The Same Poisoned Tree

xxxxx

Chapter One:

A Lifetime in Moments

xxxxx

Steve was gone.

It was like some kind of surreal fact that floated through her head day by day. No matter how much she thought about his death, she couldn't comprehend why he had to go. But, she still knew he was dead. She knew that all too well, yet somehow, the quick realization never ceased to make her heart tear into pieces. It was obvious she felt guilty—after all, she promised they'd escape together—but she also felt so horribly afraid of what might come next. She tried not to think about it, she tried to tell herself he was gone, and it was better than having that awful man bring Steve back as something monstrous. Maybe that possibility was what caused her to feel so conflicted. Either she lost the boy she grew to care so much about, or—

—or he comes back to me as a Tyrant similar to Albert Wesker. What's worse?

Claire let out a heavy sigh. She threw herself back on her bed, looking up at the plain, white ceiling. Around her, in her darkened room, where the only source of light came from the rising sun, there were various piles of manila folders scattered across the wood floor and scratched-up desk. When she turned onto her side, she saw the sun glistening over a certain file with the words Virus Antigen across the top.

There was a cure. She knew that already. Jill had been infected during her escape from Raccoon City. That Carlos guy—whoever the hell he was—found her the cure. But, the scientists in Raccoon had no time to perfect the antigen. If they had, all the citizens of that mid-western town would have been saved.

And, maybe then, Claire Redfield would never have been thrown into this mess.

The girl rose from her bed and began walking through her room. Her feet crushed the paper as she wandered toward the door. It was already cracked open, so she didn't have to worry about the loud creaking it normally made. She stepped into the hallway, and looked around. No one was awake yet. "No one," referring to her three roommates: Chris, Jill, and Leon. Leon had his own room right next to Claire's, but her brother and Jill shared one. There were separate beds, but Claire wasn't stupid. She knew they were sneaking into each other's singles. The thought brought a smile to her face. She was happy Chris found someone. Jill kept his temper down; she was good for him.

After Chris and her escaped from the Antarctic, he brought his little sister back to his home in Europe. There, Jill was waiting, and seemed to have stayed there for a good week without any proper food or rest. After Jill gave a ten minute speech about the nightmare she endured at Raccoon City, the other activities Umbrella was conducting and how she came to Europe to reunite with him, only to find his home abandoned, she finally realized something had happened to the siblings as well. Chris and Claire finally began their own story, and Jill seemed horribly embarrassed by her outburst and accusations.

Not even a day later, they met up with Leon in Ottawa, Canada, and rented out the very apartment complex they were in now. Looking back at it now, her adventure at Rockfort, her detour in the Antarctic, her trip back to Europe, and her move to Canada, it all seemed like events that happened eons ago. But, in reality, not even a week had gone by since she was freezing her ass off in Antarctica. Not even a week ago, Steve and her were sleeping next to each other on a plane. She remembered wishing things could always be that peaceful…

Stop acting like a depressed teenager, she told herself, sternly.

The Redfield made her way to the kitchen and began making some coffee. A year ago, she would've been in her cold, cold grave before drinking this garbage. But, Jill introduced her to the wonders of flavored coffee, and with the sleeping pattern Claire was on now, she needed the magic drink.

Claire hopped onto the counter, readjusting her pink socks. She was still in her nightwear, and most likely wouldn't change for the rest of the day. No one ever went anywhere. And, if they did, they threw on sweats, did their quick errand and came back in less than an hour. Their days were spent doing two things, and two things only: waiting and researching.

Researching seemed like an effortless act, but in all truth, it was not. She didn't understand a word of science, and most of the time was spent trying to reverse that fact. Oh, and she thought her days of studying that genetic mumbo-jumbo ended the day she dropped out of college. Apparently, not. She wished Rebecca Chambers was still around. She was genius, and she explained things clear enough to make anyone understand mitosis, meiosis, cell separating and whatever else they unearthed in files.

