A/N: Sorry I took this down and replaced it for the THIRD time, but I'm trying to get this right. One of my most loyal reviewers happens to be much more familiar with the Resident Evil series and he's helping me fix all my (glaring) mistakes. I appreciate all the support and the patience. If any of the rest of you see things that need fixing, please tell me. This chapter is dedicated to GronHatchat

March 2009

It seemed fitting that he would die in fire. Albert Wesker, a self-proclaimed phoenix and would-be god had been forged in fire and to fire he would return. As the rockets struck him and threw him backwards, a bright hot crimson-gold fountain shot up and sprayed the hazy red-gray skies above him. The sun had risen just enough that the black smudge of a retreating helicopter was visible for a short distance. He was slammed into the volcano's rocky shores, his head twisted at an unnatural angle. Between the massive blood loss from the battle, Uroboros, and the lava having eaten away most of his lower half, even Progenitor couldn't repair him fast enough. He was now unable to draw enough breath in his heat-seared lungs to even breathe well let alone scream. The pain was indescribable and overpowered any rational thoughts he might have had left. Gagging and choking from his windpipe swelling shut, he could only stare upward at the rising black threads of smoke that came from his own damaged flesh. The Hellish crimson glow of his eyes dimmed and went out. The pupils had dilated so much now that there was only a thin ring of ember-colored iris around the glassed-over black. He went completely still and the blackness mercifully seized him. Unfortunately, from his perception, the reprieve lasted only seconds. He was aware of something being forced into his throat and a crushing, brutal force on his already damaged ribs. Standing over him was a dark smudgy shadow with eyes like fire. He couldn't fend it off, couldn't so much as twitch a finger or make a sound. He was forced to endure agony whenever this thing approached him. His higher-functioning consciousness had been knocked out and there was nothing but a primitive and deep-rooted fear that Hell might actually exist after all. His one last hope was that the blackness would come quickly between the demonic creature's touches.

Sometime much later, though he didn't know exactly how long, he began to notice things. The paralysis must have worn off because he had been bound by restraints. He could smell the other creature despite something blocking his face and forcing his hot, moist breath to keep circulating around his parted lips. Something in him inherently sensed danger. His vision was obstructed by something that turned his world a grayish hue. He felt something subtle, a change in the air current. Seizing his chance, he broke through his bonds and struck the creature that had been tormenting him. There was a satisfying WHACK as his fist collided with it. Peeling off the gauze that had blinded him, he immediately wished he hadn't. Bright fluorescent lights flooded his vision and gave him an instant headache. The rest of his body also began to sting and scream its assortment of complaints and he immediately crumpled, falling off the bed. There was a weak cough on the other side of the room and a rustle of fabric. The overhead lights went out as he tried to get up and failed.

"Albert…"

He looked up, his eyes blazing red once more. It took a few seconds for his vision to adjust and clear up enough to even make out what he was looking at. He could see dark hair and very pale skin. Powder blue medical scrubs hid all of it but the face—even the hands were still gloved. And her eyes were glowing red, too, but out of concern.

Anassa…

She looked like she hadn't slept or eaten in days. Her hair was disheveled and had lost its shine. There were dark shadows under her eyes and her cheeks had a sunken-in appearance. Even in the soft glow of computer equipment and vital-signs monitors, she had an unflattering sickly grayish cast to her skin. Very, very gently, she picked him up. Despite the layers of gauze and bandages, he could feel the tremors in her arms.

"It's all right," she whispered, "you're safe."

"You disobeyed me," he rasped, "again."

"Where would you be if I hadn't?" her voice cracked slightly. He instinctually clutched at his throat. It was still quite raw and it hurt like Hell to talk. While she was trying to get him situated again, he felt all the tubes pinching and sliding around. There were IV lines going into both arms, a feeding tube, a catheter, and probably more that he wasn't yet aware of. Most of his skin was covered up by gauze, but what little was showing was an angry, raw, blistery red. It was bad—very bad—but he was alive against all odds. He was going to say something else, but coughed nastily and was unable to. His heart monitor beat out a frantic staccato behind them. She stroked what little was left of his straw-colored hair and embraced him very carefully. He let his head sag against her chest. Her own heartbeat was fast and irregular, a testament to how worried she'd been.

