Queen’s Knight Chapter 1: The Long and Terrible Dream
Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Category: F/M
Fandom: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Relationships: Steve Burnside/Claire Redfield, Steve Burnside & Alexia Ashford (kinda)
Characters: Steve Burnside, Alexia Ashford (Kinda), Claire Redfield
Additional Tags: Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Suspense, Horror, original BOWs, Blood and Gore, I promise theres gonna be burnfield content just bare with me, Medical Trauma, Found Family
Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30651233/chapters/75622757
Summary: He had slept for years, trapped in the bowels of an isolated island facility and half dead. When he finally rises from his slumber, Steve Burnside is greeted with hideous beasts, phantom pains, and the specters of those that had shaped his old life. There are only two choices in this wild, hellish place; kill, or be killed.
BIG CONTENT WARNING FOR FIRST CHAPTER!!
If you are sensitive to physical trauma involving needles please please please skip over this. It is A Lot.
It all feels like a dream. A long, terrible dream from which Steve Burnside cannot escape. Suspended in the space between life and death, confined to an impossibly small void yet floating in an endless expanse. Most of the time he is barely lucid, blessedly ignorant of what was going on around him, but the times he is aware are pure agony.
Long, probing tendrils bore under his skin, tear open his veins and pry apart his insides piece by piece. Blood is drained and returned, bones shattered and set again, organs he had no name for are ripped from his body to be examined and placed back inside him, never in quite the right way. They break him down in all but his mind which fumbles weakly for sanity, for meaning in this pain, before rearranging him and stapling him back together. Then the fires raging through his nerves are quenched by the seas of cold, unfeeling nothingness. He sinks back into the dream once more, waiting for it all to begin again.
And then, one day, the dream ends.
It begins when Steve becomes acutely aware of his own pulse. Rapid and frantic, as if it was trying to burst through his ribs. Fire pools in his chest as his lungs strain for oxygen. Dreadful, agonizing awareness spreads throughout his body. Muscles scream, veins sing with alertness and panic, and his once endless world of black constricts against this thrashing body. He opens his eyes to murky, stinging fluids. He can’t see, hear, smell, or feel anything around him, but he is horrifically aware that everything burned.
Everything hurts.
Hurts….
Hurts.
Oh god it hurts!!
Steve thrashes against his ever tightening prison, against the wires and tubes that snake inside of him. He claws and kicks with all of his might as something wraps around his neck and tightens. Piercing, searing noise though muffled screams through his body. He beats his fists against whatever he can reach in vain hope that someone takes pity on him. Whether his hypothetical savior releases him or grants him merciful true death, it does not matter to Steve. His fingernails rake against a smooth, unyielding surface so hard that they begin to peel from the bed. He fights this impossible battle with all of his might; his mind is empty except for the primal desire to survive.
And as if Steve’s prison takes pity on him, it yields.
His body is ejected from the warm void onto a hard, smooth surface, and the elation of freedom is quickly replaced by a biting cold. Steve’s muscles shudder and shake from the effort of supporting him and fighting against the things that pull him back towards his prison from the inside. A cool, slick, viscous substance coats his body and the floor, sapping what little body heat he has. It’s even thicker in his lungs and throat, which he heaves into the mask that hugs his face with its iron grip. He tries to yank it off but the action pulls something inside of him as well, dragging whatever it is along the delicate flesh of his throat. That just makes him gag and heave more.
Quaking fingers drag across the slick skin of his neck, tangling with his hair and tugging at his scalp, to find what holds the mask in place. He finds three, two elastic bands and one Velcro strap tangled in his matted hair. He yanks at them with the frantic energy of a muzzled animal, pulling at his scalp. The Velcro comes undone easily, but the elastic sticks to him. Clumps of wet, orange hair come away with the bands and strap. Something else comes away, something that pulls at the inside of his throat. Gagging, he pulls the mask away, along with a long, thin tube that is coated with a clear slime from his mouth and nose. A milky substance lingers inside the apparatus before sliding out of the tubes and pooling on the floor.
Steve takes his first breath of fresh, stagnant air; unhindered by the mask. It burns his throat and lungs, he coughs and spits up another puddle of sludge, but it is euphoric all the same.
He collapses to the floor; tiled, cold, and slick with whatever substance coated him. Steve’s body shudders with the exhaustion of simply holding him up and taking off the mask, and the frigid air around him. Somehow, the cold is almost nostalgic.
Slowly his surroundings come into focus piece by piece. There are flashes of color across the room, the hum of lights and equipment, and a repeated tone that grates against Steve’s ears. Specific parts of his body ache down to the bone; right arm, navel, and right thigh. Judging by the way those spots flare up if he moves, something is stuck inside him. He cranes his neck to the side, dragging his face along the floor to look at his arm first. Sure enough a mess of tubing is stuck to the inside of his elbow, held there by yellowed medical tape. Something bulges from his elbow, the epicenter of the tape and tubing. His throat goes dry as he looks past that down to his leg. A similar story, though this time whatever is underneath the bandages is on the side of his thigh. More medical tape wraps around his midsection too, and he shudders to think what might be under that.
Propping himself up on his left hand and shifting his weight, Steve rolls over onto his back. He hisses through his teeth and his body screams with the effort of just flipping over. With steady, pained breaths he reorients himself. Slowly the world stops spinning and the white spots in his vision begin to fade. He takes a shuddering breath then lifts his left arm up in the air. His thin, bony fingers shake with the effort of holding his arm up but it’s enough for him to get a better look at what’s stuck inside him.
The medical tape lifts up on the end, revealing the crisp white bandage beneath, spared of exposure to whatever liquid Steve was kept in. Parts of the end fray off into little threads coated with old adhesive. He rests his arm on his bare chest and picks at the threads with his “good” hand. The strands come away easily and the adhesive crumbles to soft, wet dust when he rolls it between his wrinkled fingers. Steve tugs on the tape, testing how stuck it actually is, and to his surprise it takes a bit of effort to pull sections off. There’s two layers hidden behind the aged section on top, both tougher to take away than the last. When the final layer pulls at his skin he stops to examine the paleness beneath the medical tape, and the angry, purple bruising that sits near the crook of his elbow.
Steve grits his teeth to prepare for the worst, but when he yanks at the bandage it pulls away just as easy as the rest. A layer of dead skin sloughs off of his arm with the old tape, revealing exactly what he has been dreading. A syringe, or something like it, juts out of a vein that bulges beneath his skin. All around the wound is a deep purple bruise that fades into sickly yellows and greens. He takes the plastic tube in his fingers and pulls, slowly. It slides out of his burst vein easily. Mercifully the needle is only an inch or so long, and the moment it’s free of his skin a bead of blood oozes out and trails down his pale arm. Steve presses his fingers to the wound to mitigate the bleeding. The skin and muscle is sore, but compared to everything else wrong with him, it’s manageable. Within seconds, the bleeding stops and he can focus on the next problem.
With great effort Steve forces himself to sit upright. The blood rushes from his head and the agony of exhaustion brings him to the verge of collapse. He props himself up on one arm while he acclimates to sitting, taking shaking breaths to even out his heartbeat. When he can open his eyes without feeling dizzy, he pushes his hair out of his face and begins pulling the bandages off his thigh. It’s much the same as before, the tape comes away with little effort along with a thick layer of leg hair and dead skin. Another syringe like device sticks out of him, this one much larger than the last. When Steve grabs hold of it and gives it a test pull, his leg alights with agony. He lets out a barely muffled cry as whatever is inside him scrapes against his femur, as if it’s been stuck directly into the bone. His fingers curl around the syringe in a shaking fist, teeth grit in panicked desperation and hand throbbing with each thundering heartbeat.
Steve shuts his eyes and tears the needle out of his thigh.
Agony floods his body like electricity and escapes his mouth in a monstrous howl that echoes across the room. Hot tears stream down his face as he grips his leg, his fingernails digging into the meat of his thigh as if he could simply claw out his nerves to stop the pain. His femur and the muscles around it send fire through his veins with each beat of his heart. Managing to open one eye, he dares to look at the thing he just ripped from his body in horror. It shares the same shape as the needle he pulled out of his arm, but three times the size. The needle alone stretches horrifically past the length of his hand; it glints in the dim lighting as Steve lets it clatter to the floor, right next to the growing pool of blood that flows from his thigh. He shoves the discarded, filthy medical tape against the wound to try and stop the blood flow as much as he can. Thankfully within moments his leg stops pouring blood, and Steve can turn to what is taped to his stomach.
