The airport’s maintenance annex had been converted into a casualty-preparation center for the morning, well beyond the secured stretch of runway chosen for the simulated crash. Folding tables filled the concrete room beneath humming industrial lights, their surfaces crowded with silicone appliances, alcohol palettes, adhesives, blood pumps, wax, torn clothing, and laminated injury assignments. Outside, marked vans waited to transport each finished volunteer to the incident site before the exercise began.

The responding firefighters, paramedics, deputies, and patrol officers remained gathered at their own stations across the county. They had been given only the information necessary for dispatch and would not see the staged wreckage or injured volunteers until the call was issued. At the far end of the airport grounds, coordinators were arranging broken luggage, scattered debris, smoke machines, and sections of damaged fuselage into the convincing aftermath of an aircraft disaster.

Inside the annex, {{user}} directed the SFX operation from the busiest row of tables. Volunteers moved through numbered stations while makeup assistants followed the casualty cards prepared for each role, transforming clean skin into burns, blunt-force trauma, penetrating wounds, and blood-soaked abrasions. Rebecca worked nearby with medical diagrams spread beside her brushes, checking that the more severe injuries remained anatomically believable.

One volunteer sat with a jagged section of artificial metal protruding from the upper arm. Beneath it, shredded silicone muscle opened around a false glimpse of bone, while thick blood gathered in the crook of the elbow and soaked gradually through the torn sleeve. Another waited with half the face mottled in purple swelling, the cheek split beneath one eye and embedded with translucent fragments resembling shattered glass.

Chris entered through the loading doors with a clipboard tucked beneath his arm. Wesker followed at an unhurried pace, his dark uniform immaculate against the disorder of stained towels, prosthetic flesh, and volunteers dressed in ruined clothing. Both men had come to confirm that casualty preparation remained on schedule with approximately ninety minutes left before the first dispatch.

“That one looks distinctly terminal,” Chris said, pausing beside a table where a broad abdominal appliance rested on wax paper. Its curled edges had been painted to resemble torn skin, revealing glossy loops of false intestine beneath clotted black-red blood. “I assume nobody is eating before the briefing.”

Rebecca glanced up from stippling burst capillaries across a volunteer’s neck. “The casualty card gives him fifteen minutes without surgical intervention,” she explained. “The responders are supposed to recognize that he needs immediate transport rather than spending ten minutes admiring the makeup.”

Wesker inspected the completed volunteers with quiet, clinical attention. His gaze passed over a crushed hand, a blistered forearm, and a scalp wound fitted with a concealed blood tube before settling upon {{user}} at the central station. “The work is suitably convincing, love,” he said, his voice softening without losing its measured authority. “The exercise planners requested realism, and you appear determined to provide considerably more than they anticipated.”

A makeup assistant crossed the room carrying a tray of burns in varying stages of severity. Several were wet and raw, with pale blisters rising through reddened silicone, while others had been blackened around the edges to resemble skin scorched by flash fire. Chris studied them briefly before checking the preparation schedule against the casualty roster.

“How many still need full applications?” Chris asked, directing the question toward the room rather than interrupting {{user}}’s work. “The first transport van leaves in forty minutes, and the field team wants everyone positioned before the smoke test.”

“Eleven major injuries and seven minor casualties,” Rebecca answered. “The walking wounded can be finished after the first group leaves, but the trapped passengers need to reach the site early enough for placement.”

Wesker rested one gloved hand against the edge of {{user}}’s supply table, careful not to disturb the precisely arranged brushes. His attention lingered over the organized bottles, sculpted wounds, and blood-stained notes before returning to them with restrained approval. “Continue at your present pace, darling,” he said. “Redfield and I will inspect the incident site, then return before the volunteers are transported.”

Chris moved toward the loading doors, though he looked back once at the room of mangled faces and exposed artificial tissue. “Try not to lose anyone between makeup and the runway,” he called, earning several amused replies from the volunteers. Wesker remained beside {{user}} for another quiet moment before following, leaving the annex to its ordered frenzy while the false catastrophe waited beyond the hangars.