"You can try again some other time," she told him, "but you've been so fixated on this grand future you're trying to create that you've completely forgotten about the one you've already created."

Her voice was thick with emotion. Tears began to form in her eyes and the blazing scarlet made them shine like rubies in the sun. Those tears were a testament to how scared she'd been of losing him. In the years he'd known Anassa Wesker, he had only ever seen her cry three times and he remembered each one very vividly. She blinked and the rubies turned to diamonds toppling down her cheeks. He knew her well enough to know that she was near her breaking point. He wanted to comfort her, but he didn't know what to say. He could barely even squeeze her hand without a ripple of pain shooting up his arm, but the beginnings of a smile ghosted her lips. The anesthetic was rapidly pulling him under again. Now that he knew where he was, he embraced the darkness where he would be healed without pain. It was then that Ana finally allowed the dam to fall. The tears that she'd tamped down inside began to flow steadily as she struggled not to grip him more tightly. Her head was pounding and she knew their son would be waiting on the stairs. These last several days had been terribly hard on him as well—as hard as she'd tried to shield him from the brutal realities of what they did for a living and the costs, he had lost a bit of his innocence the day she'd brought Wesker home. He had seen his father's broken, battered body. Since then, it was hard to get him to do anything else but keep vigil on the stairs. She gently eased her husband back down on the pillows and went to check on Isaiah. He was there, of course, his scarlet-gold eyes gazing hopefully up at her. His downy angel-blonde hair would probably turn into the ashen blonde of his father's when he grew older. Other than the childlike roundness of his cheeks and the upturn of his nose (which was hers), he would probably grow up to be a carbon copy of Albert. His little hands reached for her anxiously and she swung him onto her hip.

"He's awake," Isaiah guessed, "or you wouldn't be up here. Can I see him now?"

"Just a little bit longer, Sweetie. He's in a lot of pain right now and he can't stay awake very well."

"Ready for your coffee now, Ana?"

Marie stood at the counter and was putting plates on the table.

"I'll do it, Marie. I need…something to do."

"All right."

Marie patted Isaiah fondly on the head and watched as Ana got out both breakfast ingredients as well as her beloved coffee. She chopped up tomatoes, mushrooms, onions, bell peppers, and ham and sausage. Isaiah loved omelets and she had been feeding him an awful lot of TV dinners, sandwiches, and cereal lately. It was time he had something nutritious. Marie looked as exhausted as she felt—the woman was getting on in years and she had had to deal with the stressors of adjusting to an entirely new house after taking a transatlantic flight in the middle of the night. Her pale, opaque-lensed eyes had never known sight since she was born, but she was loyal, quiet, and a great help to the Weskers. It had taken Albert some time to accept her since his hired help often died or betrayed him, but it was one issue that Ana had stood her ground on.

"I made something for Daddy," Isaiah said, heaping picante sauce over his omelet and digging in, "want to see?"

"Perhaps after breakfast," Ana answered, "I'd be glad to."

"Do you want me to go downstairs with Albert for a bit?" Marie asked.

"Yes, please do. Take some of this with you, though."

She made an omelet for Marie who was grateful for the break, another for herself, and one for their "guardian angel" as Ana jokingly called him. Sometime back, Wesker had introduced her to H.U.N.K. He would do almost anything if the money was good enough. He was earning his fortune up on the roof shooting anyone who got too close—and with their location, one would most certainly have to be trying to get there purposely. Carrying the steaming omelet and a fresh cup of coffee up the stairs to the roof, she realized how winded and weak she really was. Ordinarily, she'd be up there as fast as she thought about being up there. Pausing to catch her breath, she surveyed their surroundings. The blood red sun was just climbing up over the horizon. Part of the sky was still murky from the distant volcano, but a bit of it was a shade of turquoise she'd only dreamed of mixing with her paints. The masked man was reclining in an alcove, his signature mask over his face and his gun in his lap. She saw him twitch when he heard her, but he relaxed shortly after. His belly rumbled noisily and Ana smiled faintly.

