In Captivity

Epilogue

Something wasn't right, Chris could physically feel that something was terribly wrong. Not in that, I left my toiletries at the hotel and I'm three hours in my flight to another place, kind of wrong. No this was more serious, though he couldn't put his finger on it. He'd been gone for a long while, close to two months now. Miles away from any sort of phone, computer, even mail carrier, but the moment he'd stepped foot from the military grade helicopter, he knew something was wrong, and that dampened his most cheery of moods. Both he and Sheva worked their asses off figuring out what the hell Wesker was up to, and their hard work bore fruit. Wesker was dead, not gone, but physically dead. After all, who the hell could survive a volcanic eruption? Certainly not the self-proclaimed god.

Hazel, bless her heart, greeted him on the tarmac talking about the latest communications they'd caught. Her voice almost instantly disappearing in the light buzzing in his ears. Chris didn't care, he didn't care about Umbrella right now, he didn't care that supposedly the blond bastard's death had sparked an internal civil war at Umbrella. None of that mattered, all Chris wanted to do was hear Emma's voice.

"I'm going home." He breathed, passing the locker room and approaching the doors. "I'll debrief tomorrow."

"B-But..."

"Goodnight Hazel." He growled out, slamming the glass door shut behind him.

Lazy songs danced through the cabin of his car, weighing his eye lids heavily. Even if he felt normally, and not like someone pissed in his cereal, Chris would go visit Emma. The best news had to be delivered to her right away, and in person, Wesker was dead. God knew it took everything he had not to sing that silly song from the Wizard of Oz, when it first dawned on him. Maybe that would snap her out of this funk she'd been trapped in. His eyes shot open, feeling himself drifting to sleep. Things needed to liven up a bit, lest he wrap his truck around a poll. His fingers messed with the radio station, searching for anything loud, fast, and preferably good. Though the mood he was in right now, anything would do.

Chris grunted, hearing the loud thrumming of some metal band. This would certainly keep him up, for the next ten minutes at the very least. Her apartment was dark, at least what he could see from the parking lot was. His eyes danced to the dashboard clock. 2:45 a.m. flashed at him, before he'd cut the ignition. There was a long moment, his body sitting comfortably into the cushioned seat. His eyes closing from exhaustion, as well as to assess the situation. Doom still weighing heavily on him, though much more so now that he was parked. The B.S.A.A. would have told him if there was something wrong with Emma. After all, they vowed to keep an eye on her during his absence, and that meant something.... Right?

"Fuck," he groaned pushing out of the car and stumbling to the stairs. "Maybe you're just tired, and want something to be wrong."

His tired words gave him no comfort, as he continued up the stairs. 'First lesson of the day, always trust your gut.' The wise words of his drill Sargent rang clearly though his mind. Chris nodded, as if the large man were there. Sleep when you can, another lesson learned during basic, tugged at the practical side of his mind. He'd sleep at least for an hour, and if the same feeling nagged at him, he would investigate it. The sharp sound of her door perked up his sense, as he walked in. Without much thought, he turned on the living room lights, before locking the door. Emma was going to fix that during his absence, or at least that's what she'd said she would do.

"Kid, it's me." He called out, loud enough so that if she woke up to the sound, she wouldn't freak out, but low enough so that he didn't wake her.

A beer sounded nice right about now, a night cap to an invigorating adventure. If Emma had been his navigational technician, the two of them would be sitting at the dining room table, talking about what they'd gone through. He couldn't wait to have her back working, not doing the silly busy body work, but actually working in the thick of it all again. He hummed, opening the fridge, the cool air licking at his face as he picked up the glass bottle. Something was gone in the fridge, and in another life, he would have cleaned it right then and there, but for now he'd leave it. The bottle hissed, the froth of the beer now tumbling out quicker than expected. He cursed, bringing the mouth of the bottle to his lips, and sucked enough out to stop the avalanche.

Man was Emma going to kill him. Simply stepping over the now wet floor, Chris quietly swore to mop the mess later. He collapsed heavily against one of the dining room chairs, before kicking off his shoes and placing his feet on the tabletop. Yet another pet peeve of Emma's come out in full throttle, as he sucked down more of the amber liquid. In his peripheral vision, Chris took notice of four square objects in the center of the table. Where they there when he left last time? He couldn't remember, but they kicked his gut feeling into over drive. It was quite possible for her to have taken pictures in the two or three months of his mission, but why weren't they in a photo album?

"What's this?' he questioned, sitting straight in the chair.

With his still damp fingers, Chris dragged the four photos towards him, not caring if he got figure prints on the gloss. His movement's halted in their tracks, his eyes taking in the dark subject. Emma was propped against her dresser and wall, neck hanging in a sickening manor. The flesh of her neck a purply blue, a tall tale sign of strangulation. Tears prickled his eyes, as they danced from grotesquely explicit picture to the next. Shutters of a sob left his lips, as his quivering figures brought the four photos forth. This was Wesker's doing, which brought blind rage to the foot solider. Yes, he'd killed Wesker, but that victory seemed empty now with sorrow sinking in. There was nothing he could do to avenge her death, leaving Chris alone and empty in her dining room.