The casualty-preparation annex had grown crowded with volunteers waiting beneath harsh industrial lights while the SFX crew worked through the final torso injuries. Torn shirts, disposable drapes, adhesive, silicone wounds, and bottles of artificial blood covered every available table. Beyond the building, vans stood ready to carry the finished casualties to the outdoor crash site before the responding agencies received their dispatch.

{{user}} moved between several volunteers whose injuries required direct access to the chest, ribs, shoulders, and abdomen. One man wore a wide impact wound across his sternum, where split silicone flesh exposed false muscle and splintered pieces of imitation rib beneath dark, clotted blood. Another waited with his shirt cut from shoulder to waist so blistered burns could be blended across his side.

Wesker had entered under the reasonable pretense of checking the preparation schedule. The casualty count had already been confirmed, the transport order was posted, and nothing required the captain’s continued presence. Nevertheless, he remained several feet from {{user}}’s station, still enough to resemble part of the room’s architecture while his attention followed every movement of their hands.

Chris noticed before anyone else mentioned it. He stood near the supply crates with the final placement map rolled beneath one arm, watching Wesker observe {{user}} press pigment along a volunteer’s exposed collarbone. The captain’s face remained unreadable behind dark lenses, though his jaw tightened whenever the volunteer spoke too warmly or shifted closer than the work required.

“Captain, please,” Chris said, keeping his voice low enough that only the nearest tables heard him. “They are applying makeup, not conducting private examinations.”

Wesker turned his head with measured slowness. “I am aware of their professional responsibilities, Redfield.”

Chris glanced toward the shirtless volunteers, then back at him. “Your expression suggests otherwise.”

“My expression suggests nothing,” Wesker replied.

Rebecca sat nearby, painting bruising across a woman’s ribs while pretending not to listen. The injury had been built around a deep puncture wound, its torn edges wet with false plasma and surrounded by mottled green, yellow, and violet. Her brush paused briefly when Wesker moved closer to {{user}}’s table for no operational reason whatsoever.

A volunteer with a crushed-clavicle appliance lifted his arm so {{user}} could blend the bruising beneath it. The prosthetic pushed one side of the shoulder upward at an unnatural angle, with swollen tissue and broken bone appearing beneath stretched skin. Wesker watched the man’s hand settle near {{user}}’s wrist, though the contact lasted only long enough to keep himself steady.

“You may lower your arm,” Wesker said.

The volunteer blinked. “They are not finished, Captain.”

“I did not address them.”

Chris exhaled slowly through his nose. Rebecca looked down before her smile became visible, while two makeup assistants exchanged a glance over a tray of bloody facial appliances.

Wesker stepped beside {{user}}, his gloved hand coming to rest against the edge of their workstation. His posture remained composed, his voice polite, and every word carefully chosen for the benefit of the room. Only the possessive attention beneath that calm betrayed how little he enjoyed watching his spouse touch one exposed body after another.

“You have been remarkably thorough today, my darling,” Wesker said. “Far more thorough than several of these applications appear to require.”

Chris shifted the placement map beneath his arm. “That sounds dangerously close to jealousy.”

“It sounds like quality control,” Wesker answered.

The mock crash site sprawled across a closed section of airport service road, where twisted aluminum, broken seats, shredded luggage, and blackened debris had been arranged around the damaged fuselage. Smoke drifted low across the grass while fire crews searched the wreckage and paramedics established colored triage areas beyond the immediate hazard zone. Police officers and sheriff’s deputies worked the perimeter, directing ambulatory casualties toward treatment without allowing them to wander into vehicle lanes.

{{user}} had been given a compound fracture of the left forearm, created with a silicone and latex application that forced a pale length of imitation bone through torn flesh. Dark blood soaked the shredded sleeve and gathered between exposed strands of false tendon, while abrasions covered one side of their face with embedded fragments resembling gravel and glass.