There isn’t much holding the tubes to his navel, only a few scraps of tattered tape; nowhere near the multiple layers he had to pull away moments prior. However this time, merely touching the apparatus is painful. Steve winces and hisses as he pulls the tape away from the thing in his stomach. Whatever this is seems to be sewn into him, or maybe glued since he can’t see any stitches or staples. It simply melds into his skin just above his navel, a larger tube and clamp system rests outside of his body and dangles from another series of tangled wires and tubing, the latter filled with a red fluid. Steve chokes back sobs as he takes hold of the device with both hands, trembling and horrified as he feels his insides shift with it. He doubles over after one pull, something shifts in his gut and sends jolts through his body, but he continues. Agonizingly slow, only managing a half an inch at a time, he drags this… thing….out of his stomach. A length of tubing as wide as his thumb filled with milky red fluids emerges from his gut, impossibly long and slick with blood. It coils on the floor beside him in the puddle of blood, like a vile serpent.
Adrenaline, pain, and desperation forces him through this grim task. Steve’s world fades nearly to black, and for a moment he almost succumbs to the blissful darkness once again, but he persists. A primal desire to survive keeps him awake, while something deeper in the back of his mind keeps him focused. A memory, a woman in red, says something muddled by the fog and pain in his brain, but it ignites a drive within him he wasn’t aware of. One hand over the other, he pulls the last bit of tubing out of his stomach. The final portion catches on the edge of his skin, indicating something larger is at the end of the tube. A pained growl rumbles in his chest as he braces himself for the worst. He musters his strength and with a bellowing roar Steve rips the apparatus out his stomach.
Blood pours from the wound on his stomach and from the strange mesh bag that dangles obscenely from the end of the tubing. Steve launches the thing, whatever it is, across the room. It falls to the floor with a wet splat, sending more blood and fluids spilling onto the tiles. His manic strength begins to slip from his mind and body as he collapses to the floor in a pool of his own blood.
In the cold, dim room, devoid of all life but himself, Steve curls into his starved, broken body and cries.
Cruciamen Chapter 8: In the Shadow of the Primordial Lords
Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Categories: F/M, Other
Fandom: NieR: Automata (Video Game)
Relationships: 2B/9S (NieR: Automata), A2/A4 (NieR: Automata)
Characters: 2B (NieR: Automata), 9S (NieR: Automata), A2 (NieR: Automata), A4 (NieR: Automata), Emil (NieR: Automata), Kainé (Nier)
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, genre typical violence, On the Run, Monster of the Week, 9S is a half demon, 2B and A2 are shapeshifter Dragons, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Smut in the future, inaccurate depictions of medical procedures, Fantasy Biology, A2 is Nonbinary
Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25104214/chapters/7522249
A2 wakes to a searing pain in their wrists and ankles and a disorienting sinking sensation, as if their stomach is about to drop through their back. Their body sways back and forth, dangling from whatever holds their arms and legs in place. They slowly open their eyes, fighting past exhaustion and caked mud, and see a mangrove canopy come into focus, along with their hands and feet bound to a thick branch with rough, hempen rope. Panic shoots through their body and they try to tug at the ropes with what strength they can muster in this position. All they succeed in is digging the coarse rope into their skin further.
They hiss quietly as they become more aware of their pain and the world around them. There’s multiple sets of footsteps that break through the din of nature, the clattering of wood and bone against each other, and whatever language their captors are speaking. Some of the women, clad in bone and hide armor, glare at A2 as they struggle but make no move to stop them yet.
Despite the hopelessness of the situation, a desperate escape plan begins to brew in A2’s head. If they can at least break through the ropes around their wrists then they could twist themselves around enough to undo the ones on their legs. They’d have to be quick; the witches are watching every so often, but seem to be confident that their prey can’t escape. Maybe A2 can use that to their advantage.
Straining their chest and arms, A2 pulls themself up to their tied wrists and bites at the ropes. Whatever the material is tastes horrific, like mud and rotten bone, but it’s brittle and easily sheared apart. With their mouth full of rope, they gnaw at their restraints like a desperate rat. Each bite makes the rope’s grip looser and looser, their teeth easily pulling it to pieces. The more success they find the more anxious they get, caution being replaced by frantic desperation.
Suddenly, one of the large warrior women shouts something in her harsh tongue. A2 hisses a curse in their own native tongue, before the witch slams her club into A2’s skull. They don’t even get to finish their insult before their world slips into darkness.
This time, A2 awakens to a vile stench and an ache in their whole body.
There isn’t one source they can place the smell at. It is an acrid melding of mud, stagnant water, feces, and corpses. The sting of smoke lingers in the air as well, but it’s different than a typical campfire, more harsh. The witches aren’t burning wood.
A2 cracks their eyes open once more, this time to the sight of a strange village settled in a rare firm stretch of mud. A well-worn path of soft mud and stone twists through the mangroves into a clearing; a barren pit of sludge dotted with structures constructed of gnarled branches and uncut boulders and decorated with grim trophies; skulls, horns, skins, and dried organs. Animal hides cover the roofs and hang above doors; bones and skulls provide support for long leather pelts. In fact, whatever isn’t made of wood or stone is made from bones and hides. Crude benches and stools stand above piles of corpses freshly picked, bare of all meat and skin, leaving bloodied skeletons to dry in the sun. It doesn’t take long for A2 to discern what this means for them.
The witches don’t seem to notice that they’re awake, and A2 plans to keep it that way for as long as they can. If they can get their bearings and search out some kind of escape route, then at least they’ll have a plan in some capacity.
Exploiting a weakness in the guard patrols doesn’t seem like it’ll be viable. There are countless women wandering around the village doing every sort of task available. Some are weaving, carving bones, and mending furniture; others watch the few children that scamper around the proud huntresses and their catch, yelling at the kids if they get too close; and even more skin and gut fresh kills, tossing the bones aside to the ever growing piles. Though only a few of them have weapons, gruesome crude blades and spears similar to the ones the huntresses carry, there’s enough to give A2 pause while they contemplate just fighting their way through the village. There’s no telling how many of the witches are competent fighters or archers.
A2 considers simply transforming and flying away as soon as their limbs are free. The canopy isn’t as dense here as it is in the untouched sections of The Bog, and even if they couldn’t fit through the branches they could at least jump from tree to tree and glide into denser portions. But with the witches’ pet rats and arrows that could be a problem too…
Before they can decide on a plan of action that wouldn’t immediately fail, something sinister comes into view.
A wooden cage, surrounded by skulls on pikes and inward pointing spikes, covering a gaping hole in the earth. The stench of feces, urine, and death attracts a swarm of huge flies that hover around the cage, enticed by the smells that make A2 gag. Another witch, this one wearing a mask made of a rat’s hollowed out head, grumbles something to the huntresses in a raspy voice before opening a section of the wooden cage. A feverish chill runs down A2’s spine as desperate, longing moans drift out of the pit.
The huntresses cut A2 down from the log suddenly; they land in the mud with a wet splat, before a brutal kick sends them over the edge and plummeting into the filth below. They land in a puddle of murk that seeps into their scales, clothes, and hair. Whatever the fluid is sticks to them in sick clumps of… A2 doesn’t want to know. It stinks of so many things that it’s hard to pin down a single source.
It’s hard to stand. Whenever they put their foot down the ground itself gives, either sinking and engulfing their foot or sliding out from under them. It takes a few attempts, one of which has A2 falling face first into the grime, but they eventually manage to stand and get their bearings. Their first order of business is to toss away the scraps of rope that still cling to their wrists and ankles. The second, is to address the men huddled together on the other side of the pit.
If A2 didn’t know any better, they would have thought that the men were all the same person. Each one has the same terrified, starved, desperate look about them. Like rats, they think. The men are covered with festering sores all over their bodies, some crudely wrapped with scraps of cloth just as filthy as the rest of them. Only one still has hair, but not much. Whatever is left looks as if it would fall out at any given moment. The same can be said for their skin, discolored, sagging, barely hanging onto their skeletons. Each man looks like they’re on the brink of death, or on the brink of rushing A2 and devouring them whole.
“Poor soul…” One man, the oldest it seems, says and steps forward from the group. “What is your name?”
A2 stares at him, watching his gnarled hands and twisted fingernails. They say nothing, but they stand tall, unwavering. They can’t show weakness.
The old man looks at them with sunken, sad eyes. “Can you speak, child?” His voice is raspy but gentle and nostalgic. It reminds them of one of their village elders.
