Behind Blue Eyes, Chapter 2

The problem with being a rat in a cage, was that a rat in a cage never knew how long he was in the cage. If Steve had to guess, he would have said somewhere around the ten year mark. Time and space was an ambiguous feeling, but he could feel his body aging.

When Steve woke up, his entire body ached, whether it was from the repeated stress of laboratory work, the constant beatings, or being isolated in a room for days on end, or his growing age, was a different story. He creaked when he adjusted his position, and yawned despite the pain.

Once upon a time, when he was fresh out of the laboratory and into prison cells, and his brain was his own again, he tried to keep track of the days. Once by keeping a tally on his wall, and then by the length of his hair. Unknown to him, Umbrella-or whoever had him-drugged him through the air vents on a regular basis, chopped off his hair, cleaned him and moved him into different prison cells. Only recently did they begin to keep him awake for the transfers. Keeping track of days? Fruitless.

He could spend an eternity behind four walls, and never realize it, aside from his occasional slip in sanity. Isolation was no easy feat, and Steve didn't have a lot of people to talk to—actually, he had none—but sometimes he could hear the guards bringing him food, and that provided the sense of being spoken to. The situation was far different than the time he spent on Rockfort Island, where he occasionally sneaked out of his cell to play cards with the guards on staff that night. Here, he was lucky if he could talk to himself. He used his voice to rarely, sometimes he thought himself a mute.

Sitting up, Steve's body cracked, his head felt light, his eyes burned from the intense lighting of the room, and he exhaled. His stomach was an empty void and gurgled, but food was still a few hours away.

Steve couldn't control a lot in his life right now, but he could control his sleep schedule. He woke up every morning, three hours before the first meal was brought. He passed out sometime after the first meal, woke up just in time for the second meal—then passed out again. Quite the life he was living.

Scratching his bearded chin, Steve kicked off his single sheet coverage, and slipped off the side of the bed, standing in preparation of his routine.

Over the years, he discovered that the easiest way to stay sane against the horrible terms, was to exercise, meditate, and practice normal breathing.

To keep his mental health steady; he repeated his mantra: I am Steve Burnside. Born and raised in Alberta. Mom owned a flower shop, and dad was a part-time car salesman. I was getting ready for graduation, deciding on schools or the military. I played soccer and wanted to be a pilot. My favourite colour is green. Life was good until I was seventeen. I was a normal person. I lived a normal life. Unfortunate circumstances led me here. But they will not break me.

As he finished, he exhaled calmly. Blue eyes stared up at the small, wall-embedded camera across from him, and he inhaled again stubbornly. After all, they could keep him in a cage, tell him he was worthless, poke and prod him until every muscle was sore, every bone in his body ached—but they could never break him. Not really. Someday, when he is disposed of like the rest of the prisoners were over the years, he would die sound of mind, not a brainless, axe swinging monster.

Thus he started his routine. Without hesitation, Steve dropped to the floor and immediately started a vigorous set of crunches. He knew that he should start with regular stretches, but his body was so out of whack, jumping into the middle of the process was more comfortable; besides, it kept his mind from wondering.

Why was he here?

How did he make it?

He should have been dead.

Steve couldn't be sure, but he was positive the last moment that he remembered on Rockfort Island, staring up at the young Claire Redfield's tear soaked eyes while his abdomen bled out and the virus took over his system, was his last breath. His memories of what happened after that didn't come until much later.

How much later, he wasn't sure. Even then, it was bits and pieces of the events. The whirling sound of a helicopter; the enclosed, plastic space of a black body bag. Cold steel on his back while hands dug inside of his chest cavity. Honestly, Steve wasn't even sure how he could remember all of that—he certainly wasn't conscious.

Which brought him to another dilemma. Was he alive, or was he a monster, like those creatures on Rockfort Island?

Steve hesitated in his motions to looked down at his bare chest, and thin-white pants. Skin wasn't falling off, and the usual, red scar below his rib cage existed in all of its glory. Nothing to worry abou-

When a shot of pain ran through his body, Steve fell backwards with a thump.

-except for the occasional jot of pain!

Resting his hand over the top of his chest, he felt the erratic rhythm of his heart and sighed as the pain passed, and his heart retained a normal pace. Relieved, he turned over and started his push-ups.

He didn't know a lot, about why his hairs would stand up, or pain would occasionally run mayhem through his body, but he knew if his heart was still beating, he was alive in some sense. In the most important way. After all, he could recall most of the events of his childhood, which he dreamed of fondly, and nearly all of the events leading up to.. this place. This cell.

Just nothing in between. Sometimes he would have nightmares of attacking people, of fighting away scientists. He would have vague flashbacks of soaking in a tube—but it made no sense to revive him. Then again, he had no idea what was planned for him. Loaded with so many drugs, he didn't know if he was coming or going; the only timeline he had was his body.

