Chapter Text
RULES FOR SURVIVORS
Spoken, Unspoken, and Unknown
SPOKEN ;
-The Entity does not tolerate Survivor-on-Survivor violence.
-The Entity does not allow Killers into the Survivor Camp.
-The Entity does not allow Killer-on-Survivor violence outside of The Trials.
-The Entity punishes those who disobey.
-The Entity can change the rules at any time, we are all slaves to its will and whims.
UNSPOKEN ;
-Don’t lose hope.
-Pull your weight.
-Don’t break the rules.
-Be nice to Dwight (please).
-You’re here forever.
UNKNOWN;
-We don’t need to eat?? Or drink?? How? Why?
-The Entity seems to reward us, sometimes. Little treats, that kind of thing… I don’t know why, though.
-The Entity feeds off death and negative emotions? I think? Maybe I should move this to Unspoken? (check with Claudette)
-The Fog outside camp has a forcefield of some kind around it. We can go in it but no one can really see anything... Not sure what that's about...
-There are rumors about The Entity getting rid of Killers and Survivors who cause too many problems.
-I think The Entity sees everything…
(Penned by Dwight Fairfield, in a journal under his pillow)
When you’d been chosen by The Entity, it had taken a long, long time to get over the fact that the hellscape you were a part of was now your life. An understandable reaction, to be sure. Nearly anyone would have a hard time wrapping their mind around such a nightmare, and you were no different. Months and months of crying yourself to sleep in your little one-person tent, the forest green canvas and dark blue nylon of a sleeping bag doing nothing to comfort you. Months of begging and pleading for actual death, months of switching between trying to find a way out of this nightmare by any means possible and bargaining with any god that might listen to take you away from this wretched place. Months of fumbling over generators that you didn’t understand how to fix, of tripping over your own feet, walking right into traps, sobbing when you were lifted onto the shoulder of the most horrifying beasts you’d ever laid eyes on.
Months of trying to fit in, of trying to learn all the rules- some spoken and some not. Of slowly getting to know others who had been in The Trials long before you- years already gone by for them, their determined, resigned faces a testament to the indomitable human spirit. Months of trying to find peace in the hours you spent away from The Trials, of trying to capture the threads of your sanity and keep your mind intact.
Humans have a funny way of adapting. They have a funny way of coping, of acclimating. You’d been a strong person in your life before The Trials. Maybe not physically, but mentally. While comparatively, your life had been idyllic before The Trials, your mind had still seen hardship. You had dealt with your fair share of adversity before you’d been thrust into whatever liminal space The Entity resided- somewhere just outside reality, a space untouchable to others.
And after months and months of being helpless and scared and angry and horrified, months of panicking over all the ways you might escape, you had done what humans had achieved throughout history. You’d adapted. You’d accepted.
You persevered.
It had either been that, or let your mind break entirely. You’d stood on some great precipice, teetering between acceptance of this new normal, or the complete and utter shattering of your sanity, and you had chosen to live . You had chosen to persist, to carry on.
You had chosen to survive.
You’d just been tired of being scared, tired of being helpless.
You’d gotten better at gens. You’d gotten quieter, more fleet of foot, more familiar with the landscape you and your fellow Survivors were sent to.
And you’d just… accepted that this was your life, like so many of your fellow campmates. A year went by (Claudette and Ellen keeping track of the days, the months, the years as they slipped by), and then another. You were here. You were in it for the long haul. There was no going back.
Might as well make the best of it.
Not that having that mentality always worked. Sometimes, something truly horrific would happen, or you’d be thrust into one trial after another with little reprieve, and you would break. You’d lay in the confines of your tent and sob silently into your sleeping bag, biting over your knuckles to keep from making a sound. Sometimes, you would look at the faces of campmates who had also accepted this reality, and a wash of sadness, of the unfairness of it all, would overcome you.
Sometimes, you missed your life. Your ridiculous past life. You wondered what had happened in that show you’d been watching. You wondered about the book you’d never finished reading. You wondered what the diner in town was serving for breakfast, something hot and greasy and better than the simple meals you were graced with now- camp meals you didn’t even hunger for, but The Entity deemed appropriate for this nonsensical setting. Hot dogs on sticks, foil-wrapped potatoes, and maybe the odd peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
You wondered about the people you loved, the people you hated. You wondered how they were faring.
Had your husband remarried? Had your mother passed away? Had your best friend met a new person to take up the role you’d been torn from? Undoubtedly the dive bar you’d worked for had found a replacement bartender, and all those drinks and tips were going to someone else. Perhaps there was a grave, if you’d died, that they could all go and visit.
You didn’t remember dying, though. You’d been upset and angry and insisting on divorce, storming from your bedroom after another argument with your husband.
And then you’d blinked, and you’d been standing in a foggy landscape, a man you’d later know as Dwight grabbing you by the hand and telling you to “Stay low!”
Maybe they all thought you’d left. That you’d run away. Maybe they were looking for you?
You hoped that no one ever found you. Even your husband, who you detested more than any of the monsters in The Trials, you did not wish this fate upon.