Rebecca and Carlos were both being sent to spy on Umbrella. Carlos returned to working with the UBCS, but under a new name. That Nicholai guy Jill always talked about was after this Carlos, but he needed to stay with the unit in order to find more information on Umbrella. Rebecca, on the other hand, started working with Umbrella's Paris unit as somewhat of a researcher. At first, no one wanted the young girl to go undercover, but her intelligence would please Umbrella, and meanwhile, she could give Claire and the others inside information. The whole idea Rebecca could be injecting the virus into innocent animals and humans churned everyone's stomach, but the girl claimed she was acting as an assistant, and nothing more.

"You know, your coffee is done."

Claire looked up, and saw Leon standing in the hallway. She gave him a friendly smile and watched him walk into the kitchen. He was dressed lazily—jeans and a green shirt—but at least he looked better than she did. She also noted his hair was wet, which meant he just finished taking a shower. Hopping off the counter, she poured herself a cup of coffee in a mug that read "Life's a Beach"in bold red letters. It had to be the lamest message ever printed on a mug, but it belonged to Chris, and everyone knew Chris was pretty lame himself.

"Why are you up so early?" he asked, reaching into the cabinet and grabbing a mug for himself.

Claire shrugged. "Insomnia, I guess."

Leon nodded and poured his coffee. "Jill and your brother keep you up all night?"

She scoffed and shoved Leon playfully in the side. "Don't give me visuals," she ordered with a grin. "So, why are you up so early?"

"I went for a run an hour ago. I hope I wasn't one who woke you."

"I didn't hear you. I had my headphones on for a while," she explained. She walked out of the kitchen and into the living room. Over in the corner sat a desk with a computer and fax/printer resting upon the furniture. She glanced at it, seeing if perhaps a fax had been sent during the night. Nothing was there, so she guessed nor Rebecca or Carlos came up with anything new.

She grabbed the remote and clicked on the television. It was on some weird cartoon channel. She quickly switched to the local news. The bottom headlines said various things—Child Found, Fire at 24-Hour Diner, Break-in at Drug Store—but nothing really interested her. She wondered if the headlines would ever say something like Umbrella Inc. Finished, but the chance of that day coming any time soon were slim. And, it made Claire wonder if it ever would come.

xxxxx

Claire…

"C-laaai-reee…"

Was that his voice? The boy couldn't tell. If it was, why did he sound so weird? No, that wasn't the proper question. Why did he feel so weird? Maybe he should be asking himself where he was… Or where Claire was…

Dammit, what's wrong with my head?

He tried blinking, but he couldn't see anything either. His vision was blurry, but he could make out shapes. There was a blurry purple circle to the left and a funny looking square to his right.

He couldn't recall where he was last. He remembered Claire, remembered shooting down his father, remembered everything on Rockfort; but, there was something unusual about Alfred. He was a cross-dresser and in love with his sister—what a twisted fuck!—but it was Alexia who sent chills down Steve's spine at the moment. Yes, it was certainly that Alexia Ashford woman who did something to him. She existed, much to his surprise, and she took him into a room. Somehow, he was strapped down onto a weird chair. He remembered shaking, pleading, begging, but she—

—wait, no. No, no, no, no. This is all wrong. She didn't. She couldn't have. Where was Claire? Why weren't we together? Why can't I remember!

"Who's this kid?"

"Steve Burnside."

Steve jolted. People were nearby. A male and a female. Female. Was it Claire?

He tried his voice again: "C-Claaaire…?"

"Who's Claire?" the female asked.

"Claire Redfield. Chris Redfield's sister." The man's voice was deep, but calm. Steve recognized it, but from where?

"Alfred?" he gaped out. Suddenly, another memory came back. He killed Alfred. He had to, because that sick Ashford twin would've killed Claire. The thoughts brought him back to his horrifying memories of Alexia. Did she really… inject him with something? He could actually feel the needle sliding inside his arm as the scene flashed through his head. He was crying.

