Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The cell was cold; the kind of cold that only classrooms in the early morning, and doctor's offices could ever achieve. Clinical.

A figure curled up right beside the mattress she was given as a bed, arms crossed tightly around her knees as she rocked herself, trying to comfort her mind and her heart.

1998 was a traumatic year for almost everyone she knew. More than a hundred thousand people lost their lives in one night . 

That was what the news said. What it always said. 

It was hard not to feel even the slightest hint of survivor’s guilt. She had been mostly unharmed that horrible, horrible night. How many other people, just like her, just her age, weren’t lucky enough to have run into someone who would’ve helped them?

The cry of metal moving against metal broke her out of her thoughts, as a woman invited herself into the room. Not rudely, but quietly.

  The woman was familiar by now, with long, blonde hair and a turtleneck under her white, pristine lab coat. Her name tag dangled right above her heart, reading out the name “E. Walker”. The woman always had kind eyes; eyes that had become familiar long ago.

“Name and Birthdate?” She asked, setting down the laundry hamper in her hands, eying the blue ribbon on the cellmate's wrist.

“Sherry Birkin. March Eighth, Nineteen-Eighty-Six.”

Mrs. Walker nodded, taking a few steps closer to Sherry to read the blue ribbon on her wrist. She had to ask and check the wristband, – even though she already knew the answers by now, –  on every visit. Sherry remembered her mom telling her that hospitals – and sometimes clinics – gave every patient a wristband, specifically to identify patients, so they wouldn’t accidentally give the wrong person treatment. They were supposed to identify patients by two methods, verbal and wristband. 

Sherry didn’t understand a lot of the information that was on there; It was a bunch of numbers clumped together. She only recognized her name, birth date, and the cell she was in.

  For some reason, she always remembered that rule. Always use two forms of identification. Maybe it was because the fact reminded her of a peaceful conversation she’d had with her mom, – Annette – Hell,  she’d even reminded an intern the other week that they forgot to have her give her birthdate. Something she was sure the intern appreciated.

Ms. Walker got back to her, holding a neatly folded pile of clothes, her outfit for the week.

   A Yellow shirt with blue overalls.

Mrs. Walker was the kindest person Sherry had met in … probably years. She had let Sherry sneak in the reddish-pink sleeveless vest, let her hide it under her pillow. The closest thing she had to a comfort item.

   The vest that Claire Redfield had given her the night she saved her.

The doctor was always oddly familiar, even when they first met each other.

    She had the same kind of accent that Sherry grew up with – the raccoon city accent, her parents always jokingly called it.– Like a deep southern accent, where a sort of New York accent occasionally slipped out, but usually only when people were angry.

  The doctor came by every few days, always with small talk; She and Sherry would talk about the day, the weather (Which was more of her talking and Sherry listening; Sherry wasn’t allowed to have ‘outside time’ ever since The Prank). 

   And sometimes, Sherry would talk about that night; meeting Claire, slowly learning to trust her, meeting Ada Wong and Leon Kennedy, that feeling of weight being lifted from her shoulders when her brain told her these people are your home.

Dr. Walker seemed surprised when Sherry mentioned she knew Leon. She didn’t make it audibly clear, but she had that face, that slight narrowing of the left eye, where her gaze was brought to the side for a few seconds before focusing back on her.

The doctor quickly moved the conversation away from him and onto Claire.

Sherry had been here for years; she hadn’t gotten to say goodbye to her mother – Claire – before she was sent off like a kid who broke the final straw; never quite figuring out what the rush was.

    One day, she was reading a letter from Claire, early January of 1999, filled to the brim with apologies from Claire for taking so long, and the next, she was being talked down to like a small child and taken away.

Claire had written about making it up to her, talking about how they would have a girls' day , they would see the rugrats movie in theatre , she would teach Sherry how to sneak outside snacks into a theatre , and how, if Sherry wished, Claire would adopt her. For real this time.

Except that Sherry was sent off. With no care for her wishes.

   And she’d not seen Claire since. 

And now? Well, it was 2005: Sherry hadn’t seen the rugrats movie. Hadn’t seen the woman who was a second mother to her, hadn’t learnt to sneak snacks into a theatre.