"He's awake," H.U.N.K. guessed, taking off his mask. While he would never tell Ana what his real name was, she had at last seen his face. He had cropped red hair and olive-green eyes. A sprinkling of youth-giving freckles over his nose and cheeks balanced the careworn lines around his mouth and under his eyes.

"Finally. Thank God," Ana confirmed as he gratefully accepted the meal. The hours had been Hell, but she had tried her best to compensate with a pay raise, access to anything he wanted inside the house, and the best food and drinks. Once this disaster was over, he could stay as long as he wanted.

"Wait—how did you know that?" Ana asked.

He swallowed an enormous mouthful before answering:

"You wouldn't be up here otherwise."

She laughed tiredly.

"I'm as easy to read as a picture book, aren't I? Do you need anything else while I'm here?"

"Nope. This is easily the biggest omelet I've ever seen." He estimated that he'd be full for at least half a day.

He also eagerly accepted the coffee and took a long drink of it before starting on breakfast. Ana had heaped his plate with generous portions, so he doubted he'd need any seconds. Ana smiled and left him to eat. After she joined Isaiah downstairs for enough breakfast to feed an army and enough coffee to keep a college student awake during a cram session, she went with Isaiah to see what he'd created.

"Oh, my word…"

In the middle of his room, he had created a perfect replica of their house, the underground lab, and the surrounding landscape. There was, of course, a cutaway section so that the viewer could see inside all the rooms. Completing all of it were two tiny figures in the basement. An injured Lego Albert was laying on an operating table. His plastic Lego body was damaged with scorch-marks and bite-marks. Little strips of paper substituted for gauze and strings substituted for the tubes that were going in and out of him. Ana stared in a mixture of horror, fascination, and awe. How had he seen Albert when he hadn't actually been inside the lab during these last few weeks? A tiny Ana stood beside tiny Albert and was in the process of winding gauze around his arm.

"This…this is incredible," she said, clearly stunned, "did you do all this during these last few days?"

"Yeah…Marie got tired of dragging me off the stairs," he said, "I can tell she's not used to being around kids much. She doesn't talk much, but she's nice. She tries to play with me when I ask her."

"Before you were born, I was just like her," Ana admitted as she descended the stairs with a plate of food for Marie, "I absolutely did not know what to do with you when you were born. I had to learn everything from scratch—your father, too. Anyone who tells you that you're born with that knowledge is full of it."

Isaiah laughed.

"Don't you mean full of sh—"

A warning stare from Ana cut him off.

"Oh, right…I'm not supposed to say that no matter how many times I hear you two say it."

The amused irony in his voice made her chuckle.

"Can I please come in?" Isaiah asked, "Please? I promise I'll be quiet and not touch anything and I won't bother Daddy. I just want to see him."

Ana sighed. She was ready to just curl up somewhere and close her eyes.

"All right," she gave in, "but only for a few minutes. You need to be very, very quiet."

He nodded solemnly, his expression very, very serious. Ana's heart melted—once the childlike roundness had vanished from his cheeks and age brought out the hard, angular jawline and cheekbones, he would very much resemble his father. The only parts of herself that she saw in him were the texture of his hair (it was already turning wavy though it had been straight when he was born) and perhaps the shape of eyes and nose. She led him down into what they jokingly referred to as the "dungeon" in better times. Isaiah secretly hated this place and was awed by it at the same time—it was too white, too brightly lit, and too scary. He had nightmares about the things that floated in the tanks and he hated how much his parents had to be down here. Despite being very intelligent for his age, his emotions, of course, were still catching up. He always felt as if this place stole his parents away from him too much. He didn't voice what he was feeling, though—he grudgingly had to admit that it had at least saved his father's life.

When they came up to the bed, Marie turned her head towards them.

"This is amazing. When did you learn to cook, dear?"

"Let me rephrase that," she said feeling slightly guilty, "I didn't know you could cook anything besides pastries. I had my reservations at first…"

Ana chuckled.

"Necessity makes a student out of anybody," she sighed, "Albert got sick of my sweets. He insisted on 'real food', whatever that means."