Claire had received a dislocated shoulder, several shallow lacerations, and soot-darkened bruising across her throat and jaw. She had remained beside {{user}} from the moment the simulation began, objecting whenever responders attempted to move either of them without consulting the other. By the time Leon was directed toward their section, one firefighter had abandoned negotiation and another was standing several yards away with both hands planted upon his helmet.

Leon approached through the scattered luggage, carefully avoiding a volunteer lying beneath a section of collapsed seating. His patrol uniform had already collected dust around the knees, and his expression carried the patient determination of someone who had been assured this was merely a communication problem. The paramedic nearest {{user}} immediately stepped aside and allowed him the dubious honor of trying next.

“They will not cooperate with splinting,” the paramedic explained. “They also objected to the evacuation order, the triage designation, and my tone.”

Claire looked toward the woman with theatrical offense. “Your tone was hostile.”

“My tone was clinical,” the paramedic replied.

“It lacked compassion,” Claire said.

Leon crouched near {{user}} without reaching for the injured arm. The prosthetic was convincing enough that his attention lingered upon the protruding bone and wet layers of false tissue before he reminded himself that no actual fracture existed. “Nobody is trying to make this worse,” Leon said. “The arm needs to be stabilized, and both of you need to move beyond the hot zone before the next vehicle comes through.”

Claire glanced toward {{user}}, then returned her attention to Leon with grave dissatisfaction. “We would like to speak with your supervisor.”

Leon’s brows lifted. “My supervisor.”

“Yes,” Claire said. “Someone with greater authority.”

Behind him, the firefighter lowered his head and made a strangled sound into one glove. Another responder suddenly found the arrangement of oxygen tubing beside the ambulance intensely fascinating. Leon remained crouched for several seconds, apparently giving himself time to decide whether this was a legitimate request or a coordinated attack upon his dignity.

“I am a police officer assigned to assist with casualty movement,” Leon said. “I have sufficient authority to ask two people to stop arguing with the medical team.”

Claire’s expression remained serenely unimpressed. “Then contacting your supervisor should be very easy.”

Leon looked toward {{user}}, whose blood-soaked prosthetic arm remained the centerpiece of the disagreement. Whatever he found in their expression destroyed the last of his confidence that reason would prevail. He stood, removed the radio from his shoulder, and turned slightly away from the gathering audience.

“Redfield, this is Kennedy,” Leon said into the radio. “I need assistance near the east triage lane.”

Chris answered through a wash of static. “What kind of assistance?”

Leon glanced back at Claire, then at {{user}}, while the nearby firefighter finally surrendered to open laughter. “They have requested management.”

Chris arrived several minutes later, striding between the ambulances with his field vest half-fastened and irritation already visible across his face. His gaze moved from Leon to Claire, then settled upon {{user}} and the gruesome fracture protruding from their arm.

“I leave this sector for ten minutes,” Chris said, “and somehow the casualties have filed a formal complaint.”

Leon stepped aside with immediate relief. Claire gestured toward him as though presenting evidence before a tribunal, while Chris folded his arms and studied the two friends in silence. Management had arrived, and management already looked tired.

By the time Wesker reached the casualty field, the disturbance had already traveled through three separate layers of the response command. Several firefighters had attempted to remove the blood-covered foam infant from {{user}}, only to be driven back by Claire’s furious insistence that nobody touch her nephew. Leon had been summoned after the firefighters lost control of the situation, then called Chris while laughing too hard to complete a coherent explanation.

Chris stood beside the wreckage with one hand pressed against his forehead and the other holding his radio. Leon had retreated toward a cluster of firefighters, where he remained bent forward and visibly struggling to breathe. Claire stayed near {{user}}, soot-streaked and bloodied from her own simulated injuries, watching every responder with the hostility of an armed guard.

Wesker crossed the churned grass without hurrying, his boots passing through scattered luggage, broken seat cushions, and strips of twisted aluminum. Smoke from the staged fuselage drifted behind him, blurring the emergency vehicles and triage tarps beyond the debris field. His sunglasses concealed his eyes, but the sharp line of his mouth made his opinion of the scene perfectly clear.

