A/N: I'm trying to think of a way to start the next "Big Story", so to speak, and…suffice to say no ideas are forthcoming. So I wrote this. The story is right before Code: Veronica, and details how Claire was captured and sent to the Rockfort prison,.
Also, please read my other stories, "Moonlight Sonata", "Dragonfly" and "If This is Life". The latter is a very quick read, and I'd very much appreciate reviews for any of them. (I'm one of those people that just thrive off of reviews like some kind of primeval swamp creature off of…less fortunate primeval swamp creatures. Ô_o Bad. Very bad.)
Kudos to Claire_Burnside267, who gave me Claire's prisoner ID number, and everyone who reviewed.
Captured
Run, dammit, RUN! Claire rushed through the wide corridor, hear breath coming in ragged gasps, Can't keep this up much longer…Claire flew around a corner and skidded to a halt, her boots sliding on the smooth stone floor. A blinding white light pulsed through the window, and Claire threw up an arm to shield her eyes – but through the splotches and zig-zagging lines made by the light, Claire saw a faint outline of something. Her heart caught in her throat. A gun – a very big gun.
She turned, pushing two confused security guards out of the way and ducking into the corridor she'd left only moments ago. Behind her, the spluttering of a machine gun burst out in time with the screams of the unfortunate guards. Claire took a breath and sprinted down the corridor. If I can just get to the end…to the end…
The helicopter's searchlights panned through the corridor before focusing on the fleeing figure. Bullets hit the floor behind Claire, sending chips of stone flying against everything. Claire's lungs were burning, her adrenaline rush was nearly over, her hand was cramped from too much time curled around a handgun and the bullets were getting closer and closer to her legs. But the door to the heliport was just ahead…
With one final burst of energy, Claire jumped up and rolled as she hit the ground, coming up facing a group of armed guards. They were pointing their weapons at her.
Game over, Claire.
One of the men took a step forward, motioning at the gun Claire was now holding up, her finger lifted off the trigger. A symbol behind him burned its impression into her mind. DANGER – flammable gas. Keep away from open flame and extreme heat. It was worth a try.
She dropped her gun, letting it roll from her hand and hesitated for a second, just a second. Will it work? Am I going to die? And then Claire was dropping to the ground and snatching the gun from the air, aiming and firing, watching as the puzzled expressions on the guards' faces gave way to a greater emotion – fear.
Claire saw a fiery blossom start to bloom across the far side of the area, petals of orange and red and yellow zooming crazily this way and that as the air wavered from the heat. She hid her head as a blast of heat rolled over her bare arms. Screaming and shrieking told her she'd been successful, and with a hopeful expression she uncovered her eyes.
The blackened bodies of Umbrella's security squad lay scattered over the platform. The ones that were still alive were yelling hoarsely and rolling back and forth in torment. Claire's conscience twinged. They'll all die, because of me. Die terrible deaths, because of me…
Click. Claire spun around, her gun aimed upwards. Dark, unfathomable eyes gazed at her from a stoic face devoid of emotion. Claire pulled the trigger instinctively. Nothing happened. The man didn't so much as blink, and Claire realized what had happened.
It was over. Everything was over, everything was done.
And suddenly she felt like she was falling, falling, falling, falling deeper into her mind and away from that world with death and decay, and into her own place where everything was cool and calm and soft and quiet, where nothing could ever reach her…
*****************************************************************************************************************************
Shit. How do I get myself into these situations?
Claire hooked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and stared at the huge mirror. It looked like the ones in police movies and shows – a magic mirror, was that what it was called? She was undeniably nervous, with all those people that were hiding behind the smooth, impenetrable wall of glass. Umbrella's people. Why didn't they just kill her already? Instead, they were asking her questions, a whole lot of questions, about things that confused her sometimes.
Her reflection in the mirror looked pale, with dark smudges under wide, frightened eyes. She was sick of this eternal questioning, and desperately wanted a good night's sleep and more than a bowl of broth in her stomach. And the past few days, they'd made her sleep in a tiny cell with padded walls. Padded walls. Like she was crazy or something. Claire swallowed hard and licked her lips, waiting for the next question.