Hadn’t learned how to grieve properly. How to grieve without asking the question she’d been asking herself for so long.

“ Why me? Why did I live? ”

That morning, Dr. Walker had traipsed into the cell, bringing with her that familiar aura, that honeyed, warm kindness.

 Without that hamper this time. 

  But with a keyring in her hands. The blue keys jangle softly.

And, well, Sherry couldn’t help but stare at it for a moment. As if she had forgotten how to speak, how to move.

Ms. Walker got closer, crouching down in front of her, that keyring grasped in her fist like a promise. In front of her heart.

  That same smile was on her face, the one where she smiled with her eyes more than with her lips, the one she gave whenever she discreetly passed a candy bar to Sherry, or gave her ideas on where to hide the vest so it didn’t get taken.

The one that made Sherry feel like she could hope again, even for a few moments. Heartbeats. 

“Don’t waste time.” Her voice spoke so quietly that the room struggled to make an echo.

Sherry’s brow furrowed.. “What are you saying…??”

The doctor swallowed, “There’s a girl I think you’ve met before.. She’s in block D, room 23.”

“Who–”

“Hidalgo. You don’t have much time–”, the doctor's voice went out in one ear and out the other as soon as she mentioned that name. Manuela was a girl about Sherry’s age; they had become fast friends back when they were actually allowed out of their cells, all up until they decided to play some stupid prank..

 “Sherry. If you two leave now , you have a chance of meeting them again.” 

Sherry gulped, nodding slowly, shakily. She didn’t have to ask who Dr. Walker meant by “them”.

She knew it was Claire and Leon. She finally had a chance to see them again.

Sherry barely noticed when the doctor walked out of the cell; her mind only refocused when she started hearing the click of the doctor's high heels, the soft sound growing quieter as she walked further away from the cell.

She waited about ten seconds after that; more if she counted the time it took for that dread-filled pit in her stomach to give way to hopeful excitement. 

She never once said anything in her head about getting to see Claire and Leon again; she didn’t want to hope, not yet.

She just ran .

The hallway was much too quiet and peaceful; The last time she had been out of that cell, months and months ago, the place was on high alert; they didn’t take to pranks very well, Sherry had learned.

The only noise to be heard was the sound of her panting as she tried to keep going; she had been through too much to let the opportunity escape her like steam through her hands.

    She wasn’t stupid, though; she steered clear of the staff room and the main front of the building; She knew that was where the doctors and assistants went to clock into work.

Cell Block D, Room 23.

Cell block D, Room 23.

Manuela Hidalgo

Finally escaping

The words flow over, and over, and over, housed in the back of her head. Flowing through her mind like clockwork.

   She comes to a stop when passing a room, looking up to see the cell block and the room number. Nope, that's Room 13. She’s close. Much too far to give up. Much too far.

The numbers on the walls pass quicker than Sherry can process or read in her head, like they’re trying to escape her themselves, or keeping her trapped here.

13, 15 – She’s getting close, she speeds up her running into long leaps. Running like an athlete running a marathon for her life. Too excited about the prospect of getting out, not to run. 

Sherry’s morale remains undamaged whenever she trips or stumbles.

17, 18, 19 – So close, so terrifyingly close, it’s all too good to be true, this chance will surely be ripped away from her arms. She would surely be dragged back into that cell, kicking and screaming.

21, 22, 23.

Twenty-Three.

Twenty. Three.

Sherry doesn’t wait.

Sherry bursts into the room after unlocking the door. Eyes hunting the room as she looks for–

“Manuela..??”

Her voice comes out much shakier than she’d preferred, but that doesn’t matter, not when she’s finally found the right room, the right person.

   Manuela looked older than Sherry, even if they were the same age, and only a few months apart. Sherry was born on March Eighteenth, and Manuela was born on October Nineteenth. 

Manuela’s head quickly turns towards Sherry’s direction, as if frightened. Her expression remains blank for a moment.

And when she recognizes Sherry? Her expression lifts like a veil.

“Sherry?? What’re you doing h--”

She interrupts her, quickly moving in front of her, clutching the keyring for dear life. 