They nod, but still refuse to speak. The other men relax a little but still stay close together, shivering against each other. The old man shivers too, but manages a calm facade as he steps closer to them.
A2 can’t read this man, or at the very least there’s too much to read on his wrinkled sagging face. There’s a sadness etched into every crease on his skin, but he smiles with such warmth that they wonder how this kindness survived down here. “How long have you been here?” they ask, their voice low and cautious.
The old man sighs, “I have seen at least three full moons come and go. The others arrived not long after myself.”
A2 watches as the other men begin to approach them and the old man as he explains his story.
“I used to be a cleric for the theocracy,” he says, sitting cross-legged on the ground. “I was escorting a group of Old Empire refugees to the Blessed Grounds and cut through a part of this place. Obviously, it did not end well.” His expression darkens, eyes fixated on the mud. “The lambs were the lucky ones. They were taken by the swamp creatures well before the Bog Witches found me.” He gestures to the other men, who now sit beside the old man. “These knights were snatched from their troop as they cut through the Bog as well.”
A chill runs through A2’s body, whether from fear or the cold mud seeping through their clothes they can’t tell. Part of their mind runs through escape plans while the other festers in a creeping dread that weighs down their limbs.
“Have any of you tried to get out?” they ask, though in their heart they know the answer.
The old man shakes his head. “I am afraid not. The walls are too slick to climb, even when the knights were fit. The witches only toss whatever rotten scraps they do not eat our way, to keep us weak.” His gaze shifts to a pile of shattered bones in the shadows of the pit. “Not even our dead can give us strength.”
A2 suppresses the bile that rises in their throat.
He rises to his feet, his joints creaking and straining under his emaciated body, and gently takes A2’s hand in his. “I am so sorry, child,” he says in a voice that wavers with the effort.
They rip their hand away, the old man’s warped fingernails scratching at their scales. He flinches away from their scowl and their bared teeth.
“I won’t die here,” they growl. “I am not going to die here.”
The starving men leave A2 alone for the rest of the day. It isn’t that A2 holds any malice to them, but to see these men waste away in a pit of their own filth is more than infuriating. There has to be a way to escape, and they won’t sit idle and wait to die. They pace around the perimeter of the pit, searching for stones, branches or roots, anything that the men could use to climb out. For a moment, they consider the broken bones of the consumed dead, but they refuse to touch them. Even looking at them makes A2 nauseous.
A2 carves a rut into the ground with their pacing, but losing themself in their thoughts has allowed time to pass much faster. Soon soft rays of moonlight filter down through the trees into the filthy prison. The chatter of witches and their animals fades into the darkness as the nocturnal Bog creatures begin their own songs. The torchlight that surrounded the rim fades to embers that barely illuminate the wooden bars of the cage. All of the men huddle together in a strange sleeping arrangement, possibly to stave off the cold. Besides the spasmic shivers that run through their bodies A2 would mistake them for dead.
If they are to escape, now is the time.
Their body feels tense. Each movement makes their bones creak and muscles strain. Perhaps it’s because they haven’t eaten in a bit, or the heavy, stagnant air of this place, but their mind feels clouded. For a moment they toy with the idea of waiting till they have a clear head, but they grit their teeth and launch themself into the air.
With a brilliant flash of light their form erupts into feathers and claws. The wooden cage shatters into pieces as the dragonic form of A2 bursts from their prison. From below, the starving men gasp as they wake to find the cage destroyed and a red feathered dragon launching into the air. A pair of mange-riddled dogs tied to a post of the ruined cage jolt awake, howling and snarling at the intruding creature. A2 makes short work of them with their claws and beak. The meat still tastes like rotten mud.
A2 takes stock of their surroundings as they touch down just beside the pit’s edge. Eerie silence replaces the din of nature. Whatever animals must have left at the sound of a larger creature, but soon A2 hears noises coming from the huts surrounding the pit. The moving of furniture, footsteps, and muffled voices. The witches would be coming out soon.
“Hey! Wait!!!”
Just as A2 readies themself to take to the air, a pained, desperate voice calls out to them. From down below, one of the starved men looks up at them with wide eyes.
“Please!! Take us too!! Don’t leave us here!!”
A2 gazes down at the man and every part of their body begs to bolt and leave these men for dead. The starved men are dying anyway, they’d most likely die in The Bog from starvation or some hungry animal if A2 does pull them out. And yet they find themself crouching beside the edge and reaching down their neck as far as they can. The man jumps, his fingertips just barely brushing the tip of their beak. They growl and hiss, the urge to abandon the men growing by the second, but they dig the claws on their wings into the mud and lean further in.
Suddenly a bellowing voice echoes across the village and a massive shape charges them. A2’s head snaps up just as a large net is thrown above them. Just before the weighted net traps them again, they revert back to their human form and dive out from under it. They skid across the slick mud a few feet before pushing themself back to their feet. Looking behind them, A2 sees a witch that easily stands over eight feet tall lumbering across the village plaza to retrieve the thrown net. She locks eyes with A2, bloodshot, collapsed pupils filled with malice. Not keen on getting caught again, they dart around the side of the pit to put an uncrossable space between them and her.
Something catches A2’s eye: the glint of black iron in the moonlight. A few strides away, discarded amongst a pile of filthy clothes, is their sword. The hulking witch seems to pick up on A2’s idea and bellows something they can only assume are slurs. She leans forward and in two thunderous steps launches herself over the mouth of the pit. A2 wastes no time, diving for their sword just as the witch lands. Mud and rotten plant matter splashes in all directions under the weight of the witch, but the bog’s floor gives too much, engulfing her feet in the soft mud.
The witch lunges for A2, the mud holding her feet steady. A2 throws their sword up as a shield against her, but the colossal witch falls, her sharpened fingernails just inches from the black iron blade. With a short step forward and a burst of furious strength A2 drives the sword’s point straight through her shoulder. The witch shudders and slumps forward with a dying gurgle, blood and mucus pouring out of her mouth.
A grim, violent pride rises in A2’s chest as they wrench the sword free from the witch’s corpse. It surges through their veins like fire and urges them to unleash it upon the village. This place had captured them, wronged them, disempowered them, and the whole of this wretched coven needed to pay for it. All the huntresses, healers, artisans, and children.
However, just as their rampage begins, a crude arrow dripping with poisons lands in their shoulder. Before the pain registers in their head, their arm goes limp. Their sword falls from their hand into the mud and no matter how much they try they can’t make their arm move. Then the pain ignites A2’s arm from the inside. They fall to their knees and scream, their arm thrashing wildly outside of their control. Their vision blurs and pulses in time with their rapid heartbeat, the poison and pain spreading further with each beat. Something yanks on their hair and with their body rigid with pain they cannot resist being dragged back towards the gaping hole in the ground.
Whoever found them, and most likely shot them, tosses them callously back into the pit. The first thing they see when they open their eyes are the sad, hungry eyes of the starving men they should have left behind.
Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Categories: F/M, Other Fandom: NieR: Automata (Video Game)
Relationships: 2B/9S (NieR: Automata), A2/A4 (NieR: Automata)
Characters: 2B (NieR: Automata), 9S (NieR: Automata), A2 (NieR: Automata), A4 (NieR: Automata), Emil (NieR: Automata), Kainé (NieR)
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, genre typical violence, On the Run, Monster of the Week, 9S is a half demon, 2B and A2 are shapeshifter Dragons, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Smut in the future, inaccurate depictions of medical procedures, Fantasy Biology, A2 is Nonbinary
The first thing A2 notices is how soft the surface they’re sleeping on is. It reminds them of times as a hatchling when they would nuzzle into their mother’s downy feathers, safe and sound while they slept. Something is draped over their body too, just as gentle. For the first time in a long, long time, they are content and unafraid for their safety.
The next thing they realize is that this is not where they lost consciousness, and all of the warmth in their body rushes away, replaced by icy gripping fear.
Their eyes fly open and they sit upright, ready to fight their captors to the death and escape their prison. They expect to see a pit of rotting mud and meat, or a dank cellar of stone. Instead, they find themself in a small cozy room, complete with a mirror and dresser opposite of their bed. A quick scan around the place reveals nothing out of the aggressively ordinary beyond a plate of fruits and other, strange foods that A2 has never seen before.