A new cut here or there-his arms littered with needle pokes like a heroin addict, and the constant, thumping headache clawing at his brain. They drugged him before every feeding. They drugged him for every test. When they entered his room, he couldn't say for sure that it wasn't all in his head.

Foggy memories weren't the most reliable, but at least for the last few years, he was awake. He was allowed to breath, and meditate, and exercise without complaint.

Sitting up once again, huffing; Steve swiped at his growing hair.

Lonely. He was isolated from the rest of the world, and he was supposed to be. No one to talk to, only listen. Whether they knew about his advanced hearing or not. Sometimes he could hear the sound of guards talking outside of the single, metal door into his room. Sometimes, he listened to the rest of the inmates groan and cry. It's how he knew he wasn't completely alone, shipped off to die somewhere. The same reason he could hear when the air vents kicked on, and drugs started to poor into his cage, making him drowsy once again.

A long time ago, they gave him pills to sedate the monster inside. Laced it into his food every meal. Until Steve used the fork and knife they left on the floor one evening, after pretending to eat, to try and stab the guard who came to retrieve the meal.

It was safer this way, to push the venom in through the air ducts. After all, he had to breath—which was only another reminder that he was alive.

Bright sides, am I right? He thought bitterly to himself.

Eyelids heavy, Steve wobbled back and forth, trying to fight the sensation. He tried to hold his breath, cover his nose and mouth, but nothing helped. His back hit the ground, followed by the crack of his head against the metal floor and everything was dark again.

XOX

Waking up from this was never pleasant. His head throbbed, his mouth was dry, and his eyes never seemed to focus. Turning around and around, but his body wasn't truly moving, he eventually managed to get a single hand up, and dropped it down on his face. The world was spinning. How much time had he lost this time? Hard to tell.

The smell of food, or what they considered food filled his nostrils, and his stomach churned from want and disgust.

He ate once, maybe twice a day. Enough to prevent his death, but not enough to give him the energy he would need to concoct a full escape plan. Steve had no idea if the people above him knew how well he was mentally, but if they were handling him with children gloves, they must have had a clue.

Steve turned, rolling onto his stomach to look at the single, metal bowl, metal tray, and metal cup. Because of his mishap with the fork and knife, he wasn't allowed utensils, which meant he only received soups. The smell was nauseating.

Steve peered into the bowl, exhaled, and put his head back on the ground beside it, preparing his pallet for the disgusting liquid.

This was a apart of his life now. Sedate him to keep him quiet, to prevent him from acting out, to contain his measurable rage, and then place a bowl of slop down on the ground beside him. It wasn't that he settled, or accepted his fate; it was simply far easier to comply, and wait for an opening, than it was to wait for death.

Steve had an idea, that if he could behave well enough—they might throw him into one of those crates as a useful B.O.W. Let him get out into the field. They might try mind control, but Steve was positive that he, of all people, could break away from that.

To spend years locked away in a forgotten part of the world, isolated from everyone else in existence, he had to have some level of mental capacity he never thought he had before... or maybe it was the deep rooted fear encouraged by that malicious voice in the back of his mind, laughing, taunting him to make a mistake. That voice was the disease. The monster within.

Maybe...what the scientists that worked on him didn't know, was that Steve was never alone. Not really. Steve would have preferred to be, but a voice inside plagued him, constantly told him to give him, to become a monster. The more Steve fought it, the better he felt... but if he slipped, just a little.

Steve's stomach growled, and he lifted his head, and reached for the slop and held it to his lips. It smelled like a pair of sneakers after a long day, but he placed the edge to his lips, and swallowed down the poor-excuse-for-nourishment while holding his breath.

Coughing, he dropped the bowl back onto the tray, then downed what was left of his water. Everything was bad. Tasted horrible. One might believe that he would become accustomed to the taste, but he never did. As soon as that shit reached his stomach, he wanted to throw up. Instead, he crawled into his bed without a pillow, wrapped himself up in the sheet, and shivered until the disgust subsided.

Finally, he extended his arms, and stretched. The last bit of his routine was keep control of himself after eating. He was plagued by a salivating mouth, starvation. The need to have more. As he stretched, blood and adrenaline pumped through his body once more, and starvation and drive was replaced by clarity, and the tiniest bit of relief.

Exhaling loudly, Steve opened his eyes to stare up at the ceiling with resentment, then wiped away beads of sweat from his head. Immediately following breakfast, was the shooting pain through his abdomen. Typically, Steve didn't feel too much pain. His pain was far from chronic, but it was the flare-ups that affected him most of all. Any time his disease came knocking at the door, he felt the familiar, tingling sensation of his body wanting to sink into the depths of his darkest hell, and give into insanity.

Give in, why fight anymore? The voice echoed—probably some part of his subconscious, but he tried not to give it too much thought. Felt often like he was talking to himself. Going crazy.

