[Q] An Elegy, Reprised

[Rebecca Chambers]

Your name is Rebecca Chambers, and sometimes—sometimes, you wish you hadn't lived.

Staring into the cracked mirror at your own reflection, a solemn gaze is returned by weary green eyes, bruised from lack of sleep. A tinge of regret sweeps through you, sharp and cold like a needle's jab—a regret that oscillates in intensity with every breath you take.

Your conscience whispers, echoing through the emptiness of the surrounding space. The sound permeates through the dimmed bathroom, bouncing off worn-out tiles and an old, rusty sink.

Out of the corner of your eye—you can't bear to look at it directly—is your private room, lit only dimly by a crack beneath your doorway, a thin slat of golden light piercing the gloom to illuminate your disordered university lodgings. Dark and dusty from its location underground, judgemental and glaring with its tiny cot and crumpled, scattered sheets.

With trembling hands, you clutch at the cold porcelain rim of the sink, your knuckles whitening under the strain. Your gaze never leaves the mirror, even as your heart pounds with a heavy, leaden rhythm in your chest. It's in these moments, when the labored breaths mingle with the distant echoes of your lost comrades—camaraderie extinguished by the cruel cyclone of fate, of betrayal—that you ponder on a sinister thought. One that lurks, as always, in the shadowy corners of your mind: Wouldn't it have been easier not to survive...?

Survive.

That word bears unto you.

It's a weight unmatched, an anchor chained to your existence. Sinking and sinking and sinking, settling low in your belly—queasy, heavy and churning like a fishing boat cast adrift on the ocean of your stupid, brainsick feelings.

Ostensibly, your survival wasn't a mere stroke of luck. It was a calculated result, a reciprocal of your tenacity and sheer willpower.

But you know better.

Trapped within the confines of a fatal, painstakingly manufactured iteration of survival of the fittest, you had clawed your way out, all while leaving your fellow officers who weren't as fortunate behind. Not because you wanted to, but because that's just how the chips fell.

You wish it had been you.

It very well could have been you, and should have. You wish they could be here with you. All of them, and not just those who made it out alive. You hadn't been with them for long, and yet their loss stings worse than anything you could ever have imagined—worse than failure, worse than rejection, worse than others misinterpreting your words and actions.

You swallow hard, a bitter taste coating your tongue as the overwhelming scent of antiseptic washes over you. It's a scent that's become a routine in your life, a poignant reminder of the countless lives lost to a monstrosity that should've never seen the light of the day.

A reminder of the train. Of the training facility. Of the mansion. Of Raccoon City.

Underneath the harsh fluorescent lights, you see it all—the scars, the bags under your eyes, the thin line of your lips pressed together. Sometimes, in the silence of the night, you fantasize about a parallel universe where you hadn't survived, where you weren't burdened by the crushing weight of guilt and regret. But then the day breaks, and sunlight pierces through your fantasy, illuminating the harsh reality of your new existence.

You're alive. You're alive, and you can never go back. You can't go back and do it all over again; you can't go back and save everyone.

But you can remember. You'll always remember.

You release a sigh, tearing your gaze away from your pale, bleary-eyed reflection. You look at your tousled bed and think, I really need to sleep more. But something about this place... this new world... it has a way of resurrecting old wounds you haven't had to endure for years, not since your transportation to the Crossroads.

"I shouldn't have forgotten in the first place," you accuse the mirror, accuse yourself. Yet, as you breathe through the stinging lament washing over you, you're reminded that your survival isn't all that you are—there's something else.

Trading the confinement of your room for the lab, a place where you find solace in the rhythm of... what passes for academia on this untamed world, you are met with an incessant reminder of what you have become.

Down the corridors of the University of Abraxas, your footfalls echo, each step resonating with a resolve that has been hopelessly weathered by time, grief, and biological warfare. The bittersweet taste of persistence is a familiar one on your tongue, a concoction of triumph and loss that you’ve ingested over years of battling the horrific nightmares of your past.

Your reflection in the dull metallic surface of the tunnel wall marks your solitary journey.

On this alien planet of Kraw, you're not the esteemed professor you once were back on Erde Nona, or even back on your iteration of Earth. A sense of belonging, a sense of home, are luxuries that you can't afford here. As the eternal jungle engulfs the horizon, the native flora and fauna, relentlessly hostile, serve as a constant reminder of the endless struggle for understanding, for meaning that your life has become.