   “Manuela, we can escape! We can get out of here! I… I have some keys.. Dr. Walker says if we go now, we can get out of here! We can see them again! Leon.. and–and Claire! – wait, you don’t really know Claire all that we–”

She paused to take a breath, not meaning to ramble, but Manuela looked at her with understanding.

   It doesn’t take long for her to shakily get up on her feet. Taking a moment to adjust to standing.

“Let's do it.. – You can introduce me to Claire.. If we find them..” Manuela gives a soft but determined nod.

It wasn’t long until the two were off, rushing to get to the other side of the door; they both spoke with hushed, careful whispers; they knew it would be all over the moment they were noticed.

   The halls seemed much darker now, even though Sherry had been in them just a few minutes prior. But now the walls and the shadows felt alive. Moving. Breathing, Akin to a snake slowly unhinging its jaw, waiting for the right time to pounce on its unsuspecting prey.

    Sherry tried to ignore how her knees felt weak all of a sudden, now. At all times?

She could feel them wobble under her, as if she had run a marathon, more of an empty, jittery way.

The two pass by more and more walls, 

blurring in the corner of their vision,

But they were getting closer and closer to safety, to freedom.

But now, Sherry could see the door. The way out. She could very slightly make out the faceplate on the side of the door, the keyhole that had kept them here for so long.

    The walls around them seemed to close in, more and more and more, tightening like a python with every second that passed, until they were almost hugging her shoulders.

Sherry looks back over her shoulder for Manuela, who’s looking from one side to the other, as if expecting something to jump out at her and rip away this chance.

She could hear both their footsteps echoing; they refused to get quieter, to let the sounds die out in her ears. They grew louder and louder, until they amplified into an unbearable ringing in her ears!

The feeling becomes horribly, graciously unbearable as she tries to work the key from Dr. Walker into the keyhole, trying to be careful, trying not to fumble this one chance she might never get back. 

The one chance Manuela might never get back.

Sherry always thought that the trope of seeing a blinding white light when you finally get to be free was dumb.

She thought it was just .. one of those Hollywoodisms; like .. like teachers actually trying to stop bullying, like evil people always having a British accent and sitting while nefariously plotting their plan out loud; Things that, yeah, they might possibly happen, but they seldom do.

Which made it especially surprising when, the moment the door opened, revealing the green, breezy outdoors,

All Sherry saw was a blinding white light.

And she and Manuela ran towards it. 

   Because just outside the building, past the tall chain-link fence, – akin to what Sherry thought prisons would have – were train tracks. And on those tracks? 

Wouldn’t you believe it, a train.

The slightly sweet smell of creosote, mixed with the smell of diesel, filled the air around them, filling their lungs with its stench; a stench that marked a new chapter for both of them.

The train was about to depart; the wheels slowly moving, slowly gaining traction.

Sherry and Manuela stayed idle, right to the side of the tracks, staring at the claret train car, with the side facing them wide open, red panneled and inviting (at least, more inviting than the laboratory cells). Her thoughts were moving at a pace neither of them could really handle.. Manuela’s hand ghosted closer to Sherry’s, and she edged ever so slightly closer to Sherry’s side; as if trying to silently ask, “what do we do now..?”

And Sherry?

All she could do was gulp, tilting her hand so her palm met the skin of Manuela’s knuckles. 

     “We need to get on that train car.” She mumbles, her voice low, but there is no fear behind it. The train is moving faster now, slowly transitioning into the early stages of finally departing; the back of it was going to take a few seconds still, the train seemed a little old.. And the back was still catching up.

Manuela’s hand curled into itself, moving slightly closer to Sherry’s; she doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to. They both know what they need to do.

”We can do a countdown..?” Sherry offers, earning a nod from the other girl.

They both take a step back, their nervousness simultaneously growing as the train begins picking up speed.

“On three..” Manuela takes more steps back.

“One…” Sherry bends her knee, bracing for a jump.

“Two…” Manuela braces herself to start running.

“THREE!”

And just like that, they both did their running headstarts; Manuela’s quick steps were further apart, while Sherry's mostly focused on that quick startup sprint.

With a loud thud , followed quickly by another, the two found themselves in the cart; wind blowing through their hair as the train finally picks up speed; more and more and more until they finally depart, the laboratory building getting smaller and smaller, more and more obscured by distance.