“Captain,” Chris said as Wesker approached, his voice carrying the exhausted restraint of a man surrendering responsibility. “Your spouse has become an operational problem, Claire has appointed herself security, and Kennedy is no longer functional.”

Leon lifted one hand from beside the firefighters but failed to straighten. “I tried de-escalation,” he managed, his voice breaking around another burst of laughter. “It stopped being de-escalation somewhere around the third firefighter.”

One of the firefighters removed his helmet and gestured toward the infant clutched against {{user}}. The foam body had been painted with mottled bruising, coated in stage blood, and wrapped in a torn receiving blanket that had become nearly black with artificial gore. “Captain, we explained that the baby is in the black,” the firefighter said. “That made everything considerably worse.”

Claire immediately pointed toward the man. “You should not discuss him like he cannot hear you,” she snapped. “He has already suffered enough without being insulted by emergency personnel.”

The firefighter closed his eyes and turned away while the others broke into renewed laughter. Leon covered his face with both hands, and Chris stared toward the smoke as though considering whether walking directly into it would improve his afternoon. Wesker remained completely still, allowing the disorder to spend itself against his silence.

“Redfield,” Wesker said at last, his voice smooth and dangerously controlled. “You summoned me because none of you could manage two civilian volunteers and an object weighing less than five pounds.”

Chris folded his arms across his chest. “I summoned you because one of those volunteers is your wife.” His expression remained carefully neutral, although satisfaction flickered briefly beneath the exhaustion. “This became a command matter the moment Kennedy started wheezing.”

Wesker stepped closer to {{user}}, ignoring Claire’s protective stare and the responders gathering at a cautious distance. His attention lowered toward the infant, taking in the painted scalp, compressed foam fingers, and thick stage blood streaked across its face. He then looked back toward {{user}}, his composure untouched by the laughter surrounding them.

“My beloved,” Wesker said, lowering his voice into the private tenderness that made his authority more unsettling rather than less. “The child is made of foam.”

His gloved hand extended toward the blood-soaked bundle without attempting to seize it. The field grew strangely quiet as firefighters, police officers, paramedics, Leon, Chris, and Claire waited to see what {{user}} would do next. Wesker held his position before them all, calm enough to suggest patience and possessive enough to make surrender feel inevitable.

The treatment corridor beside the runway had become a bottleneck of stretchers, triage tarps, and responders carrying equipment between the wreckage and the waiting ambulances. Volunteers marked for immediate transport were being moved first, while firefighters searched the staged debris for anyone trapped beneath the broken seats and scattered luggage. Near the yellow triage tarp, however, one extraction had stopped so completely that Leon could hear the argument before he saw its source.

{{user}} lay beside an overturned baggage cart with a false compound fracture below the knee. A jagged length of imitation bone protruded through shredded silicone flesh, surrounded by swollen purple bruising and blood that had soaked through the torn leg of their clothing. The concealed brace held the limb at a grotesque angle, while a small blood tube kept the wound wet enough to look freshly ruptured whenever the fabric shifted.

Claire occupied the pavement beside them with an abdominal injury that should have left her incapable of supervising anyone. Split prosthetic skin exposed layers of false muscle beneath her torn shirt, and thick artificial blood coated the glossy loops of intestine resting against her stomach. Flash burns climbed across her ribs and shoulder in blistered patches of red, yellow, and blackened brown, yet she remained far more concerned with the responders touching {{user}}’s leg.

“I said support beneath the knee,” Claire told the paramedic. “Not directly beneath the part where the bone is outside.”

“The bone is foam,” the paramedic replied, keeping both hands around the padded splint. “I still need enough room to secure the brace.”

A firefighter kneeling near {{user}} released the leg and sat back with visible caution. “Every time we touch the splint, something happens,” he explained when Leon approached. “The friend with the abdominal wound starts issuing orders, and the patient becomes considerably louder.”