They don’t lower their guard yet. If their time in the Bog has taught them anything it’s that horrible things can be waiting in every shadow. The soft bed and heavy blankets might be comfortable, the room itself might be bathed in warm sunlight, the foods beside them might smell inviting, and they might not feel like they’re on death’s door anymore… but it could be a trap or an illusion or a horrible dream. Any second their surroundings could shift back to the prison pit, or they could be hallucinating, on the brink of death while some Bog animals gnaw at their limbs.
… They stare around the room for a few minutes. Nothing happens.
Somehow, waking up in a safe and comfortable room is the most unbelievable thing that’s happened to them, in their mind.
A2’s stomach roars, and suddenly they remember that they haven’t eaten in… gods, they don’t know how long. They look over at the plate of… things, on the small table. There’s a bunch of small purple fruits hanging from little vines in a pile, a block of pale yellow stuff, something that looks in between the color of flesh and the writing paper humans use to record things, a cup of warm water, and a couple of bottles of odd colored liquids. The pale colored food has the shape of an oblong rock, but sags when they press their finger to it. Its outer shell crackles enticingly, but they turn their attention to the plants instead. At least they know that the purple orbs are fruits. They pluck one off the vines and roll it between their fingers for a moment. It’s somewhat firm with a thin skin around it, broken where it was connected with what reveals a soft flesh inside that drips with juice. They cautiously sink their teeth into a small portion of one end which explodes in their mouth.
A2 decides they like these purple fruits, and gulps down the rest of them in seconds, followed by the soft yellow block and crunchy but also soft paper colored food. All of it tastes strange, but pleasant. It isn’t as good as fresh kill, but it quells the hunger that gnaws at their gut. The darker portion of their mind chastises them for eating things that could very well be poisoned, but A2 doesn’t care. They’re fed for the first time since going into the Bog.
The sink back into the bed, full of strange new foods and ready to fall back asleep. However just as they begin to get comfortable, their body begins to itch. They groan and drag their nails against the focal points, mainly their thighs and shoulders, to find them wrapped in tight bandages. They hold their arm up to inspect, finding only clean white wrappings and the stink of some sort of chemical. It smells a bit like fermented berries but less sweet. Carefully they pick at the bandages on their elbow, unwinding them bit by bit once they find the end stuck between two layers. As the final layers start to unravel, their arm begins to sting and feel like their skin itself is peeling off. Sure enough, they pull back the last layer to find raw, red skin. Skin, not scales. Portions of their scales stick to the bandages, flake off when the bandage is removed, or cling to their skin by the smallest thread of mucus.
A2 puts the bandages back on as tight as they can.
Suddenly the wooden door to the outside world flies open and in steps a woman with black robes with a mess of curly black hair tied back. She’s much shorter than them, most likely coming up to where their chest would be, and either well fed or muscular under her robes. Probably both, if they had to guess. A2 freezes in place as they watch her cross the room with a ceramic pitcher in her hands. The woman’s green eyes widen when they meet A2’s
“Oh good!” she says, her voice warm and kind. A2 recognizes it as the same voice they heard just before passing out in the Bog. “I didn’t expect you to be awake already.”
They don’t respond. The woman keeps watching them as if waiting for them to say something. A moment later she clears her throat and approaches A2’s bed. They can feel their hair--now much lighter than before--bristle even though this woman doesn’t appear to be a threat.
“... My name is A4. I’m a nun in the Order of Devoted. I’ll be taking care of you while you recover.”
Still A2 remains silent, their eyes never leaving A4.
“You must have some questions. I know it can be scary waking up in an unfamiliar place, but I assure you this is the safest place you can be in this region.”
The only form of movement A2 gives in response is blinking when necessary.
“... You’ve been unconscious for about two and a half days,” the nun begins as she pours the water into a smaller cup. “You were in a very poor state when we found you, but our holy magic has been sufficient in helping you regain your strength.”
She sets the cup on their bedside table. “Unfortunately you seem to have contracted an illness from spending so long in The Great Bog, and it’s not one spells can fix. Bog Rot is something that requires the old medicines. Regular herbal baths, cleaning of infection sites, various salves, and-”
“I don’t need your help,” A2 snaps, brows knit tightly together. They try to look as intimidating as they can, despite how pathetic they feel wrapped up in blankets and bandages.
A4 smirks. “Ah, so you can speak. For a moment I thought you couldn’t or didn’t understand my language. But I’m sorry, you need treatment-”
“I’m not a charity case,” they growl.
The nun’s eyebrows shoot up in shock, but then she puts her hands on her hips and scowls, though her emerald eyes still hold kindness. “I don’t think you understand how serious this disease is. You-”
“I. Don’t. Need. Help.” A2 leans forward and snarls, baring their pointed teeth at A4.
For a split second there’s fear on the nun’s face, a brief flash of pallor across her face. “Yes, you do. This is only the beginning stages of the Rot. Your skin will start to become necrotic. You won’t be able to walk, stand, or even clean yourself. One by one your organs will rot away and shut down. Within a month you will be clinging to life while your body rots from the inside out.”
They scowl, but A4’s little sermon does strike a cord in them. They cross their arms over their chest and stare holes in the floor. Somehow wasting away in a sickbed is a worse fate than starving to death in a mud pit. Unlike in the desert with Emil and Kaine they’re in no condition to assist with anything, so repayment is out of the question for now.
Gods, they hate being stuck like this.
“Look,” A4 says, her stern expression falling into one of genuine concern. “I can tell you’re strong. Most people would have succumbed to the Rot and the pain. I’ve seen many warriors fall into torpor after a mere week, yet you remain conscious and alert. You’d be free to leave once you regain your strength, if you wish.”
A2 chews at their bottom lip as they think, still scowling at the floorboards.
“... Fine,” they huff. “But I’m not letting you wash me. And I can take the medicine myself.”
A4 lights up with a radiant smile that makes A2’s chest tighten. “Great! I’ll leave fresh bandages and salves for you on your table every day. You have to change them each morning or if they get too dirty. The salves will sting a bit but they will prevent further infections. Oh, and exercise is important to the recovery process as well. Helps combat muscle wasting. So I’ll be helping you walk around the Convent grounds every mornin-”
“Like hell you are,” they snap, “I’m not a dog-”
“The walks aren’t negotiable.” A4 doesn’t even look at them as she gathers up old sheets and clothes. “End of story.”
A2 sits back in their bed and scowls, once again, at nothing. Just before A4 leaves their room, they realize something of theirs is missing.
“Where did you take my sword?” It’s a question in technicality, but A2 says it like a command.
“Your sword?”
“Big, black iron blade. Has a…” A lump catches in their throat. “... A black feather on the grip.”
“Oh! Yes, we did recover that from the village.”
“Give it back to me.”
She sighs. “Weapons are not allowed in the medical wards, but…” A4 looks towards the door like a child sneaking treats from under their parents noses. “I can take you to it while we’re on a walk.”
A2 feels a growl rumble in their throat.
“It’s safe, I promise. I won’t let anything happen to it.”
There’s an air of sincerity around the nun that lends credence to her words. That, and A2 simply doesn’t have the energy to press the issue further.
“Mm…” Is all they respond with.
A4 nods, then shuts the door behind her, leaving A2 alone with their thoughts. They sigh and stare up at the ceiling, wondering why the world won’t let them die.
Rating: General AudiencesArchive
Warning: No Archive Warnings ApplyCategory: F/M
Fandom: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Relationships: Steve Burnside/Claire Redfield, Steve Burnside & Alexia Ashford (kind of)
Characters: Steve Burnside, Claire Redfield, Alexia Ashford (kind of), Jill Valentine
Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Touch-Starved, Post RE Rev2, Therapy Group - Freeform, Read A/N for more context, Steve is a sad sad man who missed out on A Lot, Angst, Subtle love languages
Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29232369
Summary: Months after being rescued from his second island prison, Steve Burnside tries to adjust to a normal life while dealing with the scars left both physically and mentally. Luckily, he has some help.
Notes: Sooooooooo here's the thing. There were worms in my brain. Real bad. So this is like... a manifestation of a longfic that I want to write later down the road. Some things to know before going in. 1) Steve revived on an island meant to store "failed" B.O.W. experiments that was left abandoned. He was there for a year and some change. 2) Allie is a child clone of Alexia who was in the same facility and befriended him. They live together and Steve is her legal guardian. 3) Jill runs a victims of B.O.W. experimentation which includes Steve, Manuela, Sherry, herself, and some others. I think that's everything but if yall have anymore questions feel free to ask. This is incredibly self indulgent to write but I hope you guys enjoy it too.
“Please stop pacing,” Allie sighs, “You look like a caged beast.”