"Why did you infiltrate Umbrella Headquarters in Paris, France?" Claire sat there, thinking. For Chris, of course, but it might not be safe to tell them that. But what would she tell them, then? It wasn't like telling the truth here would give Chris's position away, or anything. Hell, she didn't even know where Chris was, how could she give him away?
"Miss Redfield?"
"I came looking for my brother." Her voice was soft, and, while not quiet timid or meek, it certainly didn't have the strength Claire wished it did.
"Christopher Redfield, renegade STARS operative previously of Raccoon City?" Claire nodded, and there was a moment of uncomfortable silence. "Yesterday you said you survived Raccoon City. Did anyone else survive?" She hesitated.
They could beat her senseless, but she'd never tell them about Leon or Sherry, who were still safely hiding away back in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
"No."
"You made it out alone?" The skepticism in that flat voice wasn't washed out by the intercom.
"Yes. There was a policeman I met in the precinct, but he died." That part, at least, wasn't a lie – the unfortunate Marvin Branagh had indeed helped her, and mutated into a zombie not an hour afterwards.
"Alright then…" The sound of shuffling papers reached Claire's ears, and she folded her hands, her knuckles white. "Well. What exactly did you see in Raccoon City?"
"Monsters, made by your company. And people that were dead or mindless that some kind of virus killed." Claire felt irritated – they knew damn well what she'd seen.
"Did the monsters seem to thrive, do well in their environment?" The eagerness in his voice disgusted Claire.
"Until I came along, yeah."
"And the human beings mutated by the T-Virus – what about them? How did they fare?"
Claire replied, "What about them? You should know, shouldn't you? You make them, after all."
The man skipped a beat before answering. "Answer the question, Miss Redfield." Claire's blood started to boil, from the condescending tone in his voice and the cavalier way he was treating the whole incident, and, most of all, out of irritation with the long hours of interrogation.
"I don't have anything to say."
"I said answer the question. Now."
"No. I'm sick of this and I'm tired and hungry and I need to pee. Go away."
"You'll answer that question, Miss Redfield, or we'll find a way to get it out of you. But if you answer now, you'll get a bed and some food and a restroom at your disposal. Now, answer us, please." There was a cruel, austere sort of power in the voice that drained the anger from her veins and left Claire feeling surly.
She felt like she was six years old again, being reprimanded by her parents and threatened with no dessert unless she ate everything on her plate. Sullenly, she snapped back, "They were stupid and ugly and smelled bad. Is that good enough for you?"
"Not quite. One more question and then you'll get a break. In Raccoon City, did you ever come across anyone with the following names: Ada Wong, Sherry Birkin, Annette Birkin, William Birkin, Albert Wesker?"
"No. No one." The door on the far side of the room started to rattle as the lock was undone and the door pushed open. A man in a security uniform with the Umbrella logo embossed on it stepped in and approached her. There was another man waiting at the door. They both had what looked like Beretta 9mm pistols in their holsters, and electric prodding devices clipped to their belts. The prodders looked like the tasers used to usher cows into the slaughterhouse.
Claire winced, wishing she hadn't thought of that, and stood, offering her wrists. They always put her in handcuffs that were usually a size too small – at least, they had for the past eight days. And her wrists weren't even thick or anything. As she was escorted out of the room by the guards, she heard the man on the intercom say something to another person behind the mirror. She wasn't sure what exactly he said, but Claire thought it sounded something like, "We've got to get her out of Paris."
*****************************************************************************************************************************
Claire's boots made loud clicking noises against the stone floor, the sound echoing wildly off the walls. It was uncomfortably cold inside the Umbrella building.
You'd think they'd have the heat on in December, Claire thought to herself as the men led her down the long hallway lit with fluorescent lights. At the end, they pushed her into a tiny room and undid her handcuffs. Then they left, slamming the door shut behind them. A covered plate sat on the bed in the corner. There was a barely-there window that was too high for Claire to see out of, but it let in enough light for her to see by.
The sound of bolts and locks being set into place echoed in the room as Claire sat on the rock-hard bed and rubbed her chafed wrists gently. She removed the cover to the plate and looked at the food suspiciously. It seemed edible enough, but what if they'd drugged it or something…?
