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Dead Man Walking

Summary:

Left broken by his previous defeat, Wesker now wanders with no recollection of his past. Unable to remember even his own name, his nights assaulted by sordid nightmares, his sole comfort at the bottom of an empty bottle. The man drowns in the shadows of a life worth leaving behind...

Notes:

Hello! I am starting this new series to explore new facets and scenarios within the Chris/Wesker fan-world. I hope to see some of you guys embark on this new adventure with me and that you'll find a way to enjoy my work! I welcome you :) (I'm sorry if the first chapter is a little short, I'm just setting my bases, it will progressively get a bit longer.)

Ps: For those of you who might want to read some of my other works. I invite you to read my other series (also Chris/Wesker) ; Phantom Pain. Which is essentially a single story fragmented into three parts and many chapters. It is almost finished and so might help with the wait :) Thank you for your support, I hope to read your comments and learn more about you guys! Do not hesitate to make recommendations or even request a pairing (I have been wanting to make a gift work for quite some time). As always, depending on the reception I may speed up the writing process and deliver for you guys more frequently.

Let me thank you again and wish you well :)

Chapter 1: Lone Wolf

Chapter Text

Outside blew a bitter cold, the stars, veiled by the clouds, shone silently. Carried along the wailing breeze, tiny tears, frozen in complex shapes. Along a deserted route leading nowhere, a pub laid, decrepit in all its ruined splendor. A few rusted cars slept, waiting. A single motorcycle harboring faded colors, proud mount to a poor soul whom went to drown painful memories of better days; shared their slumber. An old sign reading: Welcome, flickered its dying light. Hanging close to the door, a bell rang softly with each lashes of winter, signing its own sad melody. Inside, a song played on this old jukebox, slow and melancholic, rendered barely recognizable by white noise. Still, it played, like the echo of a past long forgotten. Scattered here and there, the usual patrons drank in silence. The barkeep, an old lady, plump around the waist, cleaned a tattered glass. Unkempt and tired, she clung to the dream of another. Seated in front of her, at the bar, a man poured whiskey to the brink of a regular glass, flooding a lonely cube of ice. He drank the poison without stopping for breath, letting out a long and painful sigh as he put down the empty flask. A lock of hair fell on his forehead as he kicked back for another gulp, directly from the bottle this time. Long golden hair, tied up in a bun with no real care. With the back of his hand, he wiped his mouth of the foul liquid, spreading the burning sensation from his lips to his cheek. A scruffy and untidy beard, barely trimmed, crowned his visage. His eyes, weary, burned an exhausted flame, for his amber iris boasted a fiery color. He cast his gaze down the bottleneck, grunting in displeasure after contemplating its emptiness before wobbling his head to sleep, mumbling to himself. The matron watched as her last clients departed, waving small, silent, goodbyes to their host. As the door closed one last time and as she put down her last cup she turned towards the inebriated soul. She threw an old chiffon on her shoulder before uttering a few words.

"You stayin' here tonight honey?" She asked, with a strong southern accent. How far away from home she must have been.

Struggling to lift his chin, the man managed a quick answer. "Yeah-" His voice was groggy and deep with unspoken sorrow. "-Thanks."

"I'm closin' behind you, you know the drill." She swung her imposing waist as she made way for the door.

With a small wave of the hand he bid her farewell. The door closed behind her, the bell rang, the metallic sounds of a key tingled and then nothing. Inside, the lights were dimmed but lit. Still seated upon an old wooden stool, the man was fast asleep, swayed by strong liquor. Nothing but the electric noise of a broken neon remained, the outdated television hanging above the bar displayed a black screen, the jukebox had stopped signing. At times, the wind howled a lamentation. Seconds became minutes and minutes; hours. During which the one who knew not his name fought the nightmares assaulting his slumber. Painful frowns and grunts echoed through the loneliness of the empty establishment. In his mind, parcels of a broken memory struggled to find their place, arranging themselves into grotesque representations. But he mistook them for unpleasant dreams, as he always did. In the blur, he made out scenes of senseless violence. Blood splashing on the wall, a scream, a gunshot resonating into the distance. There were voices too, so many of them, overlapping each other, making it impossible to recognize even a single one. The distorted images continued to hammer his subconscious as he wrestled to regain a semblance of control. He jolted awake, letting out a loud groan. Panting heavily, sweating a cold sweat, a shake in his hands, he tried to still himself. He whispered a curse, outside, the moon still hung high. In need of more sleep, he reached for his coat, a tattered leather jacket, and wrapped it around his shoulders. He stumbled, one step at a time, towards the nearest cushioned bench. In which he let himself fall, barely holding together, his mind would not let him rest. Something burdened his heart, with no one to talk to, he turned to himself, it was like talking with a stranger.