But even with your slips, even with your occasional melancholy and despair, you continued to adapt. You continued to survive.
Two years and you were in the thick of it. You were making the best of a hard-worn situation. Other campmates seemed to find your disposition, your acceptance, concerning, but you paid them no mind. What was the point of being sullen? What was the point of being scared? Even death was met with a scream, then a sigh. Oh well, I’ll try to be smarter, faster, stronger, the next go around. That was the way of repetition, for you at least. Even horror could become commonplace. Even death and pain and despair could become just another day.
Like you were hired to take place in the world's most f*cked up version of a desk job, clocking in and out with blood on your hands.
Something was missing though, and it only took two months into the second year to realize what it was…
Bored, you realized. God, you were so f*cking bored. Of your campmates, of The Trials, of the monotony of repeated scenarios, of nothing ever changing.
Bored, bored, bored.
It made you feel itchy, made you feel waspish. It made you want to be the person you really were, under all the niceties you’d insisted on until now. You’d swallowed down more of your overt personality traits, just to keep the peace, just to refrain from rocking the boat. Just to get along, to manage. So much of those first two years had been spent keeping your head down and adjusting to this f*cked up new normal.
But your situation was clear. You were never getting out of here…
You’d always had a mouth. It had been the thing your husband said he hated about you, as your relationship deteriorated. The thing he’d been quick to point out as a flaw, the thing he threw in your face when he’d been desperate to shift blame from his own actions.
“You don’t ever just let something go, do you? Everything has to have some comeback, some joke, some sh*tty reply.”
You might as well lean into it, at this point. It had been two years, you weren’t going anywhere. You might as well stop biting your tongue, might as well run your mouth as much as you’d like. You might as well be the person you’d always known you were, might as well let your confidence, your wit, your sarcasm, shine through. What would happen if you did? What would be the consequence? You’d be killed?
Oh no, the horror.
Your campmates were all a mixed bag as you opened up, as you let down the walls and leaned into the person you were under all that fear and worry. Even before you began to display all your held-back personality traits, you had your operatives. You had the people who liked you, and the people who did not. It was expected when a group of people from all walks of life were thrust together and told to cooperate, that not all personalities would mesh.
Some of them liked you, some of them tolerated you, and some of them couldn’t stand you. Certainly, most of them didn’t understand your shift into treating The Trials like they were a f*cked up day job. Like The Entity was some terrible boss and the company you worked for lacked an HR department (and dental).
Like it was all a big f*cking joke.
“This isn’t a job, this is a nightmare,” Nea had snapped at you. But you’d shrugged and said, “Can’t it be both?”
Lean into it, your mind encouraged. Be yourself. It doesn’t change no matter what you do, so just accept it and be yourself.
You’d get sucked into the fog, landing on whatever landscape The Entity decided, and you would whisper, “Clocking in.”
If Ash or Steve were with you (the two you seemed to get along best with- who appreciated this change in personality the most), they’d chuckle. If it were Meg or Jake, they’d hiss at you to “Shut the f*ck up.” If it were Dwight, he’d give a nervous warble of a laugh and slink away, or join you at a generator.
If you were on a hook, you’d wait until the initial pain began to subside before giving a sharp whistle and calling out, “If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like some f*cking assistance!”
If you failed to calibrate a generator, or maybe made a bit too much noise, you’d bare your teeth in a cringe and loudly whisper, “Do you think anyone heard that?”
“You’re annoying,” Steve might sometimes tell you, albeit in an affectionate tone.
Maybe. Maybe you were annoying? But you’d decided to commit to the bit, and there was no going back. You were free, in a way. You could be whoever the f*ck you wanted, and why not cope the best way you knew how?
By taking everything as unseriously as possible.
Ash, who was like you in many ways, always had your back against anyone else in camp who questioned your sanity. “Leave her be,” he’d say, nudging your shoulder with his, humoring you with a little fist bump.
You were coping the best way you knew how, and he understood that.
It didn’t stop with your teammates, though. The more you accepted your life, the more you decided to be yourself, seemed to bring about even more of that cavalier mindset.
You were getting mouthy with the killers now, too.
Why not? Again, what could happen?
Nothing much. Nothing that you hadn’t already experienced a thousand times over. Pain, torture, death. When the worst was on the table, there was nowhere to go but up. And at least being a smartass made it all a little more entertaining.
“Hey motherf*cker, watch the jeans! I got these on sale at Family Dollar!” you snapped to The Executioner as he swung his great knife at you.
“I never understood acupuncture, but I’m glad you’re committing to something,” you choked out to The Cenobite, pierced with chains and hardly able to say a word through the pain.
“Big man! Christ, can you help a fox out of this trap?” you barked at The Trapper.
One of the killers did seem to appreciate your mouth, though. One of them seemed to delight in it, flock toward it, insist on it.
Ghost Face had taken to finding you quickly if you were in the group of survivors, outright laughing when you noticed him peeking out from behind a structure.
“I see you, you little creep,” you would call out.
“Mouthy bitch.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“I bet you have.”
“Don’t flirt with me, you little sh*t.”
