After more than a year (or even two… or three? I can't remember) of not writing and uploading fan fiction, here I am, finally venturing back into that world… and it feels amazing, to say the least.

Lately, I find myself caught up in a variety of Resident Evil fics (as usual, because I always return to them whenever I need a dose of fan fiction), and the little bug of creativity bit me and placed this idea into my brain. This is just chronicling events from Jill and Wesker's fall until the final implantation of the device in her chest, majority from Jill's perspective. I know this is an overused concept and incident, and Jill's feelings and whatever may happen here is probably already familiar ground for many readers. However, for now, it's the best I can come up with and the one I got the inspiration to write about. If I come up with more original things and am able to go through with it completely, I'll post it.

Enjoy, then!

Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Jill, Wesker, or anything and anyone from the Resident Evil universe. I do, however, own this story and account!

Exoskeletal
Chapter 1: Descent

It's the blood that catches Jill's attention first.

She notes with mild awareness how the crimson mercilessly fills the limited expanse of her senses. It flits from one half-open eye to another, traveling slowly down the battered skin of her face until it meets her parted lips. There, it rests on her tongue, seeps into her palette and inner cheeks. The taste is metallic and bitter; a fact that she is accustomed to but has never been fond of.

They're not the only places stained by red—the wider she opens her eyes, the better she can feel the sticky pool that gathered directly underneath. Its growth is aided by the push and pull of the waves that she knows encircle her, easily spreading the substance across the sands and carrying the liquid into the horizon beyond.

It's the sickening blend of pain and numbness that catches Jill's attention next.

A strained, whispered groan barely makes its way through her lips once she tries to move her right leg, finding the effort useless as the limb refuses to correspond to her desires. The same occurs with the other, and when she attempts to wiggle her fingers, her features contort at the sudden, electrifying pang that shoots upwards, from the tips of her digits to the top of her head. With suppressed horror and disappointment, she realizes her body's been rendered incapable after the fall.

Bones are broken everywhere—the human skeleton is not as strong as it seems.

At the very least, her spirit remains intact.

Though by the time the third event catches her attention, in the form of a man dressed in black, she begins to wish the waves had taken her into their unpredictable grasp instead.

The water splashes with every unhurried step Wesker takes, and Jill hates how she can't move away from him as he comes closer. When he stops, all six feet and more towering over her, it isn't difficult to notice the labored way with which he breathes. Nor is it hard to see the scratches and gashes scattered over any exposed bits of flesh, with blotches of blood clinging to the areas where his clothes were torn the most. Insignificant as the injuries appear to be, the male is hurt—isn't she supposed to feel satisfied with that?

However, Wesker can move—far better than she can, at the moment—and it doesn't take the female another second to conclude that he's nowhere near death.

She wishes she'd been stronger when she dragged him down his intended doom.

As if to test her endurance, his boot prods the side of her torso, and all Jill can formulate in response is a hoarse cry she gives her best to restrain. It only causes him to press further into her ribs, his pressure increasing as her limits do the opposite; the barest curve of his lips indicates any signs of her agony become his amusement. When he finally halts his actions, she knows the ebbing pain has been refreshed; now it's a thick blanket that threatens to seize her consciousness.

"Hm." It's barely a word out of his mouth, but the voice is unmistakably him.

"You'll certainly be out of commission." Even under these circumstances, the male never ceases in maintaining his calmness, and Jill wants nothing else but to punch the stability out of his system.

Yet the throbbing that resounds inside her skull gains momentum with every second that passes. Succumbing to the sensation, she thinks, doesn't seem like an unwise choice. And so she allows her eyes to close, shallow breaths reducing in pace as she permits the waves—the water and the ache—to wash over her continuously, without any physical hindrance.

"But I have other plans for you, Valentine."

It's the last thing she hears before the darkness claims her once more.