But within the sterile confines of the labs, amid beakers and flasks, you find a semblance of peace. Here, you wrestle not with horrific creatures, but with complex pathogens—poisonous plant toxins, reptilian venom, strange flesh-eating diseases contracted from ancient ruins—fighting not with bullets, but with vaccines and medicines. The satisfaction of developing an antidote to some unknown ailment, of knowingly making a difference, grants you a fleeting respite from the gnawing void of despair.

Past midnight, when the lab lights cast long, distorted shadows upon the walls, your thoughts drift towards the soul-sucking vacuum of nothing that has engulfed your memories. Remnants of your past life—a telephone call, a familiar voice, a consoling word—are illusions lost in the swirling vortex of a disconnected reality. You yearn for Chris' assertive candor, Jill's warm empathy, for any scrap of the world you were carelessly plucked from.

Gone. The word rings hollow, ruthless, its emptiness echoing in your heart. They are elsewhere, drifting in a different universe, situated in an inaccessible dimension.

And you, Rebecca Chambers, you are stuck here, trapped in a universe that is not your own.

Yet, as long as your heart beats, as long as your lungs still draw breath, you will continue, you will fight—because you have to.

It's not just about survival anymore. It never was—it's about triumphing over the raw deal that life has handed you, about how damn lucky you are to be alive.

It's about ensuring that even in this alien world, Rebecca Chambers blazes a trail of hope.

In the quiet depths of the night, your thoughts often spiral into that same old abyss of fear and despair, but as morning breaks, you gather the scattered pieces of your resolve. Every day in this otherworldly jungle is another shot at comprehension, another testament to your indomitable spirit. Alone and far from home, the echo of heartaches past fuels your resolve, driving you forwards—always forwards.

Your past might be disconnected, your future uncertain, but when it really matters, when you're not alone and others are counting on you to step up, your training kicks in and you are one hundred percent in the here and now.

Step by painstaking step, you'll carve out your existence in this alien world because giving up, giving in, isn't in your nature.

“Like No One Ever Was”
1,250 words out of 2,500 words.

 

[Rebecca Chambers]

The sound of the heavy wooden gates of New Abraxas creaking open interrupts your morning routine of get up, visit the caf, then squirrel yourself away in one of the university's meager labs. You consider the bitter coffee you've picked up from the cafeteria, a poor substitute for the indulgent lattes of Arcadia's university campus you've left behind. Its lukewarm touch against your lips is a harsh reminder that you're a stranger in a strange land, but it's also a comfort—it's familiar, like an old friend. And you could certainly use an old friend.

And then, the commotion starts.

A haphazard group of men and women enters the settlement, spilling in through the gates all in a jumble, their ragged appearance telltale of weeks spent battling the elements, confronting the daily trials of survival. Hunters, from the look of their leathery and mud-coated attire. Sanctioned hunters, that is, judging by the emblem of New Abraxas on their weaponry.

But that isn't what grabs your attention and holds it.

No, what grabs your attention is the man at the center of the chaos. He's a haunting sight; his bearded face is sweaty, his tanned skin pallid, his consciousness waning and waxing like a flickering candle in the wind with every flutter of his eyelids. His friends—because they couldn't be anything but very dear friends if they have dragged him all the way here from whatever godforsaken part of the jungle they've crawled in from—call out in distressed voices that are sharp from panic and helplessness, their words painting a grim picture of what's happened.

Snakebite.

The word rings through the air, driving a cold spike through your heart as an unwelcome memory resurfaces. No, not just a memory—a nightmare.

Richard Aiken. Your mind reels at the ghost of a fellow officer lost to a similar affliction.

You remember a younger you, a version of you that was perhaps too young to endure what you were unceremoniously thrust into. You remember being desperate and run ragged from lack of sleep, dragging Richard away from the room where you were both attacked by a creature—a B.O.W. nurtured by Umbrella, manifesting in the form of a truly colossal snake. You remember the despair, the weakness, the dread—the gnawing weight of a serum you possessed yet didn't work in time.