Sherry couldn’t believe it. Was this a dream? But she could feel the wind running through her hair; she could hear Manuela Cheering, could see Manuela’s hands in the air, could see how Manuela so badly wanted to give a celebratory jump in the air.

It didn’t feel real, not to Sherry. Maybe it would never feel real.

Somewhere else, somewhere far away, a boy opens his eyes for what he hopes to be the last time. The wish is futile, he knows, but it’s the only thing keeping him alive. The man in front of him had long since abandoned mercy. 

    Steve wasn’t even sure he had it in the first place. 

When he looked upwards, he didn’t see a man who had ever crossed paths with mercy.

   He saw a man who looked at him like he were lower than dirt. Like he was a dog that didn’t even deserve to heel.

    Steve made a move to shift his right hand out of the aligning metal cuff; they were fit to his mutated form, just loose enough for him to be able to try to escape, you would think. But, no. The potential implications after an escape had been enough to keep him seated. 

It had always been enough to keep him seated.

His normal, (mostly) human wrist couldn’t keep up with the cuffs. The cuffs were built for stronger arms. Scaled, mottled arms. Arms that had once held an axe. Arms that had once killed the only person left in the world who loved him.

The only person left.

And he had signed her death warrant. 

Signed it with a swing of an axe.

Albert, standing above him, says nothing. Just watches him. Coldly observes him. Like someone would watch a colony of ants. With a careful, graceful disconnect.

    His cold eyes stay trained on the ginger man as he looks down at his left arm.

Steve’s left arm had never quite demutated after the first time he was forced to shift. He remembered it near-perfectly, waking up in that dark room, hearing voices that were cold and distant, but at the same time, were so close. Too close; Hushed , condescending whispers right into his ears. He remembered more of that fiery, choking pain that radiated from his throat and only got hotter and hotter, surrounding his vocal cords in muted embers as they shred and distort him. 

    He never remembered what being re-mutated was like.. Always taking over his vision and memory in red flashes. All he knew was that, when Albert made him demutate, his left arm wouldn’t shift back. It was still mottled and green and disgusting and monstrous. 

When Steve looked back up towards him, he saw that Albert had stepped away. He was still in the room, obviously (even if he knew Steve could never imagine trying to run, too afraid of being reprimanded), but his attention was on the device at his ear, nodding along with whatever was being said from it.

Until he freezes.

Like a statue.

Until he turns around. Slowly. His head moves first, and then his body follows; those orange feline eyes catch Steve’s as he locks his gaze on him. 

His hand raises to tap the device, and he gives a curt, “I’ve got it,” before bringing his full attention to Steve. His gaze only turns colder and colder as he steps closer to the boy.

“Birkin and Hidalgo seem to have run away last night.”

“Oh..?”

“You know them.”

Steve nods. 

   He had heard about Sherry from Claire while the two were at Rockfort. She mentioned that Sherry was like a daughter to her.

      Hell, Steve was convinced at first that they had been mother & daughter, simply because he saw a picture of the two that fell out of Claire’s vest pocket. Thought she was out of his league. (She was , to be fair. is. )

As for Manuela, he only barely knows her by name, and even that’s only because–

Albert interrupts the thought: “Well, they have.. unfortunately,” He paused, sighing as if this was oh so tiring. “Escaped.”

You said that already. Steve likes to imagine that he’d have the bravery to say it. To sneer it. To speak in that cadence of belittlement and mockery. 

“So……. what does that have to do with me?” He squeaks instead, immediately hating the sound of his own voice.

Albert traipsed closer, shrinking the space between them in a stride of two long steps. 

   He shifts his lower leg back, and in a flash of movement, he gives one braced, strong kick to Steve’s sternum, causing him to let out a shuddering, rattling gasp as air is knocked out of his lungs. Only now does he pull his right hand out of the metal cuff, moving to clutch at his aching throat.

And only then does Albert step back to continue speaking. 

    “Nothing, yet. But, you are going to go after them.”

After them?

No, no fucking way

“You shall leave this facility, hunt down Birkin and Hidalgo,” his words were final. Absolute. “Bring them back. Alive. ”

Steve blinks. Why couldn’t he just … have some of his lackeys do it?