But, so long as the suppressants and drugs were running through his body, he doubted that even if he 'gave in', or stopped trying, not a lot would change. Besides, he made it this far, why would he stop now?

Maybe he was so scared of his disease and the internal torture it brought him, that he wouldn't risk losing himself. Wouldn't chance becoming that monstrous version of the incredible hulk.

He stood up, and started to pace. Reciting the alphabet, basically math equations, the command center of a plane, and touched his face. He felt the growing beard, the wrinkles and bags beneath his eyes; but he still felt like himself. He checked his arms, and chest, and legs after.

He would pace until his mind stopped wondering, until he relaxed and could rest again for another eleven to sixteen hours. After all, he could only lay awake in this hell-hole for so long, before he tried to sleep off the rest of the nightmares, and find solace in somewhere else. Eventually, the world spun on a different axis, and he put his head against the pillow and exhaled a heavy breath as his worst nightmares and personal hell disappeared into a cloud of euphoria and sleep tugged at him.

XOX

He dreamed of home, most of all. A small town outside of Edmonton. He dreamed of his friends, of his first date; he thought of his family, and parties. He remembered a lot of his past... especially his mother. Her bright, red hair, brimming, wide smile, and her hugs. Sometimes, if he waited long enough, he could still feel her arms around him, hugging him close...

But then he also remembered her death. When the Umbrella soldiers came in through the windows—broke down the doors. When they dragged Steve and his father into the living room, and watched as they shot her in cold blood, spraying red everywhere on her clean couches.

He remembered the feeling of dread, confusion—disdain, hate... fear. Everything as he was beaten, broken, washed, stripped of his pride—and then collared like an animal. Then, they left him in a cell to rot. They made sure to keep he and his dad separate. Steve was placed on the west side of Rockfort island prison—the newer and more advanced section of the prison, where his dad was placed on the old side, near the training facility.

Steve remembered the pain of lying awake. He remembered the bruises until he figured a way out of the situation by playing the game better than everyone else...

...and then he remembered the explosions, and if his life could only go from shit to much worse...

Well, that was usually when Steve would wake up, more exhausted than the last time. Eyes burning, back aching, arms tired. Rinse. Repeat.

Naturally, he cracked his neck side to side, tried to wiped the bad dreams by swiping at his face, and then kicked his feet over the side of his bed to begin his routine and start his mantra—only, his foot brushed against a hard metal object, and sent it flying across the room.

Steve groaned, and grabbed his foot, wincing his pain when he looked down.

The same bowl, cup, and tray from the previous day laid at his bedside, exactly where he left it.

Blinking, Steve hunched over, thinking that he may have slept very little, or not enough. But then, he walked the distance to fetch the metal bowl, and smelled the foul liquid already going sour.

He slept plenty. In fact... Steve brushed his hand over his chin, which he was sure yesterday wasn't as long as it was now—even the lights in his cell were dimmer than usual... he brushed his hand over his hair, which had grown. Maybe no one else would recognize these tiny, insignificant changes, but when Steve measured his time stuck in a cage by the aches in his body, and the length of his hair, every change mattered.

Including the smell from the vents, and the sound of distant gas leaking into his room. Steve covered his mouth, trying to escape the fumes, but found they didn't hurt him anymore. Were they testing something new?

Actually, now that he thought back, he wasn't sure that he recalled them turning the gas off after he woke up the last time. His head still ached like he was fighting off an infection, and his muscles still felt weak and flimsy. His cheeks were gaunt and his stomach was more than a void, it was concave and in the back of his throat, he was already heaving.

He was cold, but burning up. Sweat soaked through his white clothes while he tugged at his collar, begging for air. Fresh air. The gas may not have been killing him, but it was far from comfortable. How many hours was he asleep? Did they forget him, or was it finally his time?

Fear struck his heart and he quivered, and rushed the door only for his legs to buckle half way there. Writhing on the ground, he scratched at his chest until his nails drew blood, tore the fabric. Pain. So much of it. Not unlike the first time he changed.

For the first time in years, Steve screamed. Slipped out was a blood curling, anguished cry of help. Moaning, he sat on his hands and knees in his attempt to get a grip. His vision doubled, and was blurry, and before he could account for it, he was laying on his side, looking up at his bed. The world was spinning again, only this time, it had no promise to stop.

...Please...stop... He thought, trying to contain himself, but with each breath he drew, he knew he was closer to his last.

Eventually, the pain was replaced with a numbness he could only correlate with death. The same sagging, effortless weight that lifted from his shoulders when he finally slumped and everything else faded away.

