` ( ⌖ ) 𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐚 𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐳𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐞’𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐫 —
𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐚 𝐩𝐨𝐨𝐫 𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧,
𝐚 𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦.
( … ) Disgust remains starkly present, hatred thundering through his veins like an unguarded flood, only growing more wild in its defensive lashing the longer he stayed around the traitor. It thrums like a bared livewire, keeping his attention fixated firmly on the bastard he’d once dared to call a friend, a captain like a human target.
No longer did any respect remain for the man — instead only the darkest remnants of sickly vitriol remain present, so vivid in the warning that flares behind twin hues of gun-metal grey. He boldly holds Wesker’s stare, the thin of his gaze all but displaying his contempt as he urges Claire to run. Nothing in that moment matters more outside of the anger he feels coursing beneath his skin — he clasps it hard between his hands, follows it, let’s it guide him over the fear he knows rattles through his shaken core at seeing a true ghost of his past among the living. With teeth bared, he makes his declaration, a promise he intends to pay in fresh blood for all those lost.
He catches the way the other’s eyes linger on his uniform in recognition — hates the way pity flickers from the twitch of the other’s lips. He doesn’t focus for long. Soon enough, they launch forwards, a clattering clash of fists &&. arms, the straining feeling of bones quaking from harsh sudden contact. The way frustration steeps through with each hellbent throw of his own aimed attacks — a particular brand of desperation he hates remembering the feeling of when the novelty of his defiant fight wears thin.
Threadbare, it doesn’t take much to turn the tides of the fight, to pry it free from his grasping hands. No matter how hard he hits, the bent metal pipe only attests to the fact Wesker really isn’t human anymore — the harrowing reminder he’s only flesh &&. blood, undeniably more fragile, human in comparison makes his blood begin to chill. @alphateamcaptain wastes no time in gloating, in rubbing in everything he’d supposedly gained from all he’d so mercilessly sacrificed, thrown away. Standing tall, the shadow is a looming one, cold as ice, inciting a deeper stab of dread as he finds himself knocked over, pinned.
Air burns, scalding, painful to breathe in from all the smoke, the scent of blood heavy in his throat, his nose — it clouds his dizzied senses in a darkening haze.
He will die here — it’s the only thought that continues to flicker like a bright alarm behind his eyes as air grows harder to suck in past the hand clutching his windpipe so firmly. He doesn’t want to die here — he can’t do that to Claire, he still has fallen comrades to avenge, to fight for. In a stubborn push to return the favor, his hands clasp as hard as they can around the pale man’s throat, nail’s digging into the skin he can find, attempting to claw his way deep in retribution.
An for an eye in even if it’s weakly enacted. He barely hears the maniacs madman rants, heart drumming far too loudly in his ears to make out much more outside of the mouthed word ‘hurts’ before he’s roughly jerked in close. In a flash, feeling what breath he had managed to scrounge together promptly stolen — his fear churns to rage, indignant fury that melts away the glacial cold settled in his gut.
It’s the painful clattering of teeth, the sharp growl torn from his snarling lips at the unforgiving way Wesker bites at him. Little care, dampened embers long grown cold fail to soften how he’s chewed up, how his lip is torn between sharpened teeth to spill more blood loose — it’s bestial, nothing more than a complicated mixture of meanly lashed hunger, an arrogant pride to prove a point &&. an old decayed memory of a time far simpler tainting the surging want to mock. To hurt as promised.
It’s well accomplished. He tries &&. fails to ignore the way something clenches achingly tight in the hollow of his chest when they part, all too akin to the sharp shattering of glass.
With glassy eyes, a vengeful scowl still locked in place despite the welling of thoughts, overflowing feelings that fill, he peers up at the inhuman thing that stood in his old friend’s shoes, the monster wearing his former Captain's skin. Chris isn’t sure if it’s always been the true side of him or a result of everything leading up till now — he drops it, refuses to think more on it. Hatred is a safe life-line to cling to. He doesn’t dare to let anything else paw their way to the surface as he swallows past the blood still spilling from newly gifted wounds.
It’s nothing more than fuel to use. When it all inevitably goes up in flames, he will make sure nothing rises again from its ashes a second time.