It's a memory etched deep into your psyche. A brutal testament to how even the bravest, the most determined and well-meaning, can succumb to the merciless, icy jaws of death. A testament to how truly lucky you were, to have someone on your side willing to die for you.

But this isn't then. This is now.

You shake off the recollections, the painful specters of a past, a world long gone. This is your chance, your heart tells you—a chance to scour the wound that memory has left behind, a chance to succeed where previously you failed.

Veering from your path towards the comfortable, stony-hearted call of your lab work, you step forward; your boots finding purchase against the marsh-and-rock lawn of New Abraxas' campus, the metal tin of your shitwater coffee discarded carelessly. Every ticking second matters now, just as it did back then.

He's a stranger to you, this dying man, but the fear in his friend's eyes is all too familiar. You've seen it—lived it.

You act.

Without a word, you're jogging towards the pack of hunters. They've managed to attract the stares and wandering feet of several others, milling about uselessly, concerned but unsure of how to help. You jostle them aside, and in a few steps, you're at his side.

You can see the swell of the venomous bite on his arm without even having to ask where he's been bit, purplish-red and angry against the flush of his heated, sun-cracked skin. It's a sight as vile as it is familiar to you; you've studied this, you think, having extracted venom from a juvenile specimen in Scamander's menagerie.

With swift, shaking fingers, you roll up the man's sleeve, exposing the feverish, swollen flesh marked by two puncture wounds.

The sight of it is a sharp stab—a ghoulish déjà vu—but you steel yourself, steadying your grip on his sleeve.

This isn't about you. It's about him.

Your hands move with a learned grace, pressing against his clammy forehead, feeling the fever burning all throughout his veins. His body, in its desperate, tooth-and-nail fight against the venom, is running hot. Too hot, your mind whispers. His friends tell you he was bit a few hours ago, in the wee, dark hours of the morning—the very same time when you were wide awake and trembling over your tiny room's washbasin, feeling monumentally sorry for yourself.

How thankless you were, to not be in this suffering man's shoes.

His pulse is a wild flutter beneath your fingers, frail and fading fast, a stark contrast to the surface of his overheated, scalding skin. You carefully lower his arm, pressing it close to his side so it remains still and beneath his heart, hoping to slow the venom's progression through his body. But there's little you can do here, out in the open.

"Okay, don't panic," you instruct, standing tall, dusting off the knees of your cargo pants, mentally scolding yourself for not keeping your med-kit hanging from your belt today; a lapse in purpose you will not soon forgive yourself for. Your ordinarily perky and soft voice is firm despite the turmoil brewing within you, adopting the cool, crisp tones of the professor you once were, not so long ago. "You did good bringing him here—just help me get him to the lab."

The hunters, desperate and afraid, comply without question.

As you disappear behind the sterile walls of the lab, the horror of an old failure hanging over your head, you vow to do everything within your power to save this man. You cannot change what happened to Richard Aiken, not now. But this man, this stranger—he will not meet the same fate as the man who fought so hard to ensure you survived a living nightmare. Not if you have anything to say about it.

Over the course of two weeks, you help the man. Heal him.

Medicine, it seems, has not abandoned you as restful sleep has.

With each passing day filled with the steady routine of nursing the injured man back to health, something begins to shift within you. The constant application of fluids, the continual administration of medication, of cold compresses, and the subtle effort to provide comfort to him in his pain, stirs a... transformation, a change within the fabric of your existence at New Abraxas.

Once a phantom figure flickering on the periphery, a literal wallflower scuttling between the caf and your lab, now you find yourself directly under the settlement's spotlight. The isolation that lurked around the corners of the lab walls steadily diminishes, replaced with visitors seeking your expertise.

You were never cut from the same cloth as any of these hunters, but now, it seems, you've been accepted into the fold.

The University of Abraxas is not a desolate rat maze you're hopelessly running through anymore, but a community of faces looking to you for help. They come to you with questions, with curious eyes and eager minds, seeking to unravel the mysteries of Kraw's flora, the lethal venoms of its fauna, and the peculiar diseases that the jungle (haphazardly, relentlessly, endlessly) churns out. The difficulties of life on this dense, wild world are strenuous, almost overwhelming, making the horrors of your old universe seem like a mere stroll in the park.