“You like it.”
You did, a little. It was another personality trait you’d been holding back, one that often went hand and hand with your jokey personality. Casual, easy flirting- the kind that never really meant anything, certainly not with whoever loomed behind the white mask.
But he was funny, and it made The Trials wildly more entertaining.
Running him was especially funny.
“You run like a bitch in heels,” you called over your shoulder, dodging the graze of his knife by the skin of your teeth.
“You run like a bitch who wants to get caught.”
“By you? Unlikely. Keep up, sweetheart, you’re falling behind.”
“Just enjoying the view.”
“Pervert.”
“slu*t.”
None of your campmates found this nearly as amusing as you did.
“Stop antagonizing the killers,” Nea had hissed shortly after, frowning down at you as you warmed your hands by the fire.
“Why?” You’d asked languidly. “We all made it out. He was focused on me the whole time, and you all didn’t get hooked once. I’m a good distraction.”
“It’s weird,” Ace had insisted, but you had only shrugged.
They were people too. Some of them, anyway. You didn’t say that, not with the way Meg and Jane and Jake all gave you disapproving looks. But some of the killers made the ridiculousness of your situation a bit more… amusing. A bit more interesting. And they were in this too, weren’t they? They were all trapped in the same infinite loop, doomed to the same repeating fate. Why not talk to them? Why not run them, distract them, cajole them?
Why not try to make this all a little less boring?
“I’ll let you hook me, idiot, just give me a sec to finish this gen.”
Ghost Face sighed, and instead of ripping you away from the wires you’d been trying to connect, he leaned against the machine and waited.
“You know, you broke my f*cking nose last time, when you threw down that pallet.”
“Oh, poor baby. How many times have you hooked me, you little monster?”
“You love it.”
“You’re so stupid.”
He’d twirled his knife and leaned more heavily against the gen. “Been a while since I’ve seen you.”
You paused, wires held a fraction apart, and raised a brow. “Aw, did you miss me?”
“A little,” he admitted. “You’re more fun than the others.”
You preened up at him, back to repairing the gen. “I think I’m flattered.”
“You should be. And I’m your favorite, too, aren’t I?” he teased. “Admit it.”
“Pfft, you wish. Your scrawny arms can barely carry me.”
“Oh shut the f*ck up.”
“I always feel like you’re going to drop me,” you insisted, twisting a cog into place. “Did you skip arm day?”
“Bold words from the bitch I’m going to slice open like a melon.”
“Bold words from the bitch wearing a dress.”
“Oh kiss my ass.”
“I would never, I think you’d enjoy it.”
He’d snorted, looking out over Raccoon City’s lobby with a tilt of his head.
“You make this a little less… boring,” he finally muttered.
You smiled up at him briefly. How odd, to agree with a man who’d caused you pain on countless occasions. The gen flared to life, along with two others far off and away, and you stayed crouched and beamed up at him.
“Right back at ya, you little sh*t.”
You felt like maybe he was smiling down at you, under his mask. It was the impression you got, anyway.
“You gonna run?”
“I said you could hook me, have at it, sweetheart.”
He shook his head. “That’s no fun. Come on, off your ass. Run for me.”
“Flirt.”
“whor*.”
Ghost Face aside, the other Killers were less open to listening to you talk to them. Or at them, really. There was no quippy back and forth, and what a loss.
With killers like Michael, or The Unknown, you hadn’t even bothered trying to talk to them, seeing as they actually frightened you still. And even though Steve said you were insane, The Demogorgon was not, in fact, a misshapen puppy that you could coax into letting you pet it (and he did not find it funny that whenever you caught sight of the beast, you’d whisper, “Can I pet that dog?” ). The Xenomorph you were pretty sure didn’t understand English, and the same went for The Huntress (though, you did enjoy the humming). Ji-Woon found you annoying (join the club), as did Freddy, and while there was some back and forth with that horrible Good Guy doll, he did not appreciate you telling him that he was, “An overrated version of Raggedy Andy.”
The only exception, maybe, was The Trapper. At first, he’d been relegated to the same state as Michael, a hulking figure that you assumed only had bloodlust on his mind. But you’d skirted a trap while he lumbered behind you, and you’d heard him grunt in annoyance.
“Oh, come on, big guy!” You’d called over your shoulder. “I’ve been here long enough to know where you like to set your traps.”
Another grunt, and you laughed.
“It’s alright, I know you’ll get me eventually.”
And he had. Less than ten paces and the jaws of a trap snapped firmly on your ankle.
“Damnit,” you’d hissed, trying to pry the springs apart as he approached, wincing as your sweaty palms slipped through the metal. You’d thrown him a tight, pained grin. “See?! Good work, handshakes all around.”
He’d paused, and it was the first time he’d ever done so, his head tilting as he looked down at you.
“Come on, handsome, this isn’t the first time you’ve caught a fox in your trap. Let's get this over with.”
His hand had tightened on the cleaver he held, and you’d raised a brow, waiting.
“You think you’re a fox?”
You blinked. He’d never spoken to you. To this point, you’d thought he couldn’t speak at all.
