"Sounds like a bunch of pretentious bullshit to me."
Hardly a man of great words, he cared for actions, the strength of ones heart - the finer things in life mattered little to him, if at all, simple pleasures against extravagance. The Illusive Man was the kind of tyrant he’d come to know, ostentatious and needlessly cryptic - all it accomplished was to get on his nerves. There was little that could be done, strapped to a slab like a brand new piece of meat to be prodded and poked. Whoever had made the restraints had made them well, or perhaps the assumed drugs in his system to keep him still.
"You can’t break me s-fucking -” Burning, his skin was burning. calloused flesh peeling away with an acrid smell, curling into itself as it bubbled and blistered beneath the hot end of the cigarette. Nothing he was unused to, but never was it so casual; broken bones in the midst of battle, bullet wounds and glass shrapnel, dirt and fire licking his skin but this was different. Brows furrowed, muscles tensing until they were stiff as if it would dull any of the pain. It didn’t.
You’ve been through worse, Redfield, suck it up. A mantra in his mind, over and over. Channelling the pain into aggression, into regulating his breath. “So - so fucking easily.” With the world on his shoulders, he dare not slip - he would survive this, as he always did, because the world was cruel and too many died for weary Christopher to let it be in vain.
Chris Redfield was a doubter. He lacked the vision that the Illusive Man possessed. The look on his face spoke of paternal disappointment. He grieved for Christopher’s blindness. Saint Christopher who had been worn down by the world much too soon. His holiness turned to chaos, his halo choking him in the most violent ways.
A man playing God donned his best smile, the kind that curled your lips in an upright fashion, but ne’er dared show off how bright { how sharp ! } your teeth were. He canted his head, his lashes fluttering. Meager observation went a long way. The screams were music to his ears – shrill & waning over time.
❝I don’t intend on breaking you, Chris. Do you prefer Chris? Christopher seems too intimate,❞ he paused after a moment of rambling. ❝—Control is the means to survival. Soon, you’ll see.❞
He pressed his thumb into the charred, burnt flesh with his lips slightly parted. The vibrant cerulean of his eyes flashed. The pain on Saint Christopher’s face seemed to say: STRONGER MEN THAN YOU HAVE TRIED TO BREAK ME.
❝You’re already broken. I want to rebuild you. This is your rebirth.❞
& all his desperate screams would give way to something new. To something robbed of humanity.