He started with a heavy sigh. "They're always the same... The dreams. They tell tales of violence and death, how could my mind make up such horrors?" He paused. "I can only hope these scenes are the fruits of a sick imagination, but I how can I be sure?" Another unanswered question. "It felt so real-" He looked at his hand. "-like I had been there." He pondered in silence, before letting his hand crash back down. Laying on his back, he admired the ceiling, stained by water and rodent piss. "Charming." He sighed once again, sitting back up. Evidently, he would not be able to gather more sleep, accustomed to the idea he went behind the counter and grabbed the remote. He could have poured himself another drink, but the pounding in his head advised against it. An image appeared on the monitor, sounds joined it soon after. Among the few chains made available, only one caught his attention, a rebroadcast of the day's news. The announcer presented different occurrences, some more pertinent than others. The only redundancy seemed to be the excruciating concern about the bio-terrorism attacks that had plagued the wold for decades now. The blond frowned, the sole mention of it always brought a searing pain to his heart. Surely, it was abominable but why did he felt so concerned? Did this have anything to do with the man he used to be? He tried shaking off the feeling, bringing his attention back to the television. A group, called the B.S.A.A, short for; Bioterrorism Security Assessment Alliance, had released a statement to the press. Answering the citizens question about the probability of another attack, like the one to burden china not so long ago. A man, a representative, gave a small overview. It was clear he was unaccustomed to dealing with the media. Short brown hair, strong jaw, pale eyes; a great deal of grief hidden within them. Forced to admit that threats of another strike remained painfully relevant.

"Chris Refield..." He read the name in a whisper, hoping it would serve as a key into his own head. Nothing.

Casting the leather jacket aside once again displayed a black t-shirt, hugging his shape nicely. strapped to his chest, a hostler. In this part of America, possessing a gun was hardly out of the ordinary and walking around with it; a simple show of power. On his belt, an imposing knife guarded his back. He knew not why he possessed such impressive armament, but he felt more comfortable with than without. He took out the gun, putting it down on the counter. How many times had he inspected it now? Hundreds? Perhaps, thousands of times? A sharp sigh escaped his lips. The piece looked custom made, indentured upon it: S.T.A.R.S. A name that meant nothing to him. More intricately, the name: Wesker, had been engraved on the barrel in elegant letters. He was keen to believe that might have been his name, but every time he felt himself closer to answers, an insidious fear crept out of his heart. Desperate to drown it, he had spent whole months flooding his pain with burning water. Aware he could answer so much, simply by researching what S.T.A.R.S stood for, yet petrified at the thought of learning too much. Like running from a undeniable truth, forgetting things he had no right no forget...

"I can't stay like this forever." He said quietly to himself. "I must have been someone..." The thought of being forgotten, the thought of having no one to sought, no one to care about, was frightening. He felt, deep in his heart, that he was alone in a dark, cruel world.

Still weak from lack of respite, he rose, pacing slowly behind the bar and towards a lonely door. The television still played, a show for ghosts. The door creaked as it opened, giving into a small corridor where cold reign undisputed. He let himself inside a small office, a bureau stood there with difficulty, leaning on the wall as for support. Atop it; a computer. He sat back down in front of it, booting it up, it wasn't long before he was free to browse, knowledge at the tip of his fingers. Still, the fear of discovering something best left forgotten haunted him as he typed but a few letters: S.T.A.R.S... A few article popped up, but not nearly as much as anticipated. He was quick to review what little was offered to him; a special unit serving under the supervising of the R.C.P.D, it was seemingly terminated together with the annihilation of the city it served. Their last known investigation site was in the Arklay mountains situated in the periphery of the lost city. One interesting fact stood out, a number of their units had reportedly survived the incident and were now serving the B.S.A.A. A very limited list of names was made available, he recognized one of them: Chris Redfield.

"Chris..." He repeated the name, for a moment he thought he remembered something but it slipped away as fast as it came.

Now he faced a dilemma, either he could risk meeting this man and be dissociated with this "Wesker" character or he could confirm his identity. But what if he couldn't? Would he be willing to help? Would it come into question how he got a hold of another's badge of office? He knew he couldn't provide explanations, and his gut kept pulling him away from the idea, like adrenaline out of danger. But could he simply ignore this lead and go back to filling his days with self lamentation? No. He had to risk it. He went back into the dining area and got a hold of some paper and a pen, decided to write his thanks to the woman who offered him so much without ever asking something in return, without much else to offer he poured heartfelt thanks by the way of ink, hoping it would be enough. He promised to visit her again and, having no other names to sign, scribbled his adoring nickname at the bottom of his letter; Honey.

He fetched what little he owned; his jacket, his gun and a canteen full of whiskey that reminded him of the only home he knew. Casting his fiery eyes on the place one final time he managed a melancholic smile. The door closed behind him, the bell rang, the metallic sounds of a key tingled and then nothing as he abandoned the small object inside the mail box, leaving him nothing to go back to.