You peered at him, eyes thinning up at his masked face. “You trying to say I’m not? Ouch, big man, that’s hurtful.”
He’d breathed out what you thought might have been a laugh. A low chuckle, maybe. Or maybe he was just breathing. Then he’d smacked you with that f*cking machete and yanked you over his shoulder, carrying you to the hook.
You didn’t bother struggling, dazed and in pain, but just before he hooked you, you’d croaked out, “You’re better at this than Ghost Face, remind me to tell him later.”
He’d paused right at the hook.
“You talk too much,” he growled.
Something that might have been delight, masked by all the pain you were in, alighted in your chest. Was The Trapper secretly chatty? Were you really going to be able to talk to this man?
“Hey, I didn’t even know you could talk,” you wheezed out. “This is a revelation, consider me shocked and awed.”
He’d hooked you, but he hadn’t left right away. Instead, he’d waited for your scream of utter misery to pass, watching you behind his mask with an unseen expression.
“Ten out of ten on the hook, big guy,” you rasped, tears in your eyes.
“You’re a chatty fox,” he eventually muttered.
You’d grinned- more a pained bearing of teeth than anything else. “So you do think I’m a fox.”
The Trapper had huffed and stalked away, Jane unhooking you moments later and healing you between a pallet.
“You’re just making yourself a target,” she’d hissed as she dressed your wound, but two gens were flaring to life, and you’d gasped out, “Seems to be working for our benefit though, doesn’t it?”
You talked to him more, at him, more, whenever you were thrown into a Trial with him as the killer. He didn’t tunnel you like Ghost Face did, but The Trapper did seem to choose you out of the four survivors if he was given the chance, letting you lead him about the landscape while you threw quips at him over your shoulder.
“Come on, handsome, you’ve almost got me!” you called, jumping over a set of traps. “You can tell all the other Killers how easy it was later.”
You’d even slowed down, a little, so that you wouldn’t lose him in the swamp.
“Is that something you all do?” You’d asked as you loped back into a run. “Sit around and trade stories?”
He’d only huffed, maybe in annoyance, and eventually, he’d petered off to the trap Leon stepped in, leaving you to catch your breath and find a gen.
He’d found you long minutes later, and you’d heard his approach, but you’d stayed firmly on the generator as he loomed closer and closer.
“Don’t suppose you’d let me finish this?” You’d asked, fumbling with a gear you were screwing into place.
He’d hesitated, standing only a few paces away.
“I bet Danny gets a kick out of you,” he’d eventually gruffed.
You’d thrown him a sideways glance, still in shock that he could talk, even more so that he decided to talk to you.
He had a nice voice, too, but that was neither here nor there.
“Who the f*ck is Danny?” you asked.
“Ghost Face.”
“Is that his name?” you’d squeaked. “Oh, that’s fantastic. I’m going to annoy the sh*t out of him now!”
To your surprise, The Trapper had chuckled. Low and rumbling, like the deep purr of some behemoth reptile. Like the videos you’d seen of contented alligators who sometimes let handlers scratch their scales. It made your toes curl.
“Let me know how that goes.”
He’d pulled you roughly from the gen, and you growled in annoyance.
“Man, I was so close to finishing that.”
“You’re not a very clever fox,” he’d muttered.
“Sweetheart, I’m barely a clever human.”
He’d snorted, and through the mild, passive fear that came from the knowledge of certain pain in the form of a hook, you marveled over the fact that of all the killers you thought might interact with you, this one seemed the most willing to do so (besides Ghost Face- Danny - of course, who you didn’t even count at this point, since all he seemed to do was run his mouth whenever he saw you).
“Do you have a name, big guy?” you asked, wiggling on the top of broad shoulders.
“Why would that matter any?”
You hesitated. You were a flirty person by nature (something your husband had always been quick to point out as a fault), but The Trapper had never been someone you’d considered aiming that sort of talk to. You’d been careful to tamp that part of your personality down when it came to the killers you faced, save perhaps Ghost Face. With Ghost Face, it was easy. He was easy. You should tell him that, next time you saw him.
You continued to hesitate, and The Trapper nudged his shoulder, jostling you.
f*ck it, I’m dying no matter what.
“Maybe I just want a name to scream?”
The Trapper had stopped dead in his tracks. Just for a moment, as though your words had been a physical blow.
“Stupid fox.”
He’d speared you onto the hook a little more roughly than usual, waiting again for you to finish screaming.
“Rude,” you wheezed. “And here I thought we were becoming friends.”
You’d been unhooked but also unhealed, after he’d stalked away, and a mad dash of sorts took place as you and your teammates scrambled to finish the gens. But one by one your allies were picked off, only three of the engines ever bursting to life.
You hated being the last survivor. It made you feel like a failure, and since you were viewing this as a sort of f*cked up internship that never ended, it made you feel like you’d failed at your job. You’d still searched for the hatch, though, holding your side as you stumbled about, listening with keen ears for the rattle of the escape.
And then you’d stepped into a damn trap.
“Fox in the trap,” he rumbled, looming over you.