Steve glares at the child, a clone of the insane woman who killed him, as she sips her tea at the other side of their flat. She glares back, her hazel eyes sharp as ever. She’s waiting for him to retort so she can shoot him down with a smart ass remark like a shark circling a drowning bird. When all she gets is an indignant huff she sips her tea and rolls her eyes.
“You do this every time she comes over. If she didn’t run away at the first sight of your ghastly visage she’s not going to run now.”
Steve sighs, “Yeah, but-“
“What absurd thing are you putting in your own head this time?” Allie snaps, setting her dainty pink teacup next to her stuffed dragon, “You’re going to stink up the room if you think too hard.”
He tunes out the insults with a scowl, but Steve knows the kid is right. He’s thinking way too much about this. Claire didn’t run away screaming the first time they met since he came back, she’s not going to do it for the seventh.
Even still, as Steve passes by the mirror in the front room he jumps at his own reflection. The person inside doesn’t look like him, it doesn’t feel like him. Their ginger hair isn’t wild and tangled, it’s washed, brushed and tied up in a small ponytail. Their shocking green eyes aren’t sunken into their sockets, and there’s a splash of red sunburn on their skin. He can even see a smattering of freckles across their nose and cheeks. They look like a stranger, but the deep, ragged scars across his face remind him of his past. The biggest and ugliest of the marks starts well above his hairline, drops down over his right eye and curls over his lips. A few smaller ones run across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, but they aren’t nearly as deep.
He always thought scars were sexy when he was a kid. Manly. The marks of some action hero or badass. Now they just… Make him look tired and scared.
A small hand grabs onto one of his. “Did you take your medicine today?” Allie asks without a trace of her previous vitriol.
Steve shakes his head. “I’m out of the anxiety pills. Ms. Valentine said she’s going to bring them over when she comes to pick you up.”
“Okay.” Allie says with a curt nod.
“You got everything for your field trip?” Steve meanders over to the kitchen again, eager to change the subject.
“Can I have some spending money?”
He raises an eyebrow, “How much and what for?”
“Fifty for museum books.” Allie puts her hands on her hips and glares up at her guardian with defiance sparkling in her eyes.
Steve crosses his arms over his chest, “Twenty.”
Allie lifts her chin, “Forty-five.”
“Thirty.”
“Forty-five and I buy you a cool rock from the Natural History Museum.”
“Deal.”
With negotiations done (and Steve down forty-five bucks) the only thing left to do is wait. He switches the tv on to drown out his own thoughts. Some hockey game. It’s not his team so he doesn’t care too much, but it’s a comforting familiarity. At least sports didn’t change too much since ‘98.
Steve let’s himself zone out as much as he can to the game. At one point he thinks about getting a beer but decides against it. He’d probably have one or two with Claire at dinner. That, and his meds don’t mix well with alcohol if he hasn’t eaten. So instead he bounces his leg, bites his nails, and busies his hands with whatever he can reach.
Did he used to be like this? It’s hard for him to remember past his awakening and even harder to think past Rockfort. He was a neurotic mess out of necessity on the Storage Facility Island, a place where any sound could be death, and Rockfort was a similar story with the addition of his teenage bravado, but before he was taken? He barely remembers what his parents looked like, let alone what social masks he had to put on. Steve lets out a long, quiet sigh. It doesn’t matter anymore. He’s like this now, and that’s all he needs to know. At least now he has a support system.
Just as Steve starts to calm down, the doorbell rings.
He jumps out of his chair and bolts to the front door, heart in his throat and stomach upside down. His hands begin to shake as he reaches for the knob-
“Hi, Steve.”
“Oh,” Steve sighs, a bit too loudly judging by the way the visitor raises an eyebrow, “Hey, Jill.”
She gives him a warm, knowing smile as she fumbles with her shoulder bag. “Claire coming over today?”
“Yeah.” Steve scratches the back of his neck, “That easy to tell?”
Jill laughs, “Careful now, Redfields can smell fear.” She hands him a paper bag from the local drugstore, “Here. I know you said you were out of the anxiety meds, but I got everything refilled for you.”
“Oh! Uh, thanks!” He tosses the bag across the room to the chair he had just left. “So what museums are you hitting today?”
“All depends on our little cruise director.” Jill says with a small laugh, “Speaking of-”
Allie brushes past Steve, the charms on her backpack jingling with each step. “Air and Space and Botanical Gardens! Oh, and Natural History too. I promised I’d buy Steve a cool rock.”
“Easily bribed, I see.” Jill smirks at him quickly, then turns her attention back to Allie, “Sounds like a deal, kiddo.”
Eager to get on her way, Allie all but jumps out of the door and runs to where two more members of their little therapy group, Manuela and Sherry, wait. Both women greet her with smiles and hugs, and she wastes no time in launching into sharing things she had learned since the last time they had spoken.
“I’d stick around,” Jill says as she backtracks to the group, “But I feel like if I wait any longer there’s going to be a mutiny.”
The rumbling of a motorcycle echoes down the street, and Jill turns back to Steve with a quick smirk.
“Besides, you have company.”
Jill darts over to the group, casting a wave back to Steve and over to the biker before motioning to the ladies to begin their trek. Steve watches with wide eyes and a thundering heart as the biker dismounts and pulls off their helmet, revealing short auburn hair and stunning blue eyes. She gathers up a few plastic bags from her bike before jogging over to him, while he stands there like a deer in headlights.
“Hey, Steve!” She says with a bright, radiant smile and shoves some of her bags in his hands.
“W- Hey, Claire.” He fumbles with the grocery bags, “What’s all this?”
“Dinner. Figured making our own burgers would be better than ordering out.” Claire explains and shuffles inside the door as Steve moves aside for her. “And more fun.”
Though Steve can’t deny her claim, he also can’t fight the apprehension that coils in his stomach. He can cook, sure, he had to or die on the island, but he has no idea how to use any of the kitchen gadgets Jill’s group and Terra-Save set him up with. None of it is as simple as a slapdash firepit and some scraps of metal. Maybe if he’s lucky Claire will know what to do and he can just chop vegetables or something. The last thing he wants to do is make more of a fool of himself.
“Uh, sure!” He blinks his thoughts away, shuts the door and retrieves his bag of medicine from the chair.
By the time Steve turns back towards his kitchen, Claire is already busy setting up groceries and making herself at home. He watches her take off her heavy bomber jacket, revealing a thinner red and black flannel, and set it on the back of a chair at the kitchen table. She drops her plastic bags on the counter and grabs a beer out of his fridge; she looks like she’s been coming here for months. Something about the image before him makes Steve’s chest tighten. He’s not sure if it’s a bad feeling or not.
“-Steve?”
“Huh?” He snaps out of his stupor with a jolt.
Claire wiggles the opened bottle in her hand, “Did you want one?”
“Oh, uh, sure.” He stammers and rubs the back of his neck but walks across the room to take the beer. Maybe he did need something to settle his nerves after all.
Claire smiles at him like she’s known him all his life, like she knows what’s going on in his head and she understands why he’s so awkward and nervous around her. What was it that Jill said before? Redfields can smell fear? He knows it’s a joke but the way Claire seems to understand his fidgeting and hesitation leaves him wondering if there’s some kind of truth to it. A few gulps of beer (technically a hard cider, his first beer made him vomit) gives him enough bravado to at least go into the small kitchen with her.
Thankfully, she doesn’t ask him to work any of the gadgets. Claire’s hands glide over buttons and knobs, setting temperatures on his stove and placing pans. She directs Steve to break the ingredients out of the bags. Ground beef, cheese, brioche buns, vegetables, and a myriad of spices.
“This is a lot for just burgers, isn’t it?” He asks, mouth full of stolen tomato.
“Come on now, you know I wouldn’t do just burgers.” Claire laughs a bit, a sound that makes Steve’s heart stop. “This is an ancient Redfield family recipe.”
“Should I be worried?” Steve can’t help but smile back. She has this way about her that makes him feel lighter, like everything takes a backseat to just… being around her. He can joke, come out of his shell a little. She won’t hurt him.
Claire giggles at him, “It’s the way our dad used to make them. Chris held onto the secret ingredient till he was… Thirty something I think. I basically had to interrogate him for it.”
He raises an eyebrow and grins devilishly, “So...what’s the secret?”
“Oh, just a blend of spices.” She shrugs, “Nothing that inventive. But it’s special to Chris, so don’t go telling him I told you.”
