Chapter Text
Jill figure she’ll kill herself eventually.
Not that she’s suicidal, mind you. Had that been the case, there were plenty of opportunities to do so in her line of work. One misstep here, a mere slight moment of hesitation there, or maybe one of those cyanide pills she keeps on her for worst case scenarios… Jill would be dead in a heartbeat. Doomed to be yet another casualty of a never ending war, a slab of rock in that military designated graveyard she’s visited far too many times, alongside all the other poor suckers who got dragged into this mess.
Chris always wanted to go out like a hero, whatever that meant. Jill’s seen plenty in her lifetime, the type that throw themselves at zombies to save a kid, the type that scream go on without me! while opening an entire magazine on a group of Lickers in a dramatic last stand type of way. Admirable, sure, and without a doubt Jill would do the same.
But hero or not, everyone looks the same six feet under.
Contrary to what Carlos may think, Jill’s not superhuman, and Wesker most certainly is. She can already feel the bruises forming on her neck, courtesy of the mere five seconds his gloved hand wrapped around her throat. She gingerly traces her finger over her windpipe, gasping for breath as she steadies herself against the bookcase.
This sucks. This really, really fucking sucks, because they were sent here to find Spencer, in an attempt to find answers about Wesker’s whereabouts. This was the plan, at least.
The plan was not to find Spencer’s fucking corpse at the feet of a supehuman genetically enhanced semi immortal weirdo, who has the uncanny ability to dodge just about every bullet Jill fires from her gun.
Chris is holding his own, but not for much longer. She has no idea where the fuck her gun is, having lost it mid choke slam against the wall, but Jill doubts it would’ve been much use anyways, considering Wesker just dodged one of her rounds by doing a literal fucking barrel roll in the air. Fuck it. Melee it is. She charges into the fray, brandishing her trusty knife, thinking back on her training, instinctively aiming for the artery that --
Jill’s breath is gone with an open-palmed push straight to her abdomen, along with her balance. She’s in the air for a solid half second before her back makes contact with the bookshelf. The force of his blow is extreme, unlike anything she’s ever felt before, leaving her an absolute wheezing mess on her hands and knees, gasping for any semblance of a breath that her body could take. Her ears are ringing, but not loudly enough to block out the familiar sound of Chris’s ragged breath, followed by a grunt as Wesker’s elbow meets his stomach.
Chris. Her partner, the one who she swore to protect no matter what it took. Jill looks up just in time to visibly shudder as Wesker slams Chris onto the grand wooden table with a singular gloved hand, dragging him by his neck like one might a doll before before throwing him towards the window with such force that Jill wouldn’t be surprised if Chris leaves a dent on the tile. He skids to a stop just as Jill finally sits up.
Chris is tall. Jill knows this because he always gives her shit about their height discrepancy during training. He gives her shit about a lot of things during training. Not that she doesn’t reciprocate, of course. The playful banter, borderline insults, is part of what keeps them close.
Or rather, part of what keeps them sane. As cliche as it sounds, this is the sort of thing where if you don’t laugh, you’ll cry.
Hard.
But in this moment, as Wesker grabs him by the front of his shirt and hoists him into the air, Chris has never looked so small.
“No!” Jill screams, scrambling to her feet, ignoring the sharp pain in her ribcage, instinctively running towards her partner.
She takes a split second to somehow plan her next move. Guns were out. Knives? No chance in hell. There’s nothing, nothing that can fix this, save her, save him…
Wesker’s drawing his hand back, and despite the shadows encasing the manor and the sunglasses obscuring his eyes, Jill sees something on his face that chills her to the core. Something excited.
“Let’s finish this,” Wesker says, and that’s more than enough for her.
Jill figures she'll kill herself eventually. Honestly, she’s surprised it hasn’t happened already, because her track record with genetically-enhanced-infected super beings isn’t the greatest. In fact, it’s awful. She thought she had come up with all the possibilities, each and every way that her missions could go wrong. She’s visualized them, too, like drowning in a horde of zombies or being dragged down into the sewers and eaten alive. Getting shot or stabbed or blowing up in an airplane. Succumbing to one virus or another (which was nearly the case, what seemed like forever ago).
What she didn’t imagine was leaping off her feet, throwing her arms around Wesker in midair, crashing through the grand window of the Spencer Estate, and plummeting to the rocky shoreline below while Chris screams her name from up above.
That’s how it happens, that’s how Jill Valentine dies.
That would have been the good ending, that is.