“Sweet talker,” you’d hissed out in pain, giving up on trying to pry the jaws loose, resigned to death. “Come on, big guy, let's get this over with.”
But The Trapper had only looked at you for a long, stretching moment, before heaving a put-upon sigh.
He’d pried the trap open and thrown you over his shoulder, and for the first time, you noticed that his large hand squeezed into your thigh.
Before your mind could linger on it, he’d all but tossed you onto the ground, right next to the open hatch. You looked up at him, unable to keep the questioning look off your face.
“Evan,” he grunted.
It took a moment to click, but when it did, you’d grinned.
“Thanks, handsome,” you cooed, not bothering with his name, not yet. You’d save that for later.
As you slipped into the hatch, you thought you heard him sigh.
“Daaanny,” you murmured. “Oh, Daaaanny.”
It hadn’t taken him long to pop his head out from behind a pillar.
“Who the f*ck told you that?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy?”
“This is a violation of trust,” he snapped, lunging at you as you scrambled off the gen, a bubble of laughter escaping your throat.
“Good thing I’m not dumb enough to trust you!”
“Oh you stupid bitch, get back here!”
You’d run him with a peel of giggles echoing throughout Father Campbell’s Chapel, cooing his name with every step.
“Who the f*ck told you that?!”
“Catch me and I’ll tell you.”
He had, downing you with two well-aimed blows, standing over you as you bled onto the ground.
“Who told you?”
“Your mom,” you coughed out, and you’d snorted when he growled and threw you over his shoulder.
“You’re such a little c*nt,” Danny snapped, smacking your leg when you started to wiggle.
“Hands off, sh*thead,” you snapped back, hitting him between his shoulder blades. “This isn’t a f*cking petting zoo.”
He’d hooked you, ignoring the loud ping of a generator flaring to life in the distance. “I see you’ve finally gotten some of the other assholes to talk to you,” he muttered.
You raised a brow at him, whimpering as you clawed at the hook. “Are you jealous?”
“A little.”
“Aw, Danny, that’s sweet.”
He’d given a thoughtful hum. “That’s not so bad, actually. Hearing my name. Moan it a little for me.”
You’d made a disgusted face.
“Pervert.”
“whor*.”
You did not want to f*ck Danny. He’d wandered away and you’d kept the same mildly revolted look on your face as you swung from the hook. He was fun to flirt with, a little, and he was fun to joke and tease, too. But you did not want to f*ck him.
The same couldn’t be said for Evan, and that was mildly concerning.
Another day, another trial (this time with The Trapper), and you were surprised that instead of pulling you off a gen, he’d stood some feet away and looked at you.
“Hey there, big guy. I heard Laurie scream, I’m guessing she’s on the hook?”
He’d not replied, just waited, watching, and you cursed when you failed to properly calibrate the generator. It backfired loudly, and you winced. Damn, that was embarrassing. You were better than this.
“You’re making me nervous, you menace,” you snipped.
“Good,” Evan grunted. “You’re too comfortable around me.”
You sighed, back to trying to twist a gear in place. “What can I say, you have a comforting presence.”
You thought that maybe he was glaring at you.
“You’re an odd fox.”
“Baby, I like the way you call me fox.”
“You’re a stupid fox, too.”
You tsked at him, and in a gentle voice said, “Don’t be like that, Evan.”
You’d watched as his shoulder went taught.
Oh, he liked that.
“You gonna run?”
You’d thrown him a small smirk, “Is that what you want?”
“That’s what you’re supposed to do, foolish fox.”
You sighed, hands slipping away from the bowels of the gen.
“If you insist.”
You were on your feet as quickly as possible, the soles of your shoes scuffing the ground as they were coaxed into a run. The Trapper was right behind you, his heavy breathing nearly in your ear.
He’d not caught you, though. He didn’t tunnel, not like Danny. You were quick, fleet of foot, clever no matter what he said, and there was prey that was an easier catch slinking about in the night. But maybe you’d distracted him, a little. His name on your lips might have made him sloppy, more preoccupied, because five generators were quickly finished, and you and the rest of the Survivors had been able to congregate together at the same door.
When you opened the exit, you’d waited for all your party to limp out, lingering as they slipped into The Entity’s embrace. Evan seemed to be able to sense that you were waiting for him, and he’d strode out of the fog to look at you.
“See you next time, big guy,” you called.
He hadn’t replied, just watched you with a face unknown.
There was a bit of shame, later that night, when it was him you thought of, alone in your tent, lips pressed together as you circled your cl*t as quickly as you could, refusing to make a sound.
Probably, it was because you hadn’t been properly f*cked in more than two years. Even before you’d been kidnapped and made a slave to some dark deity's twisted little game, you’d been suffering. Your husband had never been particularly adept at intercourse, and once you’d found out he was cheating on you, you hadn’t bothered to spread your legs for him. Ash would probably be game for a tryst, but truth be told he wasn’t your type. None of your fellow survivors were- though some of them had offered or made a pass. But you’d declined, resigning yourself to a life of right-handed daydreams in the solitude of your tent. Mediocre sex sounded just as boring as The Trials had become.