Deepening her voice and doing her best Wesker impression, she posed like him and said "Anassa, no one should live on nothing but sugar and coffee-not even you. You won't die if you eat a real meal."

Marie tried not to choke on her food from laughter. Isaiah giggled, putting both hands over his mouth in an effort not to laugh loudly. He was taking his mother very seriously about her earlier request for quiet—but it was harder than it looked. Very, very carefully, he climbed up on the foot of the bed to get a better look.

His father's chest rose and fell steadily with each breath. A vast majority of his body was bandaged up and he smelt heavily of chemicals and disinfectant. One arm was in a cast and the other was wrapped in gauze. Probably the worst part was his face, neck, and shoulders: what little of them wasn't bandaged had blistered, angry red skin. Ana had been forced to shave off most of his hair in order to restore his scalp. He felt his lip quivering and bit it hard—no matter what happened, he mustn't cry in case his father woke up. He would be upset and probably in a really bad mood as it was and Isaiah was afraid that his tears would upset him more. Ana had fallen silent, noticing his silent distress.

"I know it looks bad," she told him, "but he won't look like this forever. He'll heal and his skin will turn pink and smooth like yours—he might have a few scars, but that's all."

"No, it won't," Isaiah said quietly.

She looked at him questioningly and he gestured for her to lean in. Cupping his hand to her ear as though telling a secret, he whispered something that made her heart drop into her stomach.

"He'll be crazy," Isaiah sighed, "like the others, won't he? I've seen what happens to them…they fall apart and go mad…"

He felt his eyes watering despite his internal promise not to cry.

"…and that's worse than dying…"

He had begun to tremble. Ana tried to comfort him, but it was clear that he wouldn't feel better about it until he had seen it for himself.

"Oh, Sweetie…is that what you've been worried about all this time?"

He nodded. She picked him up and hugged him, unsure of what to do or say to make him feel better. The scary part was that it was a distinct possibility.

"I got the vaccine to him," Ana told him, "and I think we did it in time thanks to you. I'm fairly sure that he's going to be all right both ways."

Isaiah gazed over her shoulder at Albert who was oblivious to all this going on. Ana was glad that he couldn't see just yet—his son's wide eyes were glowing crimson with fear and grief and tears were steadily pouring down his face.

"In the meantime," Ana whispered, "we're going to take a picture of that wonderful little house you've built and bring it down here so he can see it when he wakes up and we're going to think about all the good stuff that's happened—and going to happen. We'll get through this—we always do."

"How?"

"We just are," Ana said, her voice thickening, "now let's wash your face. You can go upstairs with Marie and show her how to play your game, all right?"

Marie didn't object. She knew that everything was hinging on Ana's ability to hold things together. She also knew that Ana's dam was about to burst again and she didn't want her son to see. Calm only on the surface, she watched as Ana washed the little boy's face and gave him a hug and a kiss.

"Can I come down again later?" he asked.

"Of course. As long as you keep being as good as you have been—I know it's hard."

"Yeah, it is," he admitted. He had been the worst combination of anxious and bored and there were things that had tempted him. They were all little kid things like climbing on the counter to get the cookies from the top of the refrigerator and hiding the jar in his toy box. They were things like sneaking outside after dark just to see what was different after his bedtime. They were like hiding from Marie just to see how long it would take for her to find him because he could stay absolutely still and not give himself away if he didn't want to. He wanted things to go back the way they were.

Once they were alone at last, Ana settled on the foot of Albert's bed. She was a fairly light sleeper under normal conditions and couldn't sleep sitting up no matter how tired she was. If she felt in danger of rolling over on him, she would simply move to the floor.

You can do it, can't you? You can pull through this just like you've pulled through everything else? We need you, Albert. I need you…

During these last few weeks, she'd missed his quiet strength and his powerful presence. She'd missed how he'd looked at every obstacle like it was a mere annoyance rather than something that could actually stop him. No matter what happened, he'd always taken charge and righted things. Now she felt more alone than ever—the last four years had changed the way she thought. Letting her eyes slide closed at long last, his face was the last thing she saw before she slept. In her dreams, she traveled back in time before this awful Uroboros disaster had ever taken place.