Claire winks at him then turns back to mashing the ground beef into patties, leaving Steve to gawk at her. She’s delightfully impish when she wants to be, he can see himself getting into all sorts of flirtatious teasing matches with her… if he weren’t so weird. She directs him to chop up the tomatoes and onions after she catches him staring, again with a playful smirk and slug to his shoulder.
Something he had to become good at while on that remote island, alone aside from Allie and the wild B.O.Ws, was how to observe. The more he watches Claire out of his peripheral, the more she reveals to him. He watches the way her face falls as she focuses on the burger patties, as if she gets lost in her own thoughts and forgets where she is for a split second. It isn’t hard for him to see the sadness she hides from the world, it’s the same kind as one he carries. The reason Steve still roots for his hockey team, or even still watches the sport is because it reminds him of his dad. It’s the last connection he still has to his late father, and of a time mostly lost to him. He feels more special than he should that Claire would choose to share something like that with him.
Suddenly a sharp pain shoots up Steve’s arm. He drops the knife, now streaked with red and pulls his hand close to his chest with a hiss. His heart races and his eyes dart around, searching for other dangers in the area. Anything might be lurking in the shadows waiting to take advantage of his weakness. He scans back and forth for threats, eyes wide and alert. Nothing catches his attention except-
“Steve?! What happened?”
Claire drops her own knife and rushes over to him overcome with worry, but stops in her tracks when Steve backs away from her. He looks like a frightened animal, eyes wild and darting to anything that moves even the slightest bit.
“Did you cut your hand open?”
Her voice is soft and gentle as she approaches, hands low and outstretched to him. She doesn’t step closer, she waits for him to bridge the gap. Steve can see the caution in her face. Like she’s trying to coax a stray kitten out of hiding.
It works.
“Y-yeah,” Steve says, dropping the tension in his body a little. “I uh, wasn’t paying attention and… I guess it slipped.”
He opens his hand enough for Claire to see the small streaks of red that pool beneath his thumb. It’s superficial, barely deep enough to scar. The virus would already be hard at work stitching the burst blood vessels together, but he should still clean and bandage it. He has a bad habit of picking at the scaly scabs that form over wounds.
“Are you okay?” Claire asks, taking a small step forward. The gap between them is barely a foot wide. “That looks like it’s bleeding a lot.”
As Steve starts to relax further, Claire’s fingertips brush against his hand for a split second. The shock is enough to send him reeling back, his heart leaping into his throat. His instincts tell him to run and hide or fight his way to a safe place. Somehow he finds the self control to speak.
“No!” He yelps, loud enough to startle Claire. He lowers his voice but takes another step back. “No, I got it. It’s fine.”
He doesn’t stick around long. He can’t bear the worried, somewhat hurt, look on Claire’s face. Steve hurries into the bathroom around the corner and shuts the door before the fear and guilt tear him to pieces from the inside out. With trembling hands he turns on the sink faucet and lets icy water run over his open wound. It stings a little, but nothing he can’t endure. The excess blood trickles down the drain and vanishes in seconds. Just as he thought, the cut isn’t deep at all. That eases his anxieties somewhat, but not enough to stop the oncoming panic attack. Before it overtakes him, he wraps a washcloth around his hand to contain the blood as best he can.
Steve sinks to the floor and puts his head between his knees. It’s a struggle but he forces himself to take deep even breaths, just like Jill had taught the group. Though his head still spins, it helps to calm his heartbeat enough that it doesn’t feel like he’s about to have a heart attack. The trembling stops once he lets his consciousness fade to survival mode; he only thinks about his breathing and that he is safe.
Claire isn’t going to hurt him. No one is. He’s safe here. He’s safe with her.
Claire isn’t going to hurt him.
The world slows down, finally. Steve isn’t sure how long he’s been here but it can’t have been too long. Claire hasn’t come knocking on the door looking for him yet, and the savory scents of meat and spices being seared drifts in from the kitchen. His stomach tightens at the smell, helping to distract him further. Though his whole body feels heavy and drained of energy, Steve finds the strength to push himself to his feet once again. He cleans the now dried blood off of his hand, sloppily wraps his hand with a bandage, and dumps the rag he was holding into the wastebin before leaving the sanctuary of the bathroom.
When Steve returns to the kitchen, he expects Claire to rush at him and assault him with questions, but the only question is in her eyes. Wide, blue, and deeply worried about him. She doesn’t say anything or move to approach him, she only watches and waits for him to be ready. The way her brow creases and turns upwards at the ends make her look guilty, and that sends a pain through his gut he can’t identify right away.
“All good.” He announces, showing off his slapdash bandages. “It’s not deep. Just wanna keep it from getting dirty. And keep myself from picking at a scab.”
Claire looks at him with such intensity that Steve almost shrinks back from her gaze. It’s like she’s staring right through him.
“You sure?” she asks, keeping her voice low and gentle.
The genuine worry throws Steve for a loop. “Yeah.” He flashes her a wry, lopsided smile full of false confidence; as if he didn’t just have a panic attack. “I’ve had a lot worse.”
Claire studies him for a moment, then scoffs and shakes her head. A small grin finally appears on her face and it takes his breath away. “Yeah, I was there for some of those.”
She turns back to finishing up dinner. A shadow crosses her face as she grills the burger buns as a final touch, but it’s gone in a flash. Steve busies himself with getting drinks and plates, and thinking of something to say that might distract Claire from whatever sadness is eating away at her.
“You’ve had a lot worse than that.” He says with a grin, and immediately regrets it. Why did he think it’d be a good idea to bring back those kinds of memories?!
But Claire turns around and smiles broadly at him. “Oh you have no idea.” She drops a plate of burgers and a plate of toppings on the table, then as if to give Steve another heart attack, she props her leg up on the chair and rolls up one of her pant legs. A long, wide scar follows the length of her toned calf. Tan with age and wear, it stands out against her pale skin.
“This was from the Tyrant in Raccoon City.” She smirks, almost proud of her scar. “I was lucky it didn’t hit bone with how deep it was.”
There’s an edge to her voice, testing him. Teasing him. Steve grins. If Claire wants to have a scar battle, then he’s more than happy to show off.
He points to the largest scar on his face, “I got this from-...” Shit, he can’t tell her it was from falling down a mountain. That’s not cool. “...I got it from this big… Turtle thing.”
Claire raises an eyebrow at him, “Turtle thing?”
The lie spins out of control in his head, faster than he can stop. “Yeah! It was like...a big armored reptile B.O.W. Had these nasty claws for diggin’ in the ground. I got too close to it and it swatted at me. I’m lucky I didn’t lose this eye.”
He puts his hands on his hips and puffs out his chest a bit. He can’t pinpoint why showing off his trauma like this makes him happy. Maybe he’s just happy to share it at all. It doesn’t matter to him now. Claire is smiling. He’s smiling.
They go back and forth, showing each other their scars and places where bones were broken while eating homemade burgers and fries. Claire shocks Steve with just how many scars and injuries she suffered over her years of fighting bioterrorism, and he astounds her with his stories of his misadventures on the B.O.W. storage island and his encounters with all manner of beasts. Watching her listen to him with such fervor and interest almost makes him forget how horrific it all was. It helps in a weird way.
But that changes in an instant.
When it’s his turn to point out a scar and tell a story, he stops thinking. He lifts up his shirt, exposing the most gruesome scar on his body with an excited grin. A scar that stretches from his collarbone and disappears beneath the waistband of his pants, with dots alongside it on either side. Instead of a jagged outline like the scars left by accidents and B.O.W’s, this one is straight, clean. Surgical.
“This one was from when they autopsied me.” He explains, far too excited about the grim display he presents Claire. “It still itches like hell where the staples were-”
Steve snaps to reality once he looks up to see Claire’s awestruck face. Instead of excitement, it’s horror. Her hands cover her mouth and her eyes, brimming with barely restrained tears, lock onto his stomach and a wound so old he had almost forgotten about it. Beneath the autopsy scar, beneath the scars from man-made beasts, there’s a circular mark a similar color to the scar on Claire’s leg. It’s old, faded, but still aches from how deep the tissue reaches inside him. The gravity of the old wound may be lost on him, buried under the countless others that mar his body, but it’s fresh and raw to Claire.
He hastily pulls his shirt down, “Shit- I’m sorry, I didn’t-... I forgot that…” There’s nothing he can say that will ease her mind. He reaches out to her with one hand, stopping just by her arm before pulling back and sinking back into his chair. Another muttered apology falls from his lips as he hangs his head in shame.