But it was on the tip of your tongue to moan out the name Evan when you crested into climax, his large body floating into your mind without any prompting, the memory of his hand on your thigh making you bite back a whimper.
You were probably sick in the head. You were probably experiencing some sort of mental break. He’d killed you so many times. He was violent, he was mean and rough, and…
And he was doing his job, just like you.
Who were you to fault him for it?
You decided to be bold, to indulge. To test the waters. What was there to lose? You were here for life and for death, weren’t you?
The Trapper caught you during a run, just before you could slam a palette between the two of you, and to your surprise, he hadn’t hit you with his blade. He’d just reached out and snagged you off the ground, body slung over his massive shoulders as it had been so many times before. Without thinking, you’d clung to him. You hadn’t struggled, but instead, your fingers pressed into the exposed skin on his shoulders, careful to avoid the shrapnel and wounds.
Like an embrace, really.
He’d stumbled, almost imperceptively. You’d turned your face into his neck, breathing him in. He smelled good, you decided. Like coal and sweat and soil. Like the woods, like the trees. And he was warm, too. Warm and large and holding you... And sure, he was walking you to a hook, was going to cause you pain... But for now, in this small moment, you let yourself enjoy his hold, enjoy his scent, enjoy his touch.
His hand tightened on your thigh, and you held onto his shoulders a little more tightly.
“Foolish fox,” he’d grunted.
“Very,” you agreed, voice a little breathy.
You heard his breathing hitch.
Because you had probably lost your mind, you let one of the hands that rested on his shoulder slide to the back of his neck, and you kneaded the muscle that lay there, wrist caught in an awkward angle from how you were positioned. He stopped walking.
“Stop that,” he rumbled, a shiver you could feel under your palm running down his spine.
You did, for a moment, then started again when you realized that his grip on your thigh wasn't painful. It was a clutching grasp, a needy press of fingers that would leave a mark but would not bruise. And his breathing still hitched, and his body still trembled. He liked it. He wanted your touch.
There was a frown in his voice when he growled, “This the kind of thing you do with Danny, little fox?”
You snorted and shook your head, the line of your jaw bumping against the span of his shoulder.
“Never,” you insisted. You bit your lip and added, “No one but you, Evan.”
You felt him shiver for a third time before he began walking once more.
“You’re playing with fire, foolish fox.”
He said it as he hooked you, the words almost lost in your scream of pain.
“I always… liked… the burn…” you panted out.
You wished you could see his face, read his expression, as he looked at you. Instead, you were left wondering what he was thinking as he stalked away.
The Entity, like you, apparently had a sense of humor.
You’d been in the Trials for over two years now, and for them, you’d only had two rotating outfits that you spawned into the landscape wearing. One was jeans and a sweater, and the other was black denim shorts and a loose tee.
But you’d spawned into Ormond, of all places, wearing a familiar sundress and strappy sandals, your long hair down around your shoulders and curled, and every ounce of good temper inside your body had been replaced with dread and dismay.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you’d rasped, no humor in your voice.
Luckily, and it was a wild assessment that it was luck, The Singularity did not comment or care about the change of outfit. And even though you’d ripped it off at camp, uncaring that you stood half-naked before your fellow survivors as you tossed it into the fire, it had still reappeared the next day, for the next Trial.
Wesker hadn’t commented, and neither had The Doctor, the dress still the only outfit you were spawned into the Trails with- fresh and clean and intact no matter how many times you burned it.
With Danny, you weren’t so lucky.
“Damn, babe, nice digs.”
“Shut up,” you’d snapped, already loping in front of him, sandals smacking loudly on the floorboards of the Dead Dawg Saloon.
“Run backwards, I wanna see those tit* bounce,” he called.
“f*ck you, Daniel,” you hissed over your shoulder.
He’d caught you, a little more handsy than he’d ever been, and when he hooked you he had lingered.
He seemed to be waiting for a quip, for a slight or some sarcastic comment, but you had nothing for him.
“What’s wrong with you?” He’d grumbled, crossing his arms.
“Nothing,” you hissed. “Get the f*ck out of here so I can get off this damn hook.”
“Bitch, I can camp if I want.”
You’d thrown him a nasty glare.
“Seriously, what’s your deal?”
Your jaw clenched, and he’d thrown his hands into the air before stomping off, leaving you alone to glare down at the dress.
Floral. Orange and yellow flowers over white. A bow of the same pattern between the cinch- just under the line of your breasts. A flowing skirt that stopped at the knees.
You f*cking hated this dress.
You’d been unhooked, forgoing your now-expected whistle and call, and Jill had raised her brow in question as you remained silent, dressing your wounds without comment.
You’d left her the moment she was finished, quiet, sullen, crouching beside a generator and hating the way memories refused to part with your mind.
It was quiet, and in the quiet, you heard him approach.
“Are you crying?” Danny asked, and it was almost… worried. Soft. Concerned.
You shook your head, quickly wiping away a tear from your cheek.
“Of course I’m not.”
He sounded like he might be frowning when he said, “You’re no fun like this.”
