Author Note: it's been aaaaaages since I've written anything. Several months, I think. I have an unfinished RE story, Inescapable, that will be finished as soon as I like the next chapter I've written for it (sorry to those who wanted prompt updates). And sorry for disappearing.

Disclaimer: I don't own Resident Evil or any of the characters.

"Feeling better?"

At the sound of that familiar deep voice, Claire lifted her head, looked into her brother's worried face and nodded slowly before she buried her face into the warmth of the woolen jersey he'd wrapped around her. She tried to ignore the strong smell of vomit and blood that swept through her at the same time as the memories did.

"Fine... yeah, fine..." she looked groggily around the cluttered apartment. "Where are we? How long was I out?"

"A couple of hours.."

"Hours?" Claire repeated. Her brow furrowed. There was something about time... what was it? It was.. it was...

"You're safe here," Chris assured her, cutting through her dazed concentration. "You hit your head really hard before. I didn't want to move you much, so... You'll be safe here for the time being. Stay and get some strength. I'll be back soon. Maybe with some food."

"Where are you going?" Claire leaned forward, threatening to get off the thread-bare green couch. She protested, "I'll come too - I am not weak..."

"Of course you're not," he said, unusually bitter. Looking him directly in the face made Claire feel dizzy, but she thought he had dirt on his forehead. He looked at her with an unreadable emotion in his eyes for a few seconds before sweeping out of her line of sight abruptly. "Get some more sleep. You need to heal as much as you can."

Claire heard the lock click loudly, and stared vacantly at the spot where her brother's face had been before. Her own head fell heavily against the couch arm, causing a sudden jolt of pain that made her feel weak and shivery again. She squeezed her eyes shut in frustration. What had happened? She couldn't think with the dizzy grey cloud her brain had become.

"He's right," she muttered to the assortment of belongings. "I need to sleep..."

She wondered idly whose apartment this was. Probably Carlos', judging by the stacks of dirty dishes. Carlos had a knack for avoiding cleaning plates. He wasn't here though... maybe he was still at work? What time was it, anyway?

Time. There it was again. That feeling that she shouldn't be lying around. That time was ticking by quickly and she needed to use every second.

The foul combination of blood and vomit proved overpowering. This and the unsettlement of her mind meant sleep was far awy from Claire. She forced herself to her feet, tottering unsteadily on the crowded ground.

"If no sleep, something to refresh me... a shower... Carlos won't mind..."

The bathroom seemed far away, even though it was only about 6 feet. The door was a mirage that teased and taunted like a fickle mistress as Claire stumbled towards it on carpet that rose and fell underneath her like waves.

"I will not fall," she muttered fiercely. "I will not... I won't..."

When she did get to the bathroom, and gratefully seized the ceramic sink, her knees were shaking with strain. She felt like she was recovering from a great bought of flu. Eagerly, she turned the taps on the bath, no longer feeling up to reaching the shower head, let alone standing under it. After an initial spurt of water, the taps were sullenly motionless.

"No water?" she asked dumbly. Her forehead rested gently against the cool white surface of the cupboards under the sink. Part of her was unsurprised.

Fingers grabbed at the edge of the sink and pulled her weight. Claire stared at the pale face in the grimy mirror. Her dark hair was nearly completely out of its ponytail, and small bits of leaves were in it, like she had been climbing trees. She had a cut diagonally over her nose, still fresh. And the source of her sickness was evident; over her left eye was a large, purple, oozing bruise.

She looked like a refugee with her battle scars and a stretched green woolen jersey wrapped around her in a style reminiscent of early Roman toga crossed with bath-towel. She could just the belt loops of a pair of black pants in the mirror.

A grudging memory finally began to bring its apprehensive carrier up to speed. A scene flashed through - a boat, sea foam flying, and then running through paved city streets, pulse booming wildly, legs shaking with exhuastion. A creature... like a Tyrant... like a... a... something. Big fist. Hard punch.

Her blue eyes narrowed at her mirror image. Six years of running and she was still right back where she'd started. With white fingers that move slowly but didn't shake, she pulled the baggy green jersey off from around her and let it drop to the floor.

Time...