Absolution

I: IN VINO VERITAS

DISCLAIMER::::

I don't own Resident Evil. I don't own the rights to any of it. I do, however, have my own imagination. And I use it frequently to play in other people's universes. I enjoy it. I enjoy where it takes me. I do it, primarily, to see what Capcom doesn't show us: the human aspect of their one-dimensional character creations. I like to think we fanfiction writers give them a little depth, a little attitude, a little...life.

In this story, we see that our hero is a bit of a lost soul. For those not familiar with Vendetta, I won't go into detail here but the story may spoil the movie for you so you probably shouldn't read this fic if you haven't seen the movie. For those familiar with the entire series, we pick up the strings of our character and his dilemmas post 6, mid 7, post Vendetta. This way, I step on no toes in where I choose to go next, not that I've ever really cared about the canon and the course of history. Capcom has no real symmetry, so I shan't either.

With that said, enjoy the story. And let me know if you do or don't. I like to hear all opinions.

Cheers.

-The Lady Frost

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In Vino Veritas

"If you tell the truth, you don't have to remember anything." – Mark Twain

Silver Lake, Montana

Rocking Horse Ranch, 2017

The dim light of morning was the only light in the room. It spread its skillful touch over his skin, gilding it, forcing the sprinkle of hair on his chest to appear to glitter blonde and bright in the rising sun. The fire of the coming day encircled him, casting a halo of red to the once dark gold of his hair. There was little denying that he was nearly perfect in his splendor, the pale prince, the handsome hero, the blonde and blue eyed Adonis that would slay the dragon and save the world.

He'd saved the world; more than once in fact. He'd stood on the precipice of death and spit in her face while he taunted her. He'd gone toe to toe with the devil and emerged the unchallenged victor. He was untouchable, a dubious force of nature that had never known failure and knew no equal. He was a veritable god.

And he was alone.

He was nearly forty, single, and lived by the moment with little more than a thought to what came next. He was often, when not saving the world, half in the bottle erasing the things he'd done, and seen, and lived with the comforting wash of expensive booze. He was a functioning alcoholic, a WASP of substantive breeding, from a long line of distinguished men with a family name that commanded respect and adoration.

And sometimes, long after the world was peacefully sleeping safe once more in her unknowing bed, he would stand a top his tower of gold built on self-sacrifice and dedication and loss and he would despair. He might have liked, once, to have children. He might have liked to have a wife and been the coach of his son's baseball team and driven car pool with other harried parents. What would life look like on the other side of a job he might have had? The once wet behind the ears rookie would have been a detective and then possibly police chief. He would have sat behind a desk and gotten a pot belly and grown gray at the temples and watched his grand kids from his porch.

All those years ago, before Raccoon City, there'd been a girl. A sweet, soft, shy girl he'd loved in high school and thought he'd marry. Maggie. Maggie Summers. He thought of her sometimes as he sat alone on the rooftop of his loft beside his shimmering pool with a bottle of Glen Mckenna beside him. Or others like now, when he lay amongst the sheets of his palatial family estate in the mostly untouched wilds of Montana. Maggie Summers with her beautiful round face and sparkling blue eyes.