Chapter Text
September 29th, 1998
Growling outside the Art Room should be terrifying, but she's gotten used to it. There was nothing really she could do at the moment; most of the police station was on lockdown. Doors were locked, puzzles needed to be solved, and a Tyrant was sauntering around somewhere two floors below her feet. Right now, it was snacks and soda. When Leon arrived, his voice would echo through the station, letting her know the game had begun.
"Chip?" she mockingly offered one of the undead roaming around outside in the hall. No response came. She shoved the last knock-off Dorito in her mouth and crumbled the bag before throwing it at the door as she chewed.
Picking up the soda, she checked her watch. 8:15 P.M. With a sardonic smile, she raised her can in cheers as she announced wistfully, "Game time, Fuckheads."
"Anyone here!" Leon's voice carried all the way to the second floor. Poor, innocent Leon down in the main hall did not know what fresh hell he walked into or that he was her ticket out of it. Zombies, Lickers, Cereberus, and Mr. X all lie in wait in their future. She downed her soda like a shot of Nyquil before hopping off the crate. She grabbed the scepter when the door began to rattle and thud.
She pulled her knife free and readied herself for a fight, for when the door gets busted down. The snarling halted abruptly, replaced by something worse, more inhuman. The tension in her body faded, and she looked down at the scepter in her nondominant hand. There really wasn't an easy way out of this situation. Harsher blows to the door came as claws scraped across the wood. It didn't matter that she was still and silent; the rules were broken.
"Game over, I guess," she grumbled and dropped the scepter. As the door burst open violently, she drove her knife into her neck, aiming for the cerebellum. The last thing she saw was massive claws coming for her head, but the only pain she felt was self-inflicted. That was the closest thing she would ever consider a blessing.
September 19th, 1998
Seconds later, she awoke in the backseat of her "parents" car. Her mother's hand was on her knee, nudging her. A big smile graced the woman's kind face as she announced, "Look, we're almost there." Looking at the "Welcome to Raccoon City" sign did not bring the same excitement to the resurrected blonde in the backseat.
"Cool," she mustered, not having the energy to put up a performance of excitement for these acquaintances of hers this go around.
Her "father" looked at her in the rearview mirror and informed her, "I know this isn't exactly the trip you thought we were going on for Fall Break, but we only get you back for so little time before you're back to college."
"December will be your first birthday we don't get to see you. Eighteen birthdays with your mom and dad just isn't enough, Sweetheart," her "mother" lamented, looking pained at the idea of having to miss her nineteenth birthday. It was up in the air if these two would get to see that nineteenth birthday. She wanted to promise them they'll get to see it, that they'll get her for the rest of the year, but she couldn't. There hasn't even been a time she's made it to midnight of the 30th. The birthday conversation was always crucial; it gave her an opening to ask for a vital early birthday gift.
"We could always celebrate my birthday early. We can have dinner, and I can get my hair dyed as a birthday gift," She suggested. It was a win-win every time. They get one guaranteed birthday celebration before a lifetime of trauma, and she avoids a repeat of her first death.
"Your hair dyed? I thought you were done dying your hair? You said you were going to give your hair a break," her dad questioned, surprised, "You're not trying to change yourself for some boy at college?"
"No," she responded, knowing it wouldn't get acknowledged. It was actually quite the opposite. She wanted to avoid Chief Irons. That disgusting serial killer. He got her alone after locking down the station, her first life, and the things he did before he killed her will always make her sick to her stomach. She honestly didn't know if she got a recessive gene, making her naturally dirty blonde, or if she went through bleaching and then dyed her hair to get this hair color. Either way, she could never look at herself with dark blonde hair again after Irons. She was dying her hair again; it was non-negotiable.
Her mom hushed her dad, reprimanding him, "It's her hair, David, she is allowed to express herself," she looked at the teen, "If that's what you want for your birthday, that's what we'll do."
"Now, hold on, Tilly. I have a right to be concerned. What if our baby is trying to change herself to fit some slimeball's standards? A father has to know," David protested, struggling to keep his eyes on the road. A concerned scowl graced his face in the mirror.
Tilly lightly swatted his shoulder, telling him, "Stop. Since when has she ever cared about what a boy has thought about her?" She nodded along with Tilly, looking out the front window as Raccoon City began to appear in the distance. David grunted, and she knew if she didn't intervene now, the couple would begin to bicker the rest of the way.
She decided to ask, "Can you guys tell me about your favorite activities you guys did while on your honeymoon in Raccoon City?" She knew the answer, but this topic always made the couple up front smile and genuinely excited to relive one of their favorite experiences in life. It also always killed this budding argument successfully every time. If she can give someone nostalgia and joy for a little it was almost worth it to start this loop over.
Tilly and David looked at each other with soft smiles and warm eyes, reflecting in the rearview mirror. This was what she wanted to see, even if she had to relisten to a story she knew word for word by now. Their faces, their happiness, and their love for each other were worth it every time. "Well, there's the Clock Tower," Tilly began, "It has the best view of the city." She began to tune out as she zeroed in on the encroaching city. Maybe this time, she'll survive.