ᴄᴏɴꜰɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪᴀʟ ᴅᴏᴄᴜᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ. . .
@virusb0und with "Did you miss me?" He said with a smirk. @ chris
That voice sent what felt like microscopic shards of ice down his spine.
The kind that twisted themselves with an uneasy jitter into his lungs, expanding down to each limb before resurfacing back to his core. A full dive into a bath of chilled water, something that should have been more awakening than it had; instead, it manifested itself with repetition within his figure, pulsing within each nerve-ending as though everything had its own heartbeat. It was an uncomfortable, sickly twist that ultimately landed within the pit of his stomach, causing an organic mix of bile to trail its way up his throat.
His heartbeat was loud in his ears, as if those four simple fucking words stopped every span of time in the world around him; the flow of everything ceased itself as the phantom echo of that question rang through his ears is though it’d been a devious pluck of strings that he’d conjured on his own. That was the only logical answer– right? There were far too many times where Chris braced himself through moments of false thoughts, a trick of the trauma within his mind that created spatial disturbances to his surroundings. He wasn’t used to it– no one was used to that kind of thing, he’d just attempted to regain some understanding of his environment in his own way, on his own terms. It wasn’t something he openly talked to people about, if anyone at all; it was something that made him feel too weak when it did occur.
Only now, he was merely hoping that the response of his mind to where his current mission had been placed was simply conjoined with being triggered.
Down in the deep depths of West Africa once again, a place he hadn’t been to in over a decade; upon coming here, he knew the impact that the location could have on his psyche. This was something Chris ultimately tried to ignore for the better half of his skillset and staying on top of everything after the fact.
There was no running when he’d been forced to go.
Chris was a creature of instinct, someone who followed his gut where it carried him. Only now in his life, how much of that could he trust? How much of it could he really abide by when some of its guidance had been under the influence of a distorted reality? Whenever it felt as if he’d been threatened, or placed in harm’s way of any kind, his first reaction was to simply do that. React and respond– though as he’d learned that not everything around him was often true, or that some of his memory had been playing with him, he couldn’t trust a response with aggression to be angled at the correct target.
Thankfully, this only happened when he was severely triggered. It wasn’t a consistent fault of his person, the side effect only took place whenever concepts of its own interest were mentioned.
Albert Wesker was absolutely one of them.
The wording itself bounced from the expanse of his back; he’d been investigating a series of murders, one of those tell-tale signs that just didn’t add up to the typical spree of killings without somehow being involved with advanced levels of goddamn science. The rigid curve of his features were downcast, inspecting a body on the ground, looking over its wounds and the obvious contortion to its frame that was anything but normal.
He stood with a speed that only intensified his nausea.
The scowl that’d defined his features was deep-set, engrained into the fine-tuned lines of age that curled around his visage, the seam of his lips cracked into a part that’d been speechless. The rapid thump of his heart reverberated in its chamber, almost threatening to crack itself under the pressure that’d built within his chest; what was he feeling? Was he feeling? Was this real? Everything swarmed over him at a speed that he’d barely been able to process, the tower of his height stagnant in his position.
There was zero fucking reason behind it– this was a hallucination. It was a play of his environment finally attempting to crash down on him, it had to be.