“And…” He swallows, “If I don’t? What’re you gonna do then?” his voice was oddly hoarse.

“Well, I would’ve thought you could guess.” The blonde picked up a manila file folder, running the smooth material between his gloved pointer and thumb.

    “Well, if you find yourself unable to do this, I’m afraid that surely, you’d’ve proven your uselessness.”

His fingers went still, lingering on the tab of the manila folder, “Do be advised, I have no qualms about keeping you mutated. For however long it can be made useful.”

Steve didn’t speak; his eyes caught Albert’s. 

“You surely remember what that was like? Alexia kept you in that monstrous form?”

He did. The breaking of bones, the burn at his throat, at his eyes, how he had to fight his own body to get fresh air.

Albert took Steve’s silence as a yes. And turned fully towards him. 

    “Are we clear, Burnside?”

Steve opens his mouth to speak, closes it, and nods. He knew that if he tried to speak, it would only come out as a rasp.

With that, Albert put the manila file on the shelf and walked towards the door, lifted a keycard in line with the keyhole, and then opened it after a brief pause.

“I’ll hand you everything you need after your vitals calm down.”

And then he was gone. 

Steve made sure to mentally count down from five, so he could be sure Albert was gone. Finally, sighing in nervousness and relief. His hand – right hand, he couldn’t bear to look at or move his left, went to his throat as he slowly got up, groaning quietly from the effort after sitting on his legs for so long. 

“Fucking keener,” he mumbles, the insult quickly earning him the grand prize of a zap from his choker, strong enough to make him fall to one knee, strong enough to make him let out a yelping shriek, which, in that moment, felt more painful than the shock; his left hand instinctively moved toward the site of the zap, creating a scaly barrier between the material of the collar and the now-red skin of his neck.

And now he was as alone as he could be right here.

Alone, with silence.

Alone, with silence and his thoughts.

  It had been comforting; no cold words spoken in that frigid accent. No overly-analytical scientist telling him he didn’t scream enough when they mutated him, like he was some barely-paid actor in a horror flick. 

  But now? Now, his little subconscious had a voice. One only he could hear, of course – loneliness, except for scientists who barely counted as humans, did that to you, – but a subconscious nonetheless; warm, warm and hopeful and beautiful, filled with the knowledge that, in the end, everything would be okay, everything would be alright. It reminded him of Claire.

 He knew , with full certainty, that Albert would send his own men, too. Dogs, even. There’s no way he actually , fully trusts Steve to do this, right? Surely, this was just a game to him? A man seeing if he could make his dog heel if he just kicked it enough. Unless he was more of a dumbass than Steve gave him credit for.

   Because, even given that kind of threat, could Steve ever think of bringing Manuela and Sherry back here? They were just kids, weren’t they? 

       He couldn’t imagine being at their age and being here. When he had seen them last,– God,   that must’ve been years ago. They looked like they couldn’t have been around his age. Maybe..     Fourteen? Fifteen? Way too young for a place like this. A place too cruel.

But what thought was the loudest in his mind? The thought that screamed itself hoarse at him:

   “ What would Claire think? What in the world would Claire Redfield think of you if you let Wesker or his men bring those two back into danger? ”

Claire would hate him. And he would deserve it. 

If she were alive, she would’ve screamed at him when she found out; she would’ve been so goddamn disappointed.

And he would deserve it.

And that thought hurt. It was a stab to his soul. A stab to his heart. “Et tu, Claire?”

    (“Ew, now I’m quoting Shakespeare,” he mumbles)

He would be damned if he let himself stay as the monster that ended her life. 

   He wants her to be proud of him.

“God, I’m so fucked.”

Chapter Text

The hollowed sound of his own coughs had quickly become the soundtrack to Rodrigo’s life; How could it not? Even after rockfort, it would’ve been safe to assume that multiple hours of his day were spent with just his coughing. 

At least I’m still alive; he would always tell himself, hoping that that could be enough as he leaned back against the soft cushioning of the couch. Not many people who had been on Rockfort in 1998 could really say that. Hell, he could barely say it.

   If it hadn’t been for Chris, he’d have been dead years ago.

The motion of a table softly thumping, as a burly hand set down a cup of water. 

