Chapter Text
Chris was dreaming, he understood that much. But that didn’t stop the dream from feeling uncomfortably real, yet laughably fake. He sat in a large dining area. The room itself couldn’t decide between being a red dining hall with expensive looking art, or a black void with grey flooring and a spotlight. The roomy void held a table that stretched far enough that his eyes couldn’t see the other end. Despite the length, there were only 3 or 5 chairs on the end he sat, each filled by a different figure besides for one. He sat as the head of the table. Directly to his left was an empty chair, pushed out as if someone had abruptly left. Shy to the empty chair was his little sister, Claire, who was supposed to be an adult by now, but showed being no older than 5 or 6, eating a mud cake from a toy dining set while wearing the fluffiest pink tutu known to man. He cringed as the mud painted her jaw, worms wiggling within the spoonful of wet dirt that were scooped into her gaping maw. He tried to speak, to correct the impressionable child on what was edible and what wasn’t, but found his voice mute. Air passed through, but no sound was heard. He hummed, looking away to stop himself from throwing up. Watching a child so casually swallow balls of dirt like it was nothing but chocolate pudding was oddly revolting.
His gaze glanced to the right instead, seeing two more chairs occupied by familiar faces. Jill was on the further chair, eating ramen and reading some magazines. She didn’t seem particularly interested in the dinner, preoccupied in her magazine, but at least she was eating. To the woman’s left, or Chris’ immediate adjacency, was a figure he recognized as Piers. Said man was laying with his head down on the table, sleeping or relaxing, he couldn’t tell. Chris huffed, reaching over to awaken his companion. It was rude to sleep at the dining table.
“Leave him be. He doesn't need to be… present, in this dinner.” A hauntingly familiar voice spoke. Chris jolts as he feels an uncomfortably familiar and gentle hand caress from his right shoulder, across his neck, to his left shoulder, causing a tingle to trail down his spine. Chris whips his head around to see who the uninvited guest was. A 6’3 man dressed entirely in black with signature, yet still entirely unnecessary, shades to bring it all together. Chris tensed, feeling fear, yet emanating rage. His first instinct was to stand from his chair, to attack the man he didn’t even dare to name, but found his legs feeling heavier than lead. Chris grunted, looking to his lap, realising that he was strapped down by heavy chains. He quickly reached down to start tugging at the chains, but not even the greatest force or pull would let the chains move. It was a miracle that his legs weren’t being crushed by the impossible chain. Chris huffed, growing more annoyed as the man behind him mocked a laugh, clapping his gloved hand over his shoulder. “Struggling there, Chris? Just relax, this is a dinner, not a fight.”
The man sat in the empty chair to Chris’ left, tucking himself in formally while resting his elbows on the table, clasping his hands and using them as a chin-rest as he watched Chris struggle in his chair. This continued on until Chris finally gave up, grunting as he slammed his fist against the table in frustration, causing the dishes to jolt, spilling some of the other’s food. Claire scoffed with offence, upset that her delicate mud pie jumped and drizzled onto the fine dining table. She grabbed her skirt and tried to wipe it away with the fabric, meanwhile Jill quietly passed her a napkin, continuing to boredly eat her noodles. Despite Wesker’s presence, the woman still seemed strangely uninterested.
“How rude, that’s not very polite.” Wesker huffed, glaring at Chris’ fist on the table.
“Shut the fuck up, Albert.” Chris finally found his voice, cutting the air with it. It wasn’t like Wesker was much more polite: showing up late, elbows on the table, sunglasses indoors. Or at least presumably in an indoor environment. Wesker quirked a brow, looking unimpressed by Chris’ poor dining etiquette and language. The older man sighed, lifting his sunglasses to rub his eyes and nose for a moment, before relaxing, focusing on Chris once again.
“Well, at the very least, you should eat. Your food must be cold already.” Wesker motioned, pointing at the plate that Chris hadn’t even bothered to look at until this point. “Such a waste. You know it tastes better fresh, right? When it’s still warm.”
Chris hummed, glancing at his food. Eating would be better than putting up with his ex-boss’ bullshit for another minute. But instead of a delectable feast of steak or even just a bowl of cold soup, he was met with a grotesque sight. Intestines, blood, guts, and bones. His eyes widened in horror, immediately feeling bile rise in his throat. He covered his mouth as he gagged, shoving his plate away. Wesker frowned, carefully taking the plate and moving back in front of Chris.
“Is that any way to respond to a delicious, home-cooked meal?” Wesker mused, reclasping his hands to use as a chinrest.