He doesn’t notice Claire get up and cross the gap to him. Not until she takes a knee in front of him and brushes his unruly hair out of his eyes.
Claire’s touch is feather light and tender, but even that sends shocks through his skin. It jolts him out of his shamed stupor, and Claire pulls her hand back a few inches. Her expression is something he can’t make out. Somewhere between pity, sadness, and guilt. Before Steve can properly figure out what she’s thinking (something he’s never been good at) Claire runs her thumb across the large scar on his face, slowly and gently. He doesn’t flinch away from her this time. Then, something mundane yet earth shattering to this broken man out of time happens. Claire cups his scarred, stubble covered cheek in her hand.
Something breaks within him. A dam he didn’t know existed anymore that kept everything back, every trauma, every broken piece of him; some of which he didn’t even know were broken. Claire’s hand, her warm hand marred by callouses but still soft despite it all, molds to the contours of his face. There’s such tenderness, unrestrained kindness in her eyes and her touch and he can’t fathom how it can be directed to him. He doesn’t notice the tears in his eyes until they spill over.
Steve tries to calm himself with deep breaths but they come out stuttered and shaking. His shoulders heave, a lump in his throat chokes him. He screws his eyes shut, trying to shut out the vision of someone caring about him that deeply, but she’s still there. He can still see those piercing blue eyes boring into his soul and reading him like an open book. The moment Steve opens his eyes he sees the blurred outline of Claire Redfield wrapping her arms around his shoulders.
He wants to yell at her to leave, to tell her that he’s a lost cause and there’s no helping him. He’s too damaged, too broken. He’ll never have a normal life. He’ll never be able to pretend he isn’t a monster. He will never be able to have meaningful relationships. But all that comes out of his mouth is a broken, choked sob. Someone is touching him, someone cares about him. And he can’t understand it.
Despite himself, Steve pulls Claire into a tight embrace and sobs into her shoulder. Her fingers run through his hair, while her other hand rubs his quaking back. Steve can’t stem the tears, that’s a feat that even a mighty Redfield can’t achieve, but he can’t deny that simply being in Claire’s arms replaces despair with a strange warmth. For the first time he can remember, he feels...safe.
Eventually, the tears stop, and Steve is able to breath easily again. Claire doesn’t let him go for a minute and for that he silently thanks her. It isn’t until he begins to pull away that she too lets her arms down and pulls back from him.
“I’m sorry…” he mutters, wiping the stray tears from his eyes, “I don’t-”
“Shut up.” Claire commands and takes Steve’s hands from his face. “You have nothing to apologize for.” Darkness crosses her face for a moment. “I should be the one apologizing… I know you-... It’s hard after a while, not being… Not having human contact like that for a while. It’s not something they tell you about in therapy.”
Steve shakes his head, “I needed it. I really… Really did.” He sighs, “I...I didn’t know how much I...everything… still hurts.”
With that same kind smile, Claire leans forward and kisses his forehead. “It takes a lot of strength to admit you’re hurting that much. Give yourself some credit.”
“Maybe…” he says with a sad smile. “... Thank you, Claire. For everything.”
She takes his hand in hers, tracing the callouses and scars with her thumb. “Thank you for coming back.”
Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Categories: F/M, Other
Fandom: NieR: Automata (Video Game)
Relationships: 2B/9S (NieR: Automata), A2/A4 (NieR: Automata)
Characters: 2B (NieR: Automata), 9S (NieR: Automata), A2 (NieR: Automata), A4 (NieR: Automata), Emil (NieR: Automata), Kainé (NieR)
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, genre typical violence, On the Run, Monster of the Week, 9S is a half demon, 2B and A2 are shapeshifter Dragons, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Smut in the future, inaccurate depictions of medical procedures, Fantasy Biology, A2 is Nonbinary
They lose track of time after the second day.
It becomes harder and harder for A2 to remain lucid as the minutes drag into hours, hours into days, days into....It doesn’t matter, really. They barely have the strength to look up at the sky anyway, not that it’d make much difference. A2 lay against the mud wall, their eyes glazed over with exhaustion as they watch the starving men they shared this prison with devour one of their own. The dead man passed earlier that day, and the others waste no time tearing into his flesh and breaking his bones against rocks. While they may not be human, the idea of feasting on the man’s corpse disgusts A2. They’d rather continue to starve than eat the scraps of flesh off the dead man.
Though, if they are honest with themself, A2 considers it more than once. They turn their head away from the spectacle as the old man cracks the corpse’s skull open and scoops out fingerfulls of fatty grey matter. A shiver wracks their body, something that happens more frequently as the days drag on. As the temperatures change throughout the day, their body reacts violently. Shivering in the cold, sweating in the heat. Sometimes they drag themself along with the sun’s rays or hide in the shadows to maintain some kind of balance within them, but the comfort is always painfully temporary.
The inability to maintain their body heat is only one part of their personal hell, however, and not the most concerning part. After removing the poison arrow from their shoulder and “dressing” it with filthy rags, the skin around the wound turned fetid. It drips pus and infected blood constantly, spreading the infection further. Scales start to fall off of them in patches, exposing the raw, red skin beneath that bleeds at the lightest touch. Even their hair begins to fall out in clumps whenever they run their hands through it, or they’ll wake up to find more stuck to the mud. Their clothes feel loose; their vision is blurred to the point of near blindness. Whenever rotten scraps of food get tossed their way, they vomit up whatever ungodly thing they put in their mouth.
They feel their body falling apart piece by piece. They can’t even transform anymore. The last time they did they passed out for so long that they woke up to rats gnawing on their toes and the starving men staring at them with a horrific glint in their eyes.
A sinking suspicion rises in A2’s gut as they try not to listen to the act of cannibalism just a few feet from them. If that man hadn’t died when he did, A2 would have been killed. They’re outnumbered, weak, and if they were being honest with themself, they would have welcomed it.
Wasting away in a pit of filth is about the worst way to die A2 can think of.
They glance at a discarded bone fragment from the dead man. It looks to have been part of a long bone. Sharp, sturdy… lethal. More than enough to get the job done.
A2 braces their arm against the wall of the pit and pulls themself to their feet. Their knees buckle under their weight, but they manage to stay upright, at least partially. Slowly, they stumble over to the forgotten bone. One of the men looks up at them with the look of a starving dog defending its meal, but he remains silent and returns to his scraps of meat. The idea is revolting to A2, but the hunger pains overrule morality. They shouldn’t be alive, they want to simply be consumed by hunger in their sleep, but instincts drive their body to the point where they don’t even realize they’ve picked up the bone.
Commotion erupts from above. A cacophony of drums, flutes, and voices drift down to the prisoners. Though A2 can’t understand the language they hear joy and excitement in the strange song the witches sing. The instruments and their wild, boisterous tunes echo across the bog and loop back on itself, creating the illusion of call and response. There must be some kind of celebration or festival happening above. The primal, starved part of A2’s mind leaps at the thought of food being dropped for them, but that hope is dashed the moment they look over and see the old man sobbing into his hands.
“Oh gods...help us please…” he cries. He clasps his hands in front of him and bows low to the ground. The other men follow suit, throwing their bodies onto the ground nearby. In yet another language new to A2, the men begin to recite a mournful hymn the likes of which A2 has never heard. Its sorrowful, plaintive words, and though they can’t understand the language it sends chills down A2’s spine. It’s a prayer for the dead.
A2 staggers over to the old man, brows furrowed and heart thundering with growing anxiety. They kick him over to his side, the anger, disgust, and fear reaching a boiling point within them. The old man looks up at them, tears streaming down his wrinkled face as he wails for mercy.
“What the hell is going on?!” A2 shouts, kicking the man again.
The other men drag him away from A2 as they prepare to kick him a third time.
“T-the…” the old man whimpers, “The sabbath....”
Before A2 has the chance to demand an explanation, the cage sitting atop the pit is lifted off. Witches armed with spears and carrying lengths of rope drop down into their prison one by one. The men cower together behind the oldest, who extends his arms out in a feeble attempt to defend the others. He crumples to the ground after one of the witches punches him in the temple. One by one the men are grabbed and bound in rope. None of them resist beyond continuing to pray, whispering their psalms under their breaths.