    Barry Burton carefully sat himself in the seat right next to Rodrigo, groaning lightly as he made himself comfy. 

They didn’t talk about the horrors they had faced, not even a decade ago. They never did. Not beyond just what they could say without words. 

They never talked about how Rodrigo had lost his wife and son. (Lord knows he tried.) Some dispairs just couldn’t be voiced; Barry couldn’t possibly understand it; he still had his family, his wife, and two daughters.

     They never talked about how lists upon lists were made, filled with the names and information of the known people who had survived terrors; Survivors of Raccoon City, of Rockfort, Sheena Island, Operation Javier, all of it. The documents were made very public. Almost as soon as they occurred.

Rodrigo broke himself out of staring forward so he could glance at his friend.

   Barry and he had become fast friends after Rockfort. After Rodrigo was spit out of the Gulp worm, Barry was the one who haphazardly patched him up before taking him back to … wherever it was that managed to patch him up. (He’d never quite asked questions; he just felt lucky to be alive.) 

  Barry wordlessly nudged his head towards the cup of water he had set down; a wordless offer.

     Rodrigos' eyes rapidly move between Barry’s face and the wall to his back, as if asking in his mind if it’s okay to accept it or not. 

He leans forward a little, ignoring the protest in his back as his hands wrap around the opaque cup. The water was cool, though not icy. And the temperature could be felt from the contact with the cup. 

  The coldness of it was an odd comfort, albeit an unconventional comfort; comfort could be quickly associated with warmth. The sun. Bright shimmers of orange, white, and yellow that emphasized life. But here he was, finding warmth in the cool, cold blue. Cold like stone. Cold like guilt. Clammy.

He barely remembers to thank Barry. Here he is, lounging in his friend's home, drinking water from his fridge, and not even saying thank you..

“Ah, uh, thank you, Barry.” He finally rasps out. 

He sees Barry smile his signature smile, the one where his eyes did most of the smiling, he had that dad smile (if that even makes sense), the one that made you want to make them proud. It gave Rodrigo a heavy feeling deep down in his throat.

But he didn’t judge; he just smiled on, cracked open a cold one, and sat back, happy to spend time with the other man.

Now, that list they refused to talk about; It’s not that it was some .. groundbreaking idea, but it made sure that the guilt and trauma hung over the heads of survivors; it was almost like a flashing arrow that pointed to them, screaming out the trauma that they didn’t want to burst out like a dam. It made that choice for them. 

Those events would always mark them.

Rodrigo would always be known as “That one man who survived Rockfort Island!”   

That list haunted Claire. 

It stalked her like a wolf stalks its prey, anger rising in its throat like lava in a volcano; like the oceans' shimmering, rippling tide as it sets its gaze on the full moon. But with all the quiet subtlety of a raging tornado.

At least it wouldn’t have much of an effect on her life; at least to the physical degree; people didn’t scream at her for surviving; There were never dirty looks sent her way simply because she wasn’t a shambling corpse, story forever wiped from the board by a rotting rag. 

Darkness overtakes her vision, like a mask pulled over her eyes as they close, calm down, Claire.. You’re overthinking.. Just.. do what Chris would do.. What would Chris do?

She hears the muted click-clack of the keys on her keyboard halt, as her fingers pause their gliding across it. This monotony. This chorus of monotony. It was the only thing keeping her sane these days, it seemed. 

   It was easier to isolate herself if she just.. Let herself melt into her own shade of mundane, letting the noises of her Terrasave coworkers conversing blend with the low, droning haze that sounded in her ears. 

For a few, precious, beautiful, short seconds, she wasn’t Claire Redfield. Survivor of the terrors of Raccoon City, the Lone surviving prisoner of Rockfort..

She was just.. Someone. 

Her legs curl upwards, moving against her lower stomach as she ignores the urge to hug herself; her brain couldn’t move on, she didn’t know why she couldn’t just fucking move on.

   She didn’t know why tremors and shakes in waves overtook her body, like a spell cast upon her being. 

    Claire’s teeth worry at her lip, and she finds herself zoning out into the maze of work on her computer; the white minimalist illustration of a map floods her gaze as she lets her mind drift off. 

Somewhere along the sidelines, she heard her coworkers part away, making plans to go out after work.