“Are you insane!? That’s a fucking corpse! I don't think an inch of that thing is cooked, either!” Chris snapped, hitting his hands against the chair’s armrests, refusing to even look at it. Wesker looked disappointed. He stood from his chair and walked behind Chris, caressing the distressed man's shoulders as he walked past, moving to stand to Chris’ right. Chris attempted to follow Wesker with his eyes, becoming distressed the moment Wesker disappeared into his blind-spot, then becoming slightly relaxed once the man was visible again. Wesker crouched down to one knee to make himself seem mockingly smaller, rubbing Chris’ back as a sick, infantilizing way of comfort. His other hand gently picked up a fork as if the utensil was made of glass, stabbing it into a raw slab of mangled skin and flesh.
“How disrespectful of you, Chris. You had no problems with food earlier today. What changed?” A small flash of the mangled corpse from that day’s mission appeared in his mind’s eye, causing Chris’ breath to shake. “Come on, open wide. You know you want it.”
Wesker’s voice held an intoxicating purr as he grabbed Chris’ chin, his fingers reaching to squish the frightened male’s cheeks, in turn forcing Chris to pucker his lips. Chris thrashed his head around, but failed to break free from the man’s grasp. Chris tried to move his hands to push the man away, but found his arms unable to lift off the armrests of his chair. His eyes traced down to realise they had been somehow strapped to the chair with a similar chain to the ones holding down his legs. Chris whined like an injured puppy as Wesker brought the fork closer to his mouth. He continued struggling, refusing to let even a drop of blood touch his lips. Wesker scowled, snaking his index along the stubborn man’s bottom lip.
“Come on, Chris, it won’t hurt you. Just a bite, that's all I ask.” Wesker firmly pried Chris’ mouth open with his index, pushing the digit past his lips and along his teeth; however, Chris didn’t submit, keeping his teeth firmly clamped. Wesker clicked his tongue three times to express his disapproval of Chris’ obstinacy. The older man began to slide his finger back to Chris’ molars, forcing the finger between the space where his gums joined, or, in other words, where Chris’ wisdom teeth used to lay. The action forced Chris’ jaw to lax, giving plenty of room for Wesker to continue forcing his finger into Chris’ mouth, pushing the jaw to remain uncomfortably open. Chris gagged, his tongue lapping the digit as a weak attempt to push the foreign limb out, revolting at the taste of his leather gloves. Wesker laughed with no joy, but rather, mockery.
“It didn’t have to come to force if you had just been a good soldier and opened wide.” Wesker stated firmly, pressing the fork against Chris’ lips once again. Chris pleaded silently, continuing to thrash. Wesker’s patience was growing increasingly thin, slowly replaced with undeniable rage. The older man eventually had enough, standing up straight and slamming the fork against the table. “I’ve had enough of your childish stubbornness! I tried to let you take it willingly, so you could be more comfortable. But no, you have to be arrogant and stubborn. Eat, you ungrateful brat!”
Wesker became violent, pulling his hand off Chris’ cheek just to force his thumb into Chris’ mouth, hooking the digit along the incisors while using the rest of his fingers to hold the petrified man’s chin in place. Wesker pulled down, pulling the jaw open with little trouble. Chris yelped out, trying to tear his head away while pleading indistinguishably, but had little time before feeling an uncomfortably familiar, metallic flavour fill his tongue. He gagged, not needing to see to know that Wesker had forced a wad of flesh into his mouth. His jaw was forced shut, one of Wesker’s hands on top of Chris’ head, the other pushing up against his chin. Forcing his mouth closed constricted his oral cavity, causing a wave of blood to gush out of the squished meatball on his tongue. He gagged violently, retching as he desperately attempted to spit it out, but had no luck as Wesker put in significant effort to keep Chris’ mouth shut. The taste was revolting. The flavour was similar to tossing a rusty coin in his mouth as a stupid child, the metallic taste mixes with saliva, further spreading it along, making the taste impossible to deny.
“Come on now, chew. I don’t want you to choke…” Wesker demanded, loosening his grip just to give Chris room to chew. The man tried to take the chance to open his mouth to spit the raw meat out, but Wesker denied him the ability to even open his lips. “It’s rude to chew with your mouth open, Chris. You should know better. Come on, swallow. It’s good for you.”
Tears welled in his eyes as Chris shook his head. He didn’t want to swallow it, he didn’t want to eat it. He didn’t like this. Wesker looked disappointed, gently holding Chris’ face with a false sense of sympathy, brushing the tears away as he looked at Chris like he would to an injured child.