I'm such a wimp. What would Claire have thought if she saw me?

Maybe these people near him were here to help. Maybe Chris did come to rescue them, and he brought backup from a Special Forces team.

"Where's Claire?" he asked, finally finding his full voice.

"She's not here," the man answered. "Now quit talking."

"Why, what's happening to—?" Steve was cut off when he felt something slice at his side. He let out a loud scream and began writhing. He was held down, and at that point, he realized something bad was happening. "Let go of me!" he hollered, pushing the people away. He was surprised to feel the grasps fall. He did that; he pushed them off. They must have been weak, because Steve certainly wasn't that powerful.

"Sedate him. He's too strong." It was the man again. Steve wasn't sure, but he thought he heard a group of feet shuffle out of whatever room he occupied.

Soon after, Steve felt a needle in his left arm. It didn't hurt, not like those pesky shots normally did. Maybe it was the fact he knew he was injected with some kind of sleeping medicine, and he was automatically starting to doze off. But, that feeling, the feeling of the needle, was just starting to help him remember Alexia, and… and…

Hours later, the boy reopened his eyes. This time, his vision was no longer blurred. He could see his surroundings, but nobody was around. Was this a hospital room? Why on earth was he here?

Steve looked down at his clothing. He was in one of those blue and white hospital gowns. Where did his prisoner clothes go?

'She's not here.'

The man's voice suddenly rang in his head. If Claire wasn't here, then where did she go?

He was sick of asking himself questions. He had to get up and find out why he was in this damn hospital. The room was so dull. Green sheets on his bed, green curtains over the single window, and a stupid observation window from the hallway. On either side of him were tables with various devices. There was another door to the far left of the room. He guessed it lead to the bathroom. He suddenly realized he needed to take a much-needed piss.

Climbing out of bed, he felt his bare feet touch the cold tile. He was shocked by how quickly the shudder ran through his body. He stumbled forward, landing on his knees. His side began to ache. Steve lifted up the gown to find stitches where they cut him open before. What did they do to him?

No, not more questions, goddammit.

He was up again, mostly thanks to the bed railing. Once he was away from the bed he had to lean against the wall for support. By the time he reached the bathroom, he felt as though he were about to faint.

Something was very wrong with him.

Thankfully, there was no lid to the toilet, so Steve didn't have to bend over. When he finished he realized the mere seconds he stood with no support exhausted him. He rested his weight against the sink, clutching his side as his breathing increased.

I have to find Claire. She's alive. I know it.

A long exhale escaped his lips. He turned around to straighten his hair, which he could just tell was disheveled and greasy. After all, he hadn't taken a shower since the day after he arrived at Rock—

—Steve let out a deafening yell at the first sight of his face. His eyes… Fucking hell, his eyes. A million more questions filled his head again, and at that point, he remembered everything. Alexia, the needle, the T-Veronica, the ax, his breathing stopping, his body growing into something abnormal and monstrous. He tried to kill Claire. But, he didn't succeed, because he recognized her beautiful face, her voice. Then, that stupid tentacle—which he cut simply to save Claire—backfired its attack onto him. It pierced through his body and killed him.

Except, obviously fucking not.

Oh, God… Why is this happening to me?

He returned to look at his eyes. They were orange, so bright and grotesque. He was still a monster. The eyes gave it all away. But, he looked normal despite that. His skin looked a bit pale—almost gray—but it wasn't terrible. He reached to touch his face, watching himself in the mirror as he did so. His index finger tapped his right eye for a second. This was no dream.

Anger flashed through him. His hands clutched the edges of the sink, and he glared at himself in the mirror. A loud cracking sound brought his gaze down. The ceramic edge had disconnected from the sink, half of it still extruding from the wall, the other half held between his palms.

This was just like the men holding him down earlier. This… strength.

"It's an effect from the virus,"

Steve turned around. The voice did not come from him, though he certainly was thinking the very same words.

"W-What…?" was the first thing that came out of his mouth.