You gave a half-hearted shrug. “Sorry to disappoint.”
He’d left you there, alone on the gen, and when it was completed you’d just given up and sat in the grass, knees to your chest, forehead laid on top.
You heard the rest of the generators rumble to life, heard the doors open, heard the toll that signaled it was time to go.
You did not move.
It was Ash who found you, crouched and touching your elbow.
“Hey mama, let's get you home.”
You’d let out a broken sob. When had you started sobbing?
“This isn’t home,” you wept, voice muffled against your knees.
“I know it’s not, baby girl. I know.”
He’d lifted you, his mechanical hand firm on your back, and you’d clung to his shirt and continued to weep against his chest.
Danny was nowhere to be seen as you were carried out the door.
The dress stayed, and so did your melancholy. A full month of nothing but a heavy heart and little words, no one at camp bothering you at the insistence that you were fine .
Only Ashley seemed to understand that you needed nothing but space and comfort. That it was the dress, and whatever memories it held, that caused your mournful disposition. He had a large blanket that he draped over your shoulders whenever a Trial ended, waiting patiently while you ripped the offensive material from your body and cast it to the flames. He sat by you at the fire, arm around your shoulder, letting you lean against him. He kept up a casual conversation with the others, never trying to draw you in, letting you stay there pressed against him until you were too tired to continue, too tired to do anything but crawl into your tent and close your eyes.
He was a good friend. He was a good man. Whenever you were able to shake yourself from this funk, this despair, you owed him one. Some kindness you didn’t even know how to return.
It took a month to finally be in the same Trail as The Trapper, and in a way, his reaction to the dress had been much the same as Danny’s. Not with so many words, but you hadn’t missed the way he’d stopped when he sighted you. Hadn’t missed the way that, even though you could not see them, his eyes had seemed to rake over your body. Hadn’t missed the way his hand had squeezed tightly over your bare thigh as he hoisted you over his shoulder.
But you felt nothing from it. Whatever switch had been flicked on in the last months had been firmly snuffed, and the light behind your eyes was all but gone.
You felt empty.
Two hooks, healed but sore and tired and ready to give up. Slow to fix the gens, stiff in your movements.
Leon had been taken by The Entity first. Then Thalita, then Lara.
Alone. Alone to find a hatch, or die trying.
f*ck it.
You’d sat along the wall, just under the opening of one of the great gates, waiting, and eventually, Evan had found you.
“What are you doing, foolish fox?”
You’d shrugged. A silence had stretched between you, and finally, you’d muttered, “Just kill me.”
Evan shifted on his feet, his cleaver held loose in his hand. After a moment of hesitation, he’d walked to where you sat.
You waited for the blow and didn’t flinch as he loomed before you. But Evan only sighed, then took a seat right next to you, quiet and waiting. Tears pooled in your eyes.
“I hate this f*cking dress,” you whispered.
“How come, little fox?”
You frowned, looking down at the skirt that splayed over your knees.
“It’s my wedding dress,” you finally said.
More silence stretched between you.
“I had a normal one,” you continued, fingers fiddling with the hem. “My mom… she wanted me to wear hers. I thought it was ugly. Sequence and lace and… ugh. But I was going to wear it. For her, you know?”
You rolled your eyes. “This is what I wore to the church. I was going to change into the big ugly wedding dress my mother wanted me to wear. And then… And then my fiance saw me.”
You remembered how you’d scolded him when he’d slipped into the little side room you were getting ready in, still in your sundress and sandals. “You’re not supposed to see the bride! Get out of here!” But he’d laughed and shaken his head and pulled you close…
“He said I should just wear this. That I hated the other dress, so I should just wear this…”
“You’ve never looked better,” your soon-to-be husband had assured, kissing you soundly.
Evan looked down at you. “Shouldn’t that be a happy memory?”
You nodded slightly. “Should be,” you agreed. You cast him a sidelong gaze. “You don’t have to listen to me, you know. You can just kill me.”
“Know I don’t,” he replied, and you thought that, in the bass and brass of his voice, there was a slight, almost mellow twang.
You inhaled a shuddering breath. “I gave up a lot to be with him. I didn’t take a scholarship, stayed in my small little hometown, and never did anything but try and make him happy. And he was… he was never really happy…”
You bit your lip. “I know I’m pretty, you know. And… and that I’m loud, and maybe even a little too… friendly, I guess.”
Even gave a soft snort but didn’t comment.
“But… But I was always that way. And I never hurt him, never stepped out on him or anything.” You scratched over your left ring finger, where a slim ring had once sat but blessedly never appeared here in the Trials. “He didn’t ever hit me, but he pushed me around, a little. Said a lot of terrible things. And he f*cked anything that walked.”
You made a face down at your toes, eyes sweeping over the floral pattern of your dress.
“I wasted my whole life with him. My whole f*cking life. And then the minute I decided I’d had enough, that I was going to leave him and get a divorce and start over…” You gave a rueful shake of your head, a hollow laugh, “I ended up here.”
You realized a tear had escaped the corner of your eye, and you quickly brushed it away.