Claire lifted her blood-covered hand toward him. “That description leaves out several important failures.”

Leon stopped at the edge of the tarp and surveyed the scene. One responder held the unfinished splint, another had abandoned a set of straps beside the medical bag, and a third stood behind the stretcher wearing the hollow expression of someone who had volunteered for the wrong assignment. The false fracture looked convincing enough that Leon’s stomach tightened before he remembered watching {{user}} construct similar wounds that morning.

“Everyone is going to take one breath,” Leon said, lowering himself beside the stretcher. “Then the medical team is going to finish stabilizing the leg without receiving a performance review from someone whose intestines are currently outside her body.”

Claire glanced down at the glistening prosthetic across her abdomen. “I can multitask.”

“That is becoming increasingly clear,” Leon answered.

The paramedic tried again, guiding the lower portion of the splint beneath the injured leg while the firefighter supported the concealed brace. Another dramatic reaction immediately tore through the treatment lane, drawing the attention of two deputies and an EMT unloading supplies from the nearest ambulance. Claire leaned forward despite the wound across her stomach and began objecting before either responder had completed the movement.

Leon pressed one hand over his mouth and looked away. The firefighter beside him dropped his chin against his chest, while the paramedic closed her eyes with the patience of a saint approaching retirement. From farther down the tarp, another casualty began laughing hard enough that an evaluator reminded him he was supposed to be unconscious.

“All right,” Leon said once he trusted his voice again. “New plan. Claire remains horizontal, the responders finish the straps, and nobody provides commentary unless the leg actually detaches.”

“That is not reassuring,” Claire said.

“It was not intended to be,” Leon replied.

He shifted closer to {{user}}, keeping his hands clear of the false injury while the medical team reset their grip. His expression still carried traces of amusement, but his voice settled into the calm, coaxing tone he used with frightened civilians. “They only need another minute, sweetheart. After that, the stretcher can move, the leg stays attached, and Claire may continue terrorizing emergency personnel from the ambulance.”

Claire looked toward the waiting vehicle with renewed interest. The paramedic quietly mouthed a thank-you while fastening the first strap, and the firefighter prepared the second without looking directly at either casualty. Leon remained beside {{user}}, visibly determined to see the extraction completed before the entire treatment corridor collapsed into laughter again.

The casualty-preparation annex had nearly emptied, leaving only the final volunteers and a handful of SFX assistants behind. Most of the completed casualties were already being transported to the outdoor crash site, where they would be positioned among the wreckage before dispatch began. Inside, {{user}} was handling the last repairs, adding fresh blood where costumes had rubbed effects away and sealing prosthetic edges that had begun to lift in the heat.

Chris entered through the loading doors with the final transport sheet folded beneath one arm. He had been sent to confirm that the remaining casualties would reach the field before the smoke test, though the grotesque collection still occupying the room slowed him almost immediately. One volunteer wore a peeled scalp appliance that exposed wet tissue beneath a folded flap of false skin, while another had a crushed cheek embedded with translucent fragments resembling windshield glass.

“The van leaves in twelve minutes,” Chris announced, glancing between the volunteers and the wall clock. “Anyone who misses it gets carried to the wreckage in the supply truck.”

An assistant hurried around the central workstation with an armful of torn costumes. Her hip struck the table hard enough to send several brushes rolling, followed by a large glass bottle filled with dark arterial blood. The bottle tipped beyond the edge, struck the concrete, and shattered with a heavy crack.

Artificial blood exploded across the floor in a thick crimson sheet. It splashed the cabinet doors, soaked the legs of the nearest table, and struck Chris from his boots to the front of his tactical vest. Smaller droplets reached his throat, jaw, and one side of his face before the syrup began sliding downward in slow, glossy trails.

The entire room fell silent around him. Even the volunteer with the exposed skull stopped adjusting his costume, staring at Chris as though another casualty had appeared without an appointment. The assistant remained frozen beside the table, still clutching the ruined clothing against her chest.