Shrugging, Claire started to eat anyway. It wasn't like a couple sedatives would make her situation all that much worse…and the food looked edible, at least. As she munched on a mushy green bean, she glanced around the room. As promised, Umbrella had given her food, a bed and a toilet – but that was about it. Her luxuries included a towel and a small stone table with a large bowl of water on it. When she looked closer, Claire discovered a roll of toilet paper hidden between the wall and the toilet.
Wow, they're really feeling generous, Claire thought as she finished the last of her food – a slightly dry roll devoid of flavor. Setting the plate on the floor, Claire lay down on her bed and watched as the room grew gradually darker. She wished that she'd thought to wear a watch. After all, they'd let her keep the lucky lighter Chris had given her, so why wouldn't they let her keep the watch?
At least they decided to let her sleep on a bed; it was more than she'd expected, even if it did feel like lying on a slab of granite. Gradually, the gray light of dusk faded into the inky blackness of night, and the silver light of the moon began to shine. A sliver of pale moonlight slanted into Claire's prison, sending reflections off the plate on the floor.
Claire watched the lights dance over the walls as she drifted off to sleep.
*****************************************************************************************************************************
Rough hands pulling her off the bed woke Claire up. She felt groggy, still tired…but already the guards were shoving her out the door and into the chilly corridor. Claire stumbled over her sleep-numbed feet, only to be yanked up again by the relentless men behind her.
And in less than five minutes, Claire found herself back in the interrogation room with the faceless magic mirror. Claire was more irritated that they'd woken her up from a nice dream than anything else. She mostly had nightmares these days. With a jaw-cracking yawn, Claire blinked the sleep out of her eyes and shivered a little – the room was even colder than she remembered. Were they doing it on purpose? As she rubbed her bare arms, the intercom crackled for a moment before falling silent again.
Claire waited expectedly, and a minute later a man's voice came over the com. Only it wasn't the voice Claire had grown accustomed to hearing – this voice was deeper, and definitely coarser.
"Claire Redfield?" She didn't answer – why should she? Who else would it be? The little gremlin that crawled into her cell last night? After catching a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror, the idea didn't sound too implausible, and Claire nodded in response.
"Please stand up. You will be escorted to a medical facility within the building, and expect that you will behave. If you don't…" He didn't finish the sentence. But then again, he didn't need to. Claire rose silently, wondering what the hell was going on, and let the two guards cuff her and lead her out. Instead of heading towards the cellblock, they took Claire into a small elevator and then down three floors.
When the doors opened up, Claire's "escorts" showed her into a large room full of bright white lights. A sordid-looking doctor waddled up to them and looked Claire over, head to toe. He smiled greasily, shoved his glasses back into place on his nose and nodded, for no reason that was readily apparent to Claire.
"Hm, yes, Claire Redfield, I presume?" Without waiting for an answer, the doctor started off towards a curtained-off section and disappeared for moment, only to pop back into view again, this time carrying a clipboard and thin ink pen. That was when the testing began.
For at least five full hours, Claire had all sorts of tests done to her – tests from mundane things like height and weight to stranger things, like how thick her fingers were at the middle knuckle, and the exact measurements of her skull. And when they started with the shots, Claire got more than a little nervous. What if they were trying to inject her with one of their viruses? When she finally worked up the nerve to stutter out a nearly unintelligible question, the doctor laughed and explained that the shots were mostly vaccines and things.
"Where you're going," he said, "you'll need every one of these things. And maybe a couple more that you won't get." He chuckled then, and stabbed another syringe into Claire's upper arm. There was already a neat line of five tiny punctures from the other shots she'd received, each with its own microscopic spot of blood.
After what seemed a very long time, Claire's guards brought her back up to her cell and left her there with another plate of food. The light outside told her that it was no later than three or four in the afternoon, and she found herself wondering what she was going to do for the rest of the day. She tried rolling onto her side to get some sleep, but instantly regretted doing so – her arm was already a swollen, from too many shots too close together, and the sudden transfer of weight directly on top of the punctures didn't help any.
With a muttered curse, Claire rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. What were they going to do with her? Was Umbrella actually taking her out of the country? And how would she find Chris, if she was captured? Thoughts of her kindly older brother flooded her mind with memories and her eyes with tears. And Leon, and Sherry, too…she'd probably never see them again.