“I know it’s stupid,” you whispered. “People have been through worse. I just… I just wanted to live, though. I was finally going to be free from him, and I just wanted to live.”
Evan looked down at you, and not for the first time you wished you could see his expression.
But he hesitated, then slipped his hand over your own, his large, soot-covered palm swallowing your much smaller one, and you thought that, maybe, his look behind the mask was filled with a bit of understanding, a bit of empathy.
“S’not stupid,” he assured. “I know what it’s like, to have that feeling.”
You waited for him to elaborate, and when he did not you turned your hand so that you were palm to palm, your fingers interlocking as best they could with his.
“You should hook me,” you whispered.
Evan sighed, standing heavily, and you’d only bent your knees before he leaned down and pulled you up- not over his shoulder, but lifted and pressed firmly against his chest, his forearm pushed against your upper thighs.
“I’ll take you to the hatch.”
You clung to him, face pressed into his neck. “You shouldn’t,” you mumbled, fingers pressing into his skin. “What if you get into trouble?”
Evan gave a soft chuckle that echoed behind his mask. “I’m already in trouble,” he insisted.
You frowned, and when he set you down beside the open and yawning mouth of the hatch, you looked up at him with unmasked worry. You didn’t want him to get into trouble, you didn't want to be the reason for any pain.
He must have understood the look, and he shook his head.
“I’ll be alright,” he insisted. “Just got a fox in the trap.”
For the very first time since you’d been thrust into this hellscape, you blushed.
“Sounds like a problem,” you mumbled, looking down at the ground, black fog curling around your ankles.
“Probably is,” he agreed, and you felt two thick fingers lay under your chin, directing your gaze upward.
“I always liked em’, though. Clever, pretty things.”
You blushed even more, now.
“Keep your chin up, pretty fox,” he told you gently, dropping his hand and gesturing with it to the hatch. “Stay outta the traps.”
You gave a slight nod. You weren’t sure if he meant his traps, or the trap of your mind, or of the traps that The Entity set- placed only to torment you. Maybe he meant all three.
You hesitated, swaying uncertainly toward the hatch. Probably, you’d lost your mind. Probably, this was a huge mistake.
But you took his hand in both of your own, and before you could overthink your decision you lifted it and laid a light kiss on his large, middle knuckle.
You didn’t have anything to say, though a thank you might have been broadcast in your last glance. Then you were through the hatch.
After your talk with Evan, the dress stopped appearing on your body. Maybe it was because you’d born your pain, your words some sort of nourishment for The Entity. Maybe it was because, after telling your story, it was harder to continue to let something so simple as a dress torment your mind. Maybe The Entity had just grown tired of seeing it on you.
Whatever it was, you were glad that it was gone, back in your normal clothes and feeling more like yourself with every day that passed.
Ash and Steve had been obviously relieved, as had the rest of your campmates, silently happy to see you gradually return to your old self.
The only person who had anything to say about it out loud, though, was Danny.
“Oh thank f*ck,” he’d barked, seeing you and skidding to change course down the halls of Raccoon City’s Police Station, abandoning his chase of David the moment he caught sight of you.
“Back in your thrift store rags! Does that mean you’re done sulking?”
You’d thrown him a waspish glare over your shoulder, already looping him around a palette.
“This is vintage, you little sh*t.”
“That’s what I said!” Danny replied with a laugh.
When he’d caught you, bleeding profusely from your wounds, you thought he gave you an unnecessary squeeze against his shoulder.
“I missed your mouth,” he said, and though you knew what he meant he’d still said it in an incredibly lecherous tone. You frowned at your view of his shoulders and hit him on his back.
“Don’t say it like that you f*cking pervert!”
Evan had been happy too, though it was much less obvious.
“Fox in the trap,” he rumbled, hoisting you onto his shoulders and giving your jean-covered leg a pat with his hand.
You squirmed, and much too soon, you were able to slip from his grasp.
Instead of running, you’d looked up at him with a questioning gaze.
Evan sighed. “Go on, foolish fox. Run.”
You’d given him a little half-grin before turning on a heel and sprinting across the landscape, and you’d thrown him a smile when, as you were working on a generator, he’d lumbered past you and instead gone after Bill.
Not to say he hadn’t given chase, nor that he hadn’t hooked you. But he’d hesitated before doing so, and that had never happened before. He’d never ignored you on a gen, as though he hadn’t seen you. Had never allowed you to just slip out of his grip so easily, either. You even thought that he’d slowed in his pursuit of you, letting you get just ahead enough to breeze through the open door that Bill was waiting for you in front of.
You again toyed with the idea that you were losing your mind. That you were perhaps slowly sinking into insanity. You’d crawled into your tent early that night, and you could still hear the voices of your fellow survivors, quietly talking around the fire, as you triple-checked that the flaps were closed. Then you’d shoved your hand down your panties, already soaked through, and buried your face into the crook of your arm as you came once, twice, three times. All with one hulking figure, one deep voice, one imagined touch, replaying in your mind.
You lay on your back with sweat on your brow, your bottom lip between your teeth, and mild worry in your heart.
What the f*ck were you doing?