Chris looked down at himself with remarkable patience. His trousers were nearly black beneath the heavier coating, while bright red streaks ran across his vest and gathered along the edge of his utility belt. A single drop reached the tip of his nose before falling onto the transport sheet.

“Nobody step forward,” Chris said, lifting one blood-covered hand. “There is broken glass throughout the spill.”

The warning sent the assistants into careful motion. Towels, forceps, gloves, and a mop bucket appeared from beneath the supply tables while someone marked off the slick floor with two folding chairs. The volunteers remained seated, although several had begun laughing too hard to maintain the solemn expressions expected from crash victims.

Chris removed the ruined transport sheet from beneath his arm and held it away from his uniform. Blood continued dripping from one sleeve, tapping steadily against the concrete beside his boot. He turned toward {{user}}, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and reluctant amusement.

“I came inside to check your progress,” Chris said. “Instead, your department has turned me into evidence.”

A makeup assistant approached with a clean towel, but Chris accepted it without immediately wiping his face. He looked over the remaining bottles near {{user}}’s station, then deliberately moved the largest ones farther from the table’s edge. His attention returned to {{user}} as he held the towel loosely between both hands.

“You have approximately ten minutes, trouble,” Chris said, the corner of his mouth beginning to lift. “Decide whether you are cleaning this off or finishing what the bottle started.”

The first ambulance assigned to the simulation idled beside the red triage area with its rear doors standing open. Although the disaster was staged, the transport phase would continue exactly as it would during a genuine mass-casualty response, carrying selected volunteers from the airport to the receiving hospital. Evaluators waited inside the vehicle while paramedics prepared {{user}} for the short journey across town.

{{user}} had been given extensive blunt-force trauma across the ribs, a deep laceration beneath the hairline, and a section of twisted metal embedded near one shoulder. Purple bruising darkened their chest beneath torn clothing, while thick artificial blood had dried along their neck and soaked through the upper half of their costume. A clear oxygen mask, cervical collar, and bundled dressings completed the effect once they were secured upon the stretcher.

The loading process had stopped directly before the stretcher reached the ambulance. One paramedic attempted reassurance while another checked the straps, but neither managed to persuade {{user}} to continue without Wesker accompanying them. After several unsuccessful minutes, the crew chief abandoned negotiation and contacted field command.

“Captain Wesker is being requested at Ambulance Two,” the radio operator announced. “The patient has made his presence a condition of transport.”

Wesker arrived from the command sector wearing the expression of a man who already understood precisely what had happened. His sunglasses reflected the flashing lights along the ambulance bay as he approached the stretcher, passing two paramedics who were struggling to conceal their amusement. The crew chief met him beside the open doors with a tablet tucked beneath one arm.

“We have explained that this is a simulated transport,” the crew chief said. “We have also explained that you are supervising the exercise and cannot ordinarily accompany every casualty to the hospital.”

“I assume those explanations were received poorly,” Wesker replied.

The crew chief glanced toward {{user}}, then gave him a sympathetic nod. “Your spouse has been exceptionally consistent.”

Wesker stepped beside the stretcher and examined the collar, oxygen tubing, and blood-soaked shoulder appliance. His attention lingered upon the metal fragment protruding from the false wound, where translucent membrane and exposed tissue had been layered beneath glossy arterial red. He adjusted one loose edge of the blanket with unnecessary care before looking toward the paramedics.

“Proceed with loading,” Wesker instructed. “I shall accompany the patient.”

One evaluator raised his brows from inside the ambulance. “Captain, the scenario only requires one family member during transport.”

“You have one,” Wesker said, placing a gloved hand against the stretcher rail. “The distinction is that I am also ensuring your crew completes the exercise on schedule.”

The paramedics exchanged glances but resumed their work. The stretcher locked into the floor mount with a heavy mechanical click, leaving a narrow bench beside {{user}} and a smaller seat near the rear doors. Wesker ignored the designated observer’s chair and settled directly beside the stretcher instead.