There was a man standing in the doorway of the bathroom. He was tall, with broad shoulders and striking blonde hair. He was dressed in all black, but he didn't look like some ridiculous Goth. He looked like a soldier. There was something familiar about him.

"What's the last thing you remember?" he asked.

Steve dropped the ceramic tearing, but neither looked down to watch it crumble into more pieces. "Who are you?"

"My name is Albert Wesker," he informed the russet-haired boy. "And, you're Steve Burnside."

"I... I…" He furrowed his brow, his eyes narrowing before returning to look straight at this Wesker man. "I know who I am. And, I think I know you."

"You've been in a coma for almost a complete week."

"What? Why?" Steve ran his hand through his hair, trying to move the bangs out of his view. "Claire… Claire, where is she? I need to find her!"

"Claire's not here. I told you that already." The man turned around and reentered the main hospital room.

Steve followed, stepping over the broken sink debris. "Something's wrong with me," he told Wesker. "I remember this crazy woman injecting me with something."

"True. It's good that you remember."

"And, I didn't hurt Claire!" he said, his tone rising. "I saved her."

"If that's what you want to call it," Wesker muttered, grabbing a clipboard. He skimmed whatever paper was there and then jotted something down.

"What is that? Let me see!" Steve tried to grab the clipboard, but the blonde held it above his reach.

"You're slow. That's not a good sign." He wrote something else on the clipboard.

"Slow?" the boy echoed. "What's going on? Tell me!" He felt very tired again. He rubbed his forehead. "May I sit down?"

Albert Wesker shrugged, gesturing for him to do as he pleased. Steve crawled back into his bed, and it suddenly seemed very warm. He lay all the way down instead of simply sitting. He needed it.

"Steven—or is it just Steve?—I should inform you of something." He readjusted his sunglasses, and the boy had to wonder why he was even wearing them. Maybe they were a prescription. "You're no longer on the Antarctic."

Steve sat up in a rush. "Then, where is Claire? Did Chris come?Oh, God, please tell me she's okay!" His hands had somehow found their way to Wesker's shoulders. Even beneath the sunglasses, Steve could tell the man furrowed his eyebrows deeply. After removing the boy's grip, he spoke:

"Your dear Claire left with her brother Chris. So, yes, I suppose Redfield kept his promise. Too bad she didn't keep her promise to you."

"Promise…? What? I'm the one who broke the promise." Steve looked confused, but did not let his mind clarify the statement. "But, if I'm not on the Antarctic…" he trailed off, trying to get a hold of things. "Oh, God… No, no! You're from Umbrella! Alexia brought me here!" Steve began throwing his sheets off his body, trying to get out of the bed. Wesker held him down.

"Will you shut up and stop interrupting?" Wesker's voice was stern and serious. "I am not from Umbrella. And, Alexia is dead. She transformed into a monster, and Chris, well, that lucky bastard killed her. I suppose you should thank him, but I'm sure you would've liked to end her life yourself." He paused for a second, then continued. "Listen. That little tentacle ended your life, but we gave you a second chance. Right after Claire stopped sobbing and met up with Chris, my people took your body. We injected you with the G-Virus to revitalize your body function. You started breathing again, but were unconscious until yesterday afternoon. It seems your body finally accepted the virus, and—"

"The virus?" Steve gaped. "You mean… You mean, it's really still in me?"

"More so than it was before you died."

"Died?" he screamed again. "What the hell do you mean? I… I don't understand."

There was short silence, and Steve could tell Wesker was starting to lose whatever patience he had left. "You said you remembered Alexia injecting you with the virus, right?"

"Y-Yes…"

"Well, you transformed. Obviously. But, when the tentacle attacked you, it made your body revert to its human form. Do you know what a Tyrant is?"

Steve nodded. "I read something about them on Rockfort. When Claire and I were escaping, one ended up on our plane, and she—"

Wesker cut him off. "There are two kinds of Tyrants, Steve. One is the type you read about. The other is a humanoid Tyrant. Which is what I am."