A2 hisses at a witch that strides up to them. They can’t see her face through the strange, crocodilian hide mask she wears, but they’re willing to bet that she’s sneering down at them. One of her tattooed hands shoots out and grabs them by their hair. They thrash and squirm in her grip, lashing out with tooth and claw at any scrap of flesh they can catch. Their fingers catch the skin of the witch’s arm, but their claws fail to pierce through. The witch laughs and roars something to her comrades at their pitiful fumbling. A2 hadn’t realized just how weak they really are; they can’t resist beyond swaying their body back and forth as the witch ties their limbs together.
Their body, much lighter now than before, is lifted up onto the witch’s shoulder like a bundle of old sticks. Her shoulder digs into A2’s stomach, forcing up the few scraps of food from their gut. The witch just laughs at them, barks a few words, then begins to ascend a crude rope ladder that drops into the pit.
For the first time in gods know how long, A2 sees the world beyond their prison. The entire village of witches seems to be out for this festival, all of them dressed in scaled skin cloaks and ghoulish masks made from the heads of crocodiles and alligators. The children scamper behind A2, giggling and pointing at them. They gnash their teeth and snarl at the witch children and they dart away, screaming and laughing with fear and delight. The village dances, cheers, and sings as A2 is paraded through the square along with the other prisoners. They can barely hear the old man sobbing over the din of music.
An old woman dressed in an alligator hide covered with red and white paint approaches the prisoners, flanked by two masked huntresses each carrying bowls of black liquid. She speaks a long, droning prayer that catches the attention of the other witches, who gather around. Even the children go silent and cling to their mother’s sides. The shaman approaches the old man, places her hand on his head, then dips her thumb into one of the bowls and smears the black paste onto his forehead. She makes her way down the line of prisoners, each one being “anointed” by the paste. A2 snarls at the old, masked woman as she comes to them. Her prayer rises to a fervent scream as the villagers and huntresses join in. They try to bite her fingers when she smears the black sludge in much more complicated patterns on their face. However, their strength fades from their body. They can’t even lift their head enough to snag the shaman’s fingers, all A2 can do is weakly open and close their mouth.
A2 and the prisoners are once again taken around the center of the village to another boisterous hymn. The witches jeer and laugh at them, the faces of the crowd blurring into one shapeless mass. Fumes from the pungent black substance lightens A2’s head to the point that they feel like they’re floating through the air. All resistance in their body fades; they lie limp in the witch’s grasp, eyes rolling into the back of their head, jaw slack.
Then the music shifts from playful to sinister in an instant. Rapid drumbeats fill the air like thunder and the entire village silences in its wake. The shaman bellows a short hymn before the procession of prisoners diverts from the center of the village. A2 tries to crane their head around to see where they’re being taken now. They see five logs jutting out of a bank of mud in front of a massive open lake, the only patch of Bog that they’ve seen that is void of mangrove trees. The only feature on the body of water is a single submerged log floating nearby.
One prisoner is tied to each log with roughspun rope, tight enough to hold the men up without any support. A2 snarls as they’re pressed up against the bark of the central log with enough force that it rattles their lungs and pushes the air out of them. Ropes are tied around their body, suspending them above the mire and facing the massive lake of stagnant water. The shaman continues her hymns and leads her attendants behind the logs and out of sight from the offerings.
A2 shuffles their body back and forth in an attempt to loosen their bindings. The rope digs into their already raw, exposed skin. Blood trickles down their arms and legs into the mud beneath. Turning their head they see the other prisoners wailing for mercy or sobbing quietly. They try to ask the man beside them if they have any idea what is going to happen to them, but all he responds with is a choking, hopeless sob.
Their mind races with possibilities in time with the beating drums, each more horrific than the last. They could be shot with arrows until they bled to death, flayed, set ablaze, or simply left to bake in the sun and be picked apart by animals. Somehow, despite the threat of agonizing torment, A2 finds peace in the closeness of death. Whatever may come, at least they won’t be suffering much longer. They could endure the pain, and they would walk into the next life without any regrets.
Well...
The surface of the water stirs as the drumbeats increase in tempo. The piece of wood floating on the lake drifts towards them… and grows in size. A2 watches, mouth agape, as the small log emerges from the water. The log turns from a piece of driftwood, to a tree trunk, to a snout. The piece that had been above water had only been the tip of an enormous alligator’s nose. Rows of spines and ivory teeth line this monster’s mouth in a crooked smile. Its yellow eyes seem to glow in the dim light of the bog and dart from prisoner to prisoner. Most of its body lies below the water with the top portion of its head visible. The rest is obscured by the murky depths of the lake, masking the primordial beast’s true size. Its nostrils flare as it drinks in the scent of terror from the restrained offerings.
A2 watches in horror as the alligator opens its maw wide enough to engulf one of the thousands of mangrove trees. Its rancid breath washes over them like a soft breeze carrying the stench of death. They close their eyes to the sight and wait for oblivion.
“Looks like I’m gonna see you sooner than you’d like...4S…” They whisper.
A deafening crack splits A2’s ears. Their eyes shoot open to see the crocodile’s mouth where the two men beside them were tied. They spot a limb thrown far from its body floating in the lake nearby, already attracting scavenging fish to come feast on the great beasts' scraps.
The village erupts into cheers, goading the alligator on to feast again. In a single swallow it gulps down two men as it turns to the old man to A2’s left. With a sigh, the monster languidly takes him into his jaws. The old man cries out from inside the alligator’s jaws. His hand, sticking out from its mouth grasps for purchase before the beast turns its head up and the kind old man is swallowed whole and alive.
As the witch village sings the praises of this ancient, evil creature, A2 can only look on as the last surviving prisoner. The alligator lowers its head back down, its yellow eyes level with their body. It… watches them squirm in their bindings. Its eyes alone dwarf A2 and draw them in like a terrible portal to its mind. There’s a strange, foriegn intelligence behind it. It’s sizing them up, or trying to understand the pitiful creature before it. The alligator blinks, its third eyelids gliding over its eyes like a fleshy viel, before it sinks back into the depths, vanishing from sight.
The music grinds to a halt as the alligator disappears. Confused mumbling drifts from the village as the witches try to decipher the will of the reptilian god, though A2 might be more lost than the entire population combined. Why weren’t they eaten? Why did the alligator spare them out of all the other prisoners? What will the witches do to them now that they were rejected?
Why does the universe refuse to let them die?!
Suddenly chaos erupts behind them. The sounds of panicked witches mix with hoofbeats, war drums, and a language that A2 can understand.
“Be on guard, sisters!” a voice bellows, “Their weapons are coated in poisons!”
There’s weapon clashes, war cries, horses screaming and rats shrieking. The crackle of flames and heat of an inferno starts to lick at A2’s body. They try to look over their shoulder, but the log is too wide to look around while tied to it. Instinct defeats their self destructive desires. A2 puts their remaining strength into thrashing back and forth against the ropes. The log shakes with them and eventually comes loose from the mud and falls to the side, taking A2 with it. They writhe in the mud and cover their body with the foul smelling sludge. It seeps through their clothes and helps them slide out of their binds.
A2 digs their fingers into the mud and drags themself across the ground towards a crumbling hut about fifty feet away. They spare glances around as people in black robes, hoods, and gleaming silver armor beat back hoards of witches and their rodent mounts. Whoever these new warriors are, they easily overpower the village huntresses and shaman. The warriors… knights… cultists… whoever they are… wield an assortment of ornate gold and silver weaponry. Swords, axes, maces, flails, all of them seem to emit light on their own, even when coated with the witches’ mud-like blood.
It is a massacre, but they could all burn in Inferno for all A2 cares. Damn the witches of the Bog and the Bog itself. A2 crawls on their belly through the muck like a worm but salvation, however temporary, is a mere twenty feet away.
“Sister! Over here!!” a female voice calls, a voice that is sickeningly close.
A2’s stomach drops as they throw a frantic look over their shoulder. One of the robed warriors looms over them with a dagger in one hand and a spiked flail in the other. The spiked silver mass dangles from a thin chain and emits a faint, fragrant smoke as it sways in the breeze.
“Please, stay still,” the figure says in a calm, soothing voice, “We’re going to-”
A2 scrabbles against the slick mud away from the armed figure, but a sudden weight pins them to the ground. Arms covered in black fabric restrain them as they thrash against the warrior’s body to no avail. A short conversation takes place as A2 throws themself back and forth like a cornered animal.
Two armored boots appear in front of them. A towering black robed figure in a silver mask depicting a serene face stands over them holding a small vial with a thin, long needle protruding from it. They hiss and shout and curse but their pathetic displays of intimidation do nothing to stop the warrior as the needle is plunged into A2’s neck.
Their world fades to blessed oblivion within an instant.