“Come on, no need to be so fussy… If you don’t swallow, I’ll just have to assist you myself. Last chance, Redfield.” Wesker threatened, one hand snaking to Chris’ throat, massaging the skin gently to stimulate the muscle, causing Chris to subconsciously swallow saliva and blood. Chris whimpered, finally beginning to chew. “Good boy. Was that so hard?”
Wesker seemed pleased, backing up until he was resting his rear against the edge of the table, watching the man chew. Chris uncomfortably stared back as he continued working the slab between his teeth into more swallowable pieces. He cringed each time he felt trickles of presumably blood drain down his throat, or out the corner of his mouth. He attempted to swallow, just to get it over with, but like swallowing gum, he struggled the first few times. Wesker showed his impatience was growing rapidly, tapping his finger against the table at the rhythm of a grandfather clock counting the seconds, his eyebrows furrowing in annoyance. Chris tilted his head up to pull the meat to the back of his throat, finally forcing it down his esophagus. He gasped, realising he had been holding his breath the whole time. He coughed slightly, glancing up to Wesker to receive some sort of praise. He wanted reassurance that Wesker was happy, and wouldn’t force another chunk of meat down his throat. To Chris’ pleasure, Wesker smiled, clapping his hands in delight; however, it didn’t make Chris feel much better about what he just did. He shuttered, feeling the thick meat get involuntarily pushed down to his stomach, splashing in the acid to get sizzled down to nothing but mush. It was silent, only making Chris more anxious. What was Wesker waiting for? He tried to speak, but struggled to find his voice once again, trembling with each breath.
“Hh… Who… Who did I just eat? Why would you do this?” A morbid question finally revealed itself. Chris didn’t want to know the answer, God, did he not. But, it was the only thing he could think to ask, to say. Deep down, on the other hand, he knew the answer to both questions.
“Do I really need to answer? This is your own head, you know what happens already.” Chris flinched at the reply. He forgot this was a dream. It was comforting in a sense, he knew everything that had happened was just a realm of fiction. “Is it really, though?”
“What?” Chris looked up to Wesker in confusion. The man laughed, lifting Chris’ chin.
“Is this really just fiction?” Wesker started, pulling his hand away while crossing his legs, resting his hands in his lap. “They say dreams are projections of trauma in reality. They say dreams are full of secrets you hide from yourself. They say dreams give insight on your deepest desires and emotions. So, with that being said, is this really just a Realm of Fiction you so desperately try to believe?”
Chris frowned. He knew Wesker, or rather the projection of Wesker, was right. If Chris was in his own head, it wasn’t Wesker torturing and teasing him, it was just a projection of who he remembered Wesker as. A sadistic prick that was always right. In fact, this whole conversation was familiar. Not the scenario, per say, but he remembered talking to Wesker about dreams years ago back when S.T.A.R.S. was still a thing. Chris shook his head, looking away from Wesker. Even with the reminder that everything was just a fucked up dream, his body still trembled. The taste of blood still teased his taste buds, the chunk of meat still feeling large in his throat despite passing his lower esophageal sphincter long ago. Wesker seemed amused by Chris’ discomfort from these phantom senses, showing a knowing smile.
“Stop looking at me like that.” Chris snapped, uncomfortable.
“Why? You act like you’re hiding something.” Chris cringed at the irony of the situation, mentally begging himself to wake up already. Wesker only laughed, grabbing Chris once again to force eye contact. “On the topic of dreams being projections of trauma-”
“No, Shut up! That wasn’t real, it didn’t happen!” Chris felt his stomach twist suddenly, causing him to instinctively cover his mouth to not end up projectile vomiting on Wesker or himself. The dining scene began to shift, the void overwhelming the duo until nothing but black surrounded them. Chris stared at the absent flooring as he did everything in his power to keep his insides inside his body. The void began to form once again into a room he never wanted to see again. A small, formal office with blue walls and a dark, mahogany desk shoved in the corner. The office was in disarray with papers thrown around and decorative plants toppled over, with art on the walls hanging by a thread. It reminded Chris of Wesker’s old office, however it was in an estate building rather than the Raccoon City Police Department. Wesker stood in front of Chris as said man coward on the floor. He wasn’t ready to face it yet. He didn’t want to. It was still too soon. Wesker crouched down, placing a hand on his head, petting him like some sort of abused dog.