"You're a Tyrant? How can that be? You're not mutated."

"That's the point. If manipulated correctly, the virus can be injected into a person with no mutation at all. If some, it's usually in the eyes." At that moment, the man removed his sunglasses.

Two revelations smacked Steve straight in the face. He tried saying something, but no words escaped him. Instead, he stared at the man's eyes, the man's beautifully orange and yellow eyes. The irises were like a cat's, which made them very different from Steve's. But, God, the color, it was so transpiring.Why hadn't Steve's own orange eyes mesmerized him like that?

Duh. You were shocked.

Then, the realization really hit. He looked away, and tears pressed into his own monstrous eyes.

"I'm… I'm infected." This time, there was no question. His tears fell, and he let his face collapse into his hands. "I'm infected. Infected. I'm a freak!" Steve swung his arms towards the nearby table, smashing the lamp and hospital telephone.

Wesker didn't even flinch. He just watched as Steve continued to smash the objects around him. By now, the boy was out of bed and knocking over the I.V. and heart-monitor machine, which hadn't even been active in the first place.

Steve then made his way into the bathroom, slamming his fist into the mirror repeatedly until dropping to his knees to continue sobbing. His knuckles were bleeding, and he just wiped the fluid on his short hospital gown. He was sure he had (and still was) indecently exposing himself to Wesker, but he didn't care. Not one bit.

Meanwhile, Wesker was keeping a poker face. He was back to standing in the doorway of the bathroom, staring at the boy in hysterics. When Steve noticed he was there, he threw himself on the man in a fit of rage. He realized he caught Wesker off guard, and smiled. He tried punching the blonde, but the man blocked almost every blow. Instead, Steve was the one who received numerous hits. He grunted, but the pain wasn't immense. Giving up, he attempted to strangle Wesker, but Wesker shoved him off his body, sending the boy flying backwards into the bathroom and hitting his head against the broken sink.

Steve gave a cry of pain, holding the fresh wounds on his back. Blood was seeping from beneath his neck, most likely cut from the uneven edges of ceramic.

"You monster…" Steve sneered, but if it sounded as weak as he thought, he knew it didn't affect the man. "Who did this to me? Who?" he yelled, his body trembling.

Wesker stood up, adjusting his clothing and placing his sunglasses back on the bridge of his nose. "A group of scientists, including myself."

"You? You did this me?You stupid bastard! Why didn't you just let me die?" He was yelling into his hands and most of his words sounded muffled. "I hate you…"

He sobbed for a few more minutes, until finally looking up. Wesker was no longer there. Steve realized how childish and foolish he must have seemed, proclaiming hate and accusations to a man he just met.

Steve grabbed a bundle of toilet paper and began cleaning his wounds. When finished, he didn't bother aiming for the trash. He simply threw the bloody tissues on the ground. When he stepped back out to the main room, Steve expected to see a billion doctors staring at him through the observation window, but no one was there. Now was his chance to make a getaway. He opened the door to the hall and peeked out. Again, no one.

His bare feet seemed to slap loudly against the floor as he ran through the halls. This didn't look like some laboratory; it actually did look like a hospital. Maybe Wesker wasn't a bad person. Maybe Umbrella injected him with the virus, too, and he really worked for an anti-Umbrella group. No, that made no sense. Why would he have people inject other victims with the virus? Victims like Steve.

"Fire escape stairs," Steve whispered, seeing the sign ahead. There was most likely an elevator somewhere around here, but it would be foolish to take it. He began running faster and faster, slamming his body against the long, horizontal door handle. Steve continued his escape. He dashed down the stairs, step after step, flight after flight. Inches away from the door labeled Exit,he extended his arms, ready to push it open, and—

—and then he felt something in his shoulder. Hot. Metallic. Burning.

"Stop where you're at!"

