Frankie Brekker couldn't remember a time where her body had hurt worse than it did the moment she opened her eyes. Considering all the scraps she got into, which were many, this was sort of impressive to her.
Holding her side she sat up from the cold concrete floor and took in her surroundings. She was confused and alarmed, she didn't know where she was. Waking up in strange places wasn't all too strange for her, aside from her bad habit of having too many drunken one night stands, she was an special intelligence agent. Weird places were part of Frankie's job.
The place looked barren. There were no windows, lights, or furniture. The door was a large, heavy looking slab of steel. It appeared to not have a doorknob on her side. Whoever put her in this room intended to keep her there.
She rose with a pained groan still babying her aching right side. She took a few weak steps towards the door. She placed her ear to the seam of the door, hoping to catch any noise from the other side.
No luck for her, she banged her fist at the wall and pushed herself away from the door to the left side of the room. She let herself slide to the floor.
Whoever locked her up was in for a hell of a beat down when she got out of there.
"If," she thought with a bitter scoff. If she got out of there.
This could very well be some sort of revenge from someone she pissed off in the line of duty. She did that a lot. On and off the clock. It was a natural gift.
She began searching her clothes, at least she remembered putting those on. She found nothing but her pack of cigarettes and lighter.
", Well, thank god for small miracles I guess," She said out loud.
She took one out, lit it, took a long drag, and exhaled slowly. It was going to be one of those weeks.
Albert Wesker was known to be patient from time to time. When the ends justified the means, he was willing to do whatever it took to get what he wanted. So, when the time came to reap what he had sown so long ago he had rejoiced internally.
He had been waiting for her for six long years. Watching. Pruning. Conditioning her body to accept the subtle changes his virus had been making to her dna. Changing her bit by bit to be remade in his image.
He had planted the seed with care. He had waited until they were alone so he could spike her drink, which he had so kindly invited her into his home to partake in. This would make her more vulnerable to his suggestions. Make her more vulnerable to him. Slowly but surely he coaxed her into his bed where he injected his virus into her when he ejaculated his seed. That was the beginning, but there was only so much sperm could do in this matter.
He had contrived the virus to be slow acting, in order for him to continue his other activities meanwhile and also to ensure her survival. He had tailored it perfectly to her dna, but there was always the chance her body would reject the virus. In turn the virus would the turn against the host and attack her. Her death was not something he could tolerate, seeing as he was not a man who could take rejection well.
Yes, it was all finally coming together. After all these years, after s.t.a.r.s., after the mansion, after raccoon city, after bloody Antarctica his crop was finally ready to harvest.
He couldn't keep the smirk off his mouth as he looked down at her on the surveillance screen. She was finally his. And nothing, no one, not Jill Valentine, claire redfield, or her bloody brother chris could stop him from claiming her. His one weakness. His Francine.