XOX

Nightmares plagued him, nothing like the pleasant dreams of his family. Nothing like moments when he would grieve for his losses. Nightmares of gnashing teeth and bony fingers. Blood painted his dreams, and he felt the escape of Rockfort island all over again. Being clipped in the shoulder, trying to bandage it. Freezing in the rain, listening to people die aimlessly. The blood... so much blood. Freezing in the arctic, the sting on his uncovered skin that chilled him to the bone. The burn of the virus leaking into his blood, injected through a tiny hole in his neck.

Robbed in finality of his freedoms. Of his life.

The pinpricks, the needles, the slicking, the cutting, the chopping... the knife.

Steve wanted to scream. Steve did scream, but not now: in his dreams. So much of his time was spent in pain, he nearly forgot what it felt like, deafening himself with his own voice. Listening to everyone else die only added to the anguish.

He hated this.

It was so dark, and repetitive, and every time he opened his eyes, there was one more monster. One more death. He wanted it to end. He was tired of fighting... he was...

What, you're not scared, are you?

Her voice, Claire's voice, rang through his ears. Followed by her warm, and welcoming smile. A candle in the void. A reminder that when Steve's life had finally hit rock bottom, there was still a way out. Still hope. Claire, though he only knew her for a mere day, was the hope that restored what little faith he had left in humanity.. restored what little faith he had in himself.

His eyes opened again, but this time, not to monsters. Not to bright walls... but to darkness, and silence. In the distance, which was usually plagued with some noise—some rambling—some indication of life, was nothing. The power was out.

It was the silence that brought him back to his feet, looking around his cell. He grabbed his body in every which way. Unable to believe that he was still alive—then looked to the door, or where the door was supposed to be at.

The fever broke, and allowed him, for the first time in years, to think clearly without distress. Slowly, he approached the metal door and pressed the flat of his hand against it.

What was going on? Steve rested his head against the cold metal, the pain was less, but not gone. He felt sick. Weak. How long? He asked himself over and over again. Was this it? Was this a test? Were they checking to see how Steve would react to the opportunity of freedom?

Surely, they wouldn't go all this way, and suspect him to sit quietly in the dark. No, Steve back peddled, and found his bed, patting at the sides until he found the familiar, metal bar that kept the frame together.

He pulled once, then twice, and when it wouldn't give, he let out a sound of frustration, and pried the object lose with what was left of his muscle. Reeling backwards, he let off a violent cough, hacking into his shoulder. His mind was foggy, perhaps because of the gas, or worse, because of the virus. Hard to say; but he was focused now.

He approached the metal door once more, this time, intent on wedging it open. One tiny piece of metal against steel doors. He liked those odds.

Steve hit the door twice, and watched the metal bar ricochet back. The noise at first was muted until he peeled back a layer of padding where the locking mechanism was, then started hammering on the piece with as much strength as he could muster. Each strike soothed him, and made his blood boil. The echo provided hope. Each nudge kept him going despite his tired arms.

He was going to get out of here. He couldn't give up. Wiping his brow, he swung again. His focus was spiralling, the pit in his stomach was massive and distracting. He was starving, and possibly blacking out—but willpower alone drove him to success. Slowly, he moved his efforts from the door, to the exposed lock, then wedged the bar between the frame and the mechanism.

He could do this! Finally, a taste of freedom!

He almost forgot the absolute fear kneading into his brain.

What was on the other side of that door? Would it be monsters, zombies, or a military unit waiting to kill him? Maybe this was all another test, another set up by the wonderful company keeping him... Yet, when the latch finally broke, and the door creaked open slightly... all of those things didn't matter.

Fear, trauma, isolation... none of it mattered, because when the door swung open, he was relieved.

Free.

He didn't care how it happened.

Author's Note:

Okay, so. I actually didn't change the meat of this chapter. I took out rambling and tried to get rid of some of the repetition in the previous version. Also, if I can be absolutely frank about my previous writing, most of chapter two didn't make any sense at all. It is also a bit more difficult taking it from first person to third person than I thought it would be initially... but I honestly think it was well worth the effort.

In the end. I kept the hopelessness and acceptance of his situation that was in the original version. I walked through how he managed to survive this long without going crazy; and I hinted at some other things I blatantly explained in the old version.

And...I took out a lot of stuff that didn't work. Most of it is there, just not repeated sixteen times.

I did keep the moment with Claire in it; but it wasn't as cheesy and cliche as it had been previously. "You're not scared, are you?" is one of the possible lines she will tell you if you go back into the room she's waiting in when you first play Steve in CVX.

To Lily and CaptH0wdy, who reviewed and appear to be previous readers of the story, I hope that this chapter was okay. Let me know what you think of the changes; and I am really amazed (And happy?) that you guys have read this story for so long. Sorry you had to wait practically ANOTHER year for another update.

PS. I am so excited for the Resident Evil 2 remake, I could cry.

Anyways, hopefully the remake of chapter 3 doesn't take as long as this one did.

NINT