And the man you saved, the pivotal wheel of this... this change inside you... he begins to provide you with samples of the local plants, his gratitude tangible in each carefully collected specimen. His companions welcome you into their circle, their natural, cold-eyed wariness replaced with respect and easy warmth. They invite you to share their meals, to join them in expeditions outside Abraxas' lofty wooden walls—an offer that you always refuse, seeing as you haven't earned the much-coveted Hunting License.

When they take you to the gun range, hyping you up about some training course the University offers, a spark of familiarity ignites within you.

The feeling of gripping the cold metal, the sharp recoil against your hand, the stinging scent of gunpowder—it all brings you back to your roots.

Just like that, the echoes of your previous life resurface, the fragments of yourself that held the dire weight of your S.T.A.R.S training, your relentless pursuit for ethics, for justice within the Bioterrorism Security Assessment Alliance.

It's as if you're dusting off a version of yourself, one that was buried beneath layers upon layers of uncertainty and regret.

Suddenly, you feel like the old Rebecca, left behind in a forgotten universe. It's almost funny, now—Rebecca Chambers, reincarnated in an alien land. But... the lonely corners of the lab and the dingy cafeteria are no longer your entire world. Instead, you exist in the heart of the settlement, making a difference with every life saved and every question answered.

You've managed to find an anchor in this strange, lawless world—an anchor that allows you to rediscover who you truly are and embrace it with open arms. You've found a way to be you again.

But every time the sun sets and darkness envelops the quiet of your room, a familiar terror takes hold. Images of rotting corpses come to life, canine teeth gnashing and a scaly, coiling underbelly scraping across the ground. The piercing gaze of cold eyes breaks through the shadows, accompanied by the unmistakable crack of a gun, the punch of a bullet against your bulletproof vest—the echoes of your past, come alive in the theater of your dreams.

The memory of the gun's cold barrel, the betrayal in those eyes, they keep you tossing and turning in the clutches of the night, in the huddled warmth of your scratchy, uncomfortable cot.

Turbulent nights give way to bleary-eyed dawns. The persistent remnants of your old life gnaw at the edges of your newfound peace, of your mind. They ceaselessly wail in the depths of your heart, reminding you of the realities you've traversed, of all that you have endured.

In the midst of your constant, sleepless turmoil, a nagging thought creeps into your consciousness. Can grief be cured, like a disease?

The question itself feels wrong, as if reducing the depths of your sorrow to a mere ailment is a betrayal. Grief, you feel very strongly, is not something to be fixed or healed. It's like... a constant tide that ebbs and flows with the rhythm of time. It may retreat from shore, and the waves may lessen, but it never truly disappears, always lurking in the background, like a lingering scent or sound you can't quite place.

As much as you want to escape its grasp... you're so very afraid to let it go.

Despite it all, fleeting glimpses of solace arise, breaking through your dark and dreary thoughts. Your new life in New Abraxas, the embrace of hard-won friendships, the budding feeling of acceptance in a world you once perceived as entirely harsh and unfriendly.

Maybe these are the antidote to the venom that has long beset your spirit. The bonds you've fostered, the lives you've touched... they coagulate and harden like an armor around your wounded heart, easing the relentless sting of your past life, your dearly missed friends.

Your path may be strewn with the debris of past horrors, yet now, there's an... obstinacy, a hardheadedness, a will to move forward and remain compassionate despite everything life has thrown at you.

You sit on the edge of your cot late into the night, flipping through a tattered notebook filled with formulas and sketches. You can't escape the memories that haunt your dreams, but you refuse to let them consume you. With each new cure you concoct, your spirit burns brighter. The darkness may loom around every corner, but you're steadily pushing back against it—fighting, always fighting.

Despite the shadows, despite the looming uncertainty of why you're here, the candle of hope within you burns resiliently, steady and strong.

You won't forget the past, no. You could never forget. But now, the pain has transformed into kindling—a flame that propels you dead ahead, towards what you dearly hope will be a brighter, happier future.

“Like No One Ever Was”
2,065 words for individual post.
3,315 words out of 2,500 words.

I took a bit of an unconventional approach to this quest, haha. If it doesn't meet the requirements that's fine, technically the actual training course from the original prompt is the gun range, but I thought proving herself as a medic would be more relevant.