hours now, thinks Chris. But it feels like an eternity.

-

Chris is exhausted.

He isn't going to fight against the inevitable any longer. Whatever this game is... Chris knows it's long since over. It was over before it began, because there really was never a chance of survival to begin with. Chris knew that, too. Wesker was stronger than he was... obviously.

The only way Chris had ever won a fight against that bastard was dumb luck.

It was always just luck.

But that pesky little sliver of hope, that little voice in the back of his mind that says: maybe, just maybe I'll be lucky again... it certainly made this game a long one.

Chris doesn't regret having hope. He just wishes he wasn't so damn stubborn when he knew it was over. He's ready for this whole farce to be done with. He's worn out. He's hurting. He's too annoyed to be scared anymore. The blood that oozes from the defensive wounds on his arms is already starting to turn cold.

Soon, those wounds won't hurt at all.

The other three he'd arrived with - whoever the hell they were - were killed by Wesker. The last one only died a few minutes ago. From here, Chris can still see his body. Wesker hung him from a meathook and left him there to slowly bleed out. Chris lacked the strength to save him.

It was a painful, wretched death.

Even for Wesker, this whole thing seems unnecessarily cruel. 

But Chris doesn't think that it's just cruelty. There's something bizarre about this place... some monster lurking in the periphery. And even though he's not going to excuse Wesker, he senses that this isn't his design. After all, the Wesker that Chris knew would think this was a waste of time.

Why bother with lowly humans when he could be doing something else? Literally anything else?

The hanged body is being consumed by what appears to be some kind of giant spider. The knife-sharp legs cage the lifeless form, and with every passing second, a little more of the body goes missing.

...it's gruesome, to say the least. But it's hardly the worst horror Chris has seen in his life. Hell, it's not even the worst horror he's seen tonight.

Chris looks away, strangely numb. This whole evening has had a dreamlike quality. The world feels thin, like everything is wrapped in a veil. It doesn't have the visceral, satisfying quality that reality has. It's... plastic. It's fake.

Real or not, the wounds on his arms hurt like a bitch. But it's fine. His body is starting to shut down. The nerves spark less and less. He feels cold.

We're in hell, he thinks.

If it is hell... well, you can't die twice, right?

After all, Chris reasons. How else would Wesker still be alive?

The answer, of course, is obvious. Wesker isn't alive at all. Neither is Chris. Maybe he ought to have kept his faith a little better.

If God really does hate me, it would've been nice if he'd told me why.

...but if Chris is never going to get out of here, maybe it doesn't matter.

The unreality of this place is making his head spin. He can see the edges of the universe breaking away like the shell of an egg. There's a deep, black void beyond that. It seems to be looming closer and closer... or pulling this world towards it.