As water blurred her vision, Claire slammed her eyes shut and sniffled for a moment, fighting back the tears that threatened to break loose. Not here, not now, I won't cry for them, I won't let them see me cry…and after a moment, she was quiet, and her eyes were relatively dry. With a deep breath and one final sniff, Claire resumed her scrutiny of the ceiling.
My life sucks, she thought, it really, really sucks.
*****************************************************************************************************************************
She was awake when they came for her the next day. The guards registered no surprise, no nothing, but instead handcuffed her again and took her by the arms to the elevator. Up they went, all the way to the heliport on the roof of Umbrella's European headquarters. Claire saw a short flash of blue sky and gray concrete before a coarse black bag was jammed over her head and secured around her neck.
Claire felt something soft and slightly wet beneath her booted feet – snow, maybe? – and a steady breeze of cold wind caressed her exposed skin. The guards half-carried her to the waiting helicopter and loaded her in.
"Good luck with her, Rodrigo. She's a tough one." Strong, firm hands pulled her into a seat and snapped some sort of seatbelt over her waist.
"I don't need luck. I can handle her." The voice came from close by, probably the seat next to Claire's, and had a strange sort of half-accent that suggested he might be of Hispanic origin. A sputtering noise from the 'copter's engine drowned out any other words the men might have said. With a stomach-churning lurch, the helicopter started off.
Somehow Claire fell asleep. She wasn't sure quite when, but some time later a clicking noise woke her up, and a few moments later the bag was lifted from her head. She blinked, and glanced around. She was still in the helicopter, but it was no longer morning – probably closer to one o' clock in the afternoon. A man, his black hair graying near the temples, stood before her, holding a brown paper bag.
"We stopped for fuel a little while ago, and I thought you might like something to eat." His voice…it was the same man as before. Rodrigo. Claire glanced at her handcuffs binding her arms to the seat. The man chuckled.
"No, no, no. You don't get those off until we're safely in the air. I thought you might like some fresh air, though." Rodrigo gestured to the open door. A cosmopolitan-looking cityscape stretched out under a clear blue sky. Beyond the city buildings, Claire saw the lush green of a jungle.
"Where…are we?" Her voice was a little scratchy from sleep, she noticed.
"South America," he vaguely replied. "We'll be up in the air again soon, so why don't you sit back and enjoy the view?" With a smile, he hopped out of the helicopter, dropping the brown bag on the seat beside Claire. Rodrigo's words were true – in the next ten minutes, three other men and a woman entered the 'copter and sat in the row behind Claire. Rodrigo himself was the last man in.
"Ready?"
"Yeah, go on," Rodrigo called. And with another pitch of the helicopter, they were in the air. After a few minutes, Rodrigo pulled out a key and held it in front of Claire's face.
"Promise me that if I let you out of one of your cuffs, you won't do anything I wouldn't want you to. Alright?" Claire nodded reluctantly and waited patiently as Rodrigo unlocked the cuff on her left arm and offered her the brown bag.
Claire surprised herself by how hungry she was. Her jailer had packed a Coke, a ham sandwich and a little bag of cookies, but as she popped the last delectable morsel of chocolaty goodness into her mouth, she still felt hungry – and a little bit ungrateful, once she realized she hadn't thanked Rodrigo. Even if he did work for Umbrella, it was a very nice thing for him to do.
"Thanks for lunch," she muttered. He didn't reply. Instead, he picked up the packaging and placed it in the brown bag, and set it next to Claire. Then he put the handcuff back on her left wrist, securing her to her seat. The rest of the ride wasn't all that long – maybe an hour or two. When they finally set down, Rodrigo replaced the brown bag and led Claire through a warm, humid outdoor area and then into a cool, possibly underground, corridor. He left her there, and a callused hand grabbed her from behind and yanked the bag off her head.
Claire shook her hair out a little and glanced around. A dimly lit room, and a surly-looking man in front of her, another behind her. Her outlook was not so good.
"You are prisoner number WKD4496. Welcome to your new home."
Claire was about to snarl something at him when a clicking noise had her turning to glance at the man behind. Halfway into the turn, something hard slammed into the base of her neck, and everything got blurry. A muted noise, a voice, maybe, rumbled from what seemed a very long distance. Then everything faded to black…