Steve searched for the voice's owner. He turned, seeing a group of a guards standing behind him. One was holding out a gun, and Steve realized he had been shot. He was too overwhelmed with excitement that he hadn't even paid attention to the blaring of the gunshot… the stomping of their feet… their warning shouts…

The boy clutched the bullet wound, but he realized it didn't hurt as much as it should have.

The virus, he thought.

Steve stood still as the guards started to approach. His hand was still gripped around the bloody injury, but they must have thought he had calmed down now.

Big mistake, he thought and swung his arm around the man's neck. He was in the middle of a scream when Steve kicked the man forward, causing him to slam into his companions. The group tumbled to the floor, and the russet-haired boy had his chance. But, when he pushed the door, it did not budge. He noticed an electronic number pad on the side and cursed loudly. There was no other option—he'd have to take the other door.

It brought him into a hallway, something almost resembling a hotel lobby. Searching for an exit, he regretted taking in the surroundings, because he already heard the guards chasing after him again.

No, this is not happening to me, Steve told himself. They're not catching me. I have to get out—I have to find Claire!

"We're giving you one final warning!" the same man shouted. "If you do not stop, we will shoot to kill."

When the man's sentence ended, Steve saw a girl. She was small, but looked about thirteen years old. She had blonde hair and was dressed in a black and white school uniform. The girl was just about to lean against a wall when Steve grabbed her by the hand and turned her to face the guards.

She let out a blaring scream, one that made even Steve cringe. He put a hand over her mouth and held her close to his chest. Her feet began flailing, kicking the air. Underneath his hand, Steve could hear her say, "Get your hands off me, you pervert!"

"Shut up!" he ordered. When the guards saw him, they all halted, and realized his plan. "I swear I'll snap her puny little neck if you make one step closer!"

"Mmmph!" the girl huffed. Her continual kicking caused her left shoe to fall off.

"Let her go," another guard warned. He raised his gun.

"Shoot me, I'll use this girl as a shield."

"You were shot with a regular bullet before. Imagine what a B.O.W. one will do."

Steve knew the B.O.W. bullets would do nothing to this little girl. He glanced from side to side, trying to see if there was any chance of making one more getaway. Both his left and right were dead-ends, and he doubted he'd be away to turn around and run without them shooting.

The guns were cocked.

"Don't waste your time with Steven."

At the sound of Wesker's voice, the girl stopped kicking. The man was standing behind the guards. Each of them turned around the face him. They lowered their guns. One said something, but Steve couldn't hear. Wesker pushed past the men and looked at the redhead.

"Let her go."

"Why?" he spat out, glaring.

"I said let her go." The blonde walked up to Steve, grabbing his wrists and pulling the grip off the girl. She fell to the floor with a loud thud-sound. Automatically, she stood on her feet and made great distance between herself and Steve.

"Did you really think I'd just let you escape?" Wesker wondered, slightly cocking his head.

Steve was silent.

"Where do you get off touching me like that?" the blonde girl demanded. She sounded so young and innocent. Steve knew her hateful tone wasn't a normal one.

"Sherry," Wesker said, turning to her, "get your things and leave."

"He grabbed me and tried to break my—"

"Go, Sherry." This time, Wesker's voice seemed angry.

The girl—Sherry—grabbed her backpack and shuffled off to the staircase where Steve came from.

Wesker looked back at Steve. "Using Sherry as a shield was hardly smart."

"I'm sorry I touched your pure, innocent daughter." Steve straightened out his hospital gown. God, he felt like such a pansy in it.

"She's not my daughter," Wesker admitted.

"Then, who the fuck was sh—?"

But, something soft cut Steve's words short. A thick needle, sliding into his jugular vein cut him off. Fuck, Steve thought, falling to his knees for what seemed like the hundredth time today.

The tranquilizer came from behind. He had been stupid enough to stop watching what was going on behind him, and now, it was happening again: he was passing out.

"You bastard…" he whispered as his sight faded to black.

End of Chapter One