“You’ve been hiding this memory for months. Who did you tell? Claire and Jill, no? But they don’t know the full story, do they? Valentine found you barely conscious on the street, and your sweet, little sister visited you in the hospital while you were still vulnerable. You told them about the corpse, about what you did. How you indulged in a curious fantasy. And yet, you didn’t tell them about, arguably, the most important part. Me.” Wesker let the information hang in the air for a minute, watching as Chris continued to tremble below him. Wesker sighed, shaking his head as he carefully stripped away his overcoat, letting it land on the floor, followed by unzipping his shirt, his pectorals slowly revealing themselves like a sick strip-tease. “Look at me when I talk to you.”
Chris sniffled. He didn’t want to, but at the same time, he didn’t want Wesker to whip his head around like at the dining table. Chris looked up slowly just as Wesker dropped his zip-up. Chris winced at the sight. Instead of a display of fine skin with toned muscular structure, he was met with two pecs and a gaping maw of Wesker’s empty abdominal cavity. Tattered skin lazily hung around the opening, dripping small droplets of blood off longer strands of skin. Chris covered his eyes, he had seen enough.
“Why do you hide? You did this, Chris. Embrace it!” Wesker encouraged with a sadistic sense of praise. “It shows the virus adapted to your body quite well. I was impressed. You managed to overpower me of all people! You ripped into my guts and tore me a new ass, despite everything that told you no. Where is your pride, Chris?”
“I know you’re proud, but I don’t want you to be. You were supposed to be dead in 2009! You weren’t supposed to come back almost 4 years later!” Chris snapped, finally finding the strength to stand up. Wesker frowned, crossing his arms as Chris seemed to lose it on him, screaming indistinguishable threats and insults. Thankfully, Chris seemed stuck in place, unable to lunge and attack him.
Wesker shook his head walking across the room to where the large desk stood. He peeked behind to see a display of guts, where he supposedly “died”, again, those few months ago. He sighed, picking up his heart. It still pulsed with life. Wesker chuckled, Chris still knew he was alive. He returned to Chris, who was still screaming gibberish and vulgarities. Wesker stood in front of the man, suddenly shoving the beating organ into Chris’ mouth.
“Shut up. You scream far too much.” Wesker finally snapped, meanwhile Chris stood in startled shock as he felt the muscle beat rhythmically. Of course, Wesker was perfectly calm. Chris frowned, carefully removing the organ from his jaw.
“I should have ripped your heart in half when I had the chance.”
“And yet you decided my pancreas was more interesting.” Wesker teased, poking Chris’ nose. Chris growled, crushing the heart in his hands like a stress ball. Wesker seemed amused, poking Chris’ forehead. His finger trailed down Chris’ face and down his neck as he spoke with his usual silky voice. “Let it consume you, Chris. The more you fight and avoid it, the sooner you’ll become no different than those mindless mistakes that wander the streets. You have the choice to be in control, you just have to submit to your desires. Just think of the pleasure that infected you when you indulged in my kidney and liver. The thrill of my blood dribbling through your teeth, the feeling of the meat sliding down your throat into your stomach. It empowered you, did it not?”
“It was disgusting.” Chris snapped, looking away from Wesker with a gaze of disappointment and disgust in his gaze. He hated himself, he hated his desires. All because he let his guard down once.
“Sure, keep lying to yourself, Chris. But I won’t let my greatest subject go to waste. I won’t let you throw my hard work away because you’re too stubborn to admit you enjoyed it.” Wesker snapped, grabbing Chris by the collar of his shirt. “You have two choices, Chris.”
“I know. Be in control, or be controlled by you.” Chris echoed a past conversation, frowning as he tried to pull away. Wesker showed a soft smirk, letting go of Chris.
“Exactly. So, why haven’t you made a choice yet? I gave you a year, and it’s already been 3 months. Time is slipping under you each time you blink, Chris.” Chris didn’t reply, staring at Wesker with an unreadable expression. He looked away, blinking as indistinguishable thoughts flashed through his mind. Chris shook his head.
“I’ll figure it out, without you.” Chris snapped, lunging at Wesker and grabbing said man’s pistol from his belt. The older man was startled, tripping and falling backward from the large man slamming into him. Wesker grunted as his back hit the ground, staring at Chris in surprise. He didn’t have time to say a snide remark or taunting phrase before Chris cocked the gun and shot a bullet through his forehead.
Chris panted, staring at the man under him, dead for the third time now, but only in fiction, as usual. Chris tsked, his body trembling as the world around him melted and distorted. He was ready to get out of this nightmare now. He was done facing the trauma he didn’t want to acknowledge. And the best way to get out of a nightmare, or really any dream, was to die. He never agreed with suicide in any context, but he would make the acceptation in this case.