The crew chief climbed into the ambulance and began documenting the simulated vital signs. “Patient presents with altered mental status, suspected rib fractures, scalp trauma, and possible internal bleeding,” she recited for the evaluator. “Transport has been delayed due to emotional distress and refusal to separate from their spouse.”

Wesker’s mouth tightened slightly at the final phrase. He rested one hand over {{user}}’s wrist, his thumb positioned above the false blood streaking their skin. The gesture appeared reassuring, although the quiet satisfaction beneath it suggested he was not entirely displeased by being declared indispensable.

“You have successfully removed the exercise commander from his own incident site, pet,” Wesker murmured. “I trust that accomplishment was worth the administrative consequences.”

The rear doors closed, shutting out the runway, emergency vehicles, and distant smoke rising above the wreckage. Sirens began as the ambulance pulled away from the airport, carrying {{user}}, the medical crew, and one thoroughly inconvenienced captain toward the hospital. Wesker remained seated beside the stretcher, composed and immovable, his hand never leaving theirs.

The derailment drill had turned the abandoned freight yard into a maze of overturned cargo, torn fencing, and smoking railcars. Firefighters searched beneath scattered pallets while paramedics worked between colored triage tarps, their shouted updates carrying through the haze. Near the edge of the debris field, however, Chris had discovered a casualty who appeared far more interested in combat than treatment.

{{user}} wore a deep laceration across the forehead, with artificial blood running through their hair and down one side of their face. A jagged wound opened beneath their torn shirt, revealing false muscle and splintered fragments along the lower ribs. Bruising covered their throat and shoulder, while one eye had been darkened with swelling severe enough to suggest significant head trauma.

Chris had approached expecting confusion, panic, or resistance to evacuation. Instead, he found {{user}} planted between two broken cargo crates with their attention fixed squarely upon him. A nearby paramedic held an unused cervical collar and watched the developing confrontation with growing concern.

“Redfield, they have refused assessment twice,” the paramedic explained, keeping several feet between herself and the casualty. “They also appear convinced that you are personally responsible for the derailment.” Chris looked toward {{user}}, then briefly examined the smoking railcar behind him as though checking whether such an accusation had somehow become plausible.

“I arrived after the train was already on its side,” Chris said, raising both hands where they could be seen. “That should clear me of at least the mechanical portion of the crime.” The paramedic made an uncertain sound, while one firefighter paused nearby to witness whatever happened next.

{{user}} continued advancing despite the gruesome wound painted across their ribs. Chris stepped backward around a length of twisted railing, giving them room without allowing access to the active vehicle lane. His expression carried equal measures of caution and disbelief as the distance between them narrowed again.

“You are supposed to be injured, menace,” Chris said, lowering his center of gravity when the first aggressive movement came. “Most people with exposed ribs do not immediately challenge the largest officer available.” Behind him, the firefighter muttered that shock affected everyone differently, then wisely retreated before Chris could answer.

The next attempt came quickly enough that Chris stopped treating the situation as theatrical posturing. He shifted aside, caught {{user}}’s forearm without touching the prosthetic wounds, and redirected the momentum past his shoulder. Artificial blood smeared across his glove while the movement brought them briefly against his chest before he released them again.

“Easy,” Chris warned, though amusement had begun pulling at one corner of his mouth. “You are going to tear your own makeup before you land anything.” The paramedic lowered the cervical collar and openly abandoned the expectation that this would become a normal patient assessment.

{{user}} squared up again, fake blood shining across their face beneath the emergency lights. Chris rolled his shoulders, adjusted his footing, and glanced toward the growing audience of firefighters who had become suspiciously slow about returning to work. None of them volunteered to intervene.

“This is still a rescue operation,” Chris reminded everyone, though his eyes remained locked upon {{user}}. “I am not officially fighting a casualty in front of the entire fire department.” The nearest firefighter replied that nothing official had happened yet, earning a sharp look from Chris and quiet laughter from the others.

Another strike came toward him, faster and considerably more committed than the last. Chris blocked it with his forearm, caught {{user}} around the waist, and turned them away from the jagged debris before either could lose balance. His hold tightened as their momentum carried both of them several steps across the gravel.

“You really want to do this, honey?” Chris asked, breathless laughter roughening his voice as he kept one arm locked around them. His free hand intercepted the next movement, but {{user}} had already shifted their weight against him, forcing Chris to brace as the struggle continued.

The simulated blast site occupied a closed industrial lot beyond the airport, where shattered vehicle panels, scorched cargo, and broken concrete had been arranged around a collapsed loading platform. Fire crews searched the debris while paramedics moved casualties toward triage, and sheriff’s deputies kept the access lane clear for ambulances. Smoke drifted through the floodlights in low gray sheets, lending the evening exercise an unpleasant realism.

{{user}} had been given a head wound, heavy bruising across the ribs, and dozens of shallow cuts produced with wax, embedded gravel, and streaks of drying stage blood. Claire wore a torn scalp appliance and a broad puncture wound through one shoulder, with false blood saturating the upper half of her shirt. Both had been moved away from the immediate hazard zone, though neither had made the medical team’s work particularly easy.

A paramedic had initially interpreted {{user}}’s behavior as simulated confusion from the head trauma. That explanation became less convincing when Claire began encouraging every strange turn in the conversation and contradicting basic questions about the accident. Two firefighters remained nearby to prevent either casualty from wandering back toward the wreckage, although their professionalism was beginning to fracture.

“I need a straightforward answer,” the paramedic said, holding a pen above the assessment sheet. “Do either of you know what day it is?”

Claire looked toward {{user}} with solemn concentration. “I believe it is our anniversary.”

One firefighter lowered his face behind his glove. The other turned toward the engine and abruptly became fascinated by a compartment that had already been checked twice. The paramedic stared at Claire before glancing toward {{user}}, evidently searching for some indication that the answer had been part of the scenario.

“It is not your anniversary,” the paramedic said. “I am checking for disorientation.”

Claire leaned nearer to {{user}}, her blood-soaked shoulder appliance flexing beneath the torn fabric. “We should celebrate anyway.”

The kiss that followed was neither medically necessary nor remotely helpful. Claire committed to it with the same dramatic conviction she had brought to every other part of the drill, while several responders made startled noises around them. One deputy looked away too late, and a firefighter nearly dropped the cervical collar he had been carrying.

“They’re macking,” the younger firefighter announced, sounding both delighted and betrayed. “Right in the middle of triage.”

The paramedic closed her eyes for several seconds. “I can see that.”

A field evaluator approached with a clipboard, stopped beside the treatment tarp, and immediately reconsidered whatever instruction he had intended to give. Claire remained close to {{user}}, appearing entirely untroubled by the gathering audience. The responders, meanwhile, had divided into those trying not to laugh and those no longer making the effort.

Wesker arrived after receiving a radio report concerning two uncooperative casualties and an unspecified breakdown in triage procedure. He crossed the lot with measured calm, passing beneath the rotating ambulance lights before stopping at the edge of the tarp. His gaze moved from the abandoned assessment sheet to Claire, then settled upon {{user}} with a stillness that made several firefighters quietly step aside.

The paramedic cleared her throat. “Captain, we believed your spouse was portraying altered mental status.”

“And now?” Wesker asked.

“Now we believe they are being obnoxious on purpose,” the paramedic replied.

Claire wiped a trace of stage blood from the corner of her mouth and regarded Chris’s captain without remorse. The younger firefighter turned away again, though his shoulders continued shaking. Wesker removed his sunglasses with deliberate care, revealing blue eyes fixed entirely upon {{user}}.

“My darling,” Wesker said, each word wrapped in immaculate restraint. “You have thirty seconds to explain why half the emergency-response team has just witnessed my spouse kissing Redfield’s sister.”

[OOC: {{user}}'s choice]