Little update as of 09.12.18: After consulting with a reader-friend (thank you so much, Sofi!), I decided to take down the prologue and continue to pace this story. As I've confessed before, I had to like 'try' writing smut for Wesklaire first, before completely trusting myself on writing a multichaptered story with the pair. And that's what I did here, but the 'trial run' prologue is kind of sticking like a sore thumb from the rest of the story now, so I took it down for coherency's sake and for my own peace of mind haha! As always, thank you for reading and supporting my works~ :D
Author's Notes: Admittedly, I'm slow on Wesklaire. I picture Claire mostly with Leon (Wesker I obviously picture with Jill), especially back when I can't see Leon together with Ada. Cleon was my OTP back then, they were really cute in the Degeneration movie. Playing RE6 made me welcome Aeon though LOL!
Anyway, here's the start of an experimental take on Wesklaire.
Hope you guys enjoy the read~ :D
A fever was a sign of infection, a sign that the body was fighting off a disease. But in her case, it was a sign of her being defeated by the virus.
Would she turn into a sort of plant, every droplet of her blood made flammable? Would she remember who she was or would she be mindless like a drone - no memories to define her as a person? Would she cease to exist? Just forgotten?, Claire's thoughts raced as the entirety of her shivered uncontrollably. Shivers soon turned into contortions - bending her limbs, reshaping her with vicious waves of something foreign and invisible. Her ears rang with white noise and her lips parted to make way for cries and screams.
Behind her tightly closed lids, images flashed in quick succession. Falling off a bike, crying ugly, a brother helping her back up. Scraped knees, dirtied fingers, pulled hair, surrounded by bullies shouting silly. Dead father. More crying. Dead mother. Loud sobbing. Chris was always there, in every memory, until he was simply not. Her hands shot out - unseeing and reaching. Her nails dug into the concrete - cracking and bleeding.
The pain seemed to seep into her every pore, seeping... melting... reshaping.
And in her delirious state, where in the chill and the fire in her blood tried to rip her apart from the inside and out, a figure clad in black towered over her prone form.
"You'll be of use." A single sentence. A life sentence.
But useful sounded better than dead.
Live. Find Chris. Don't give up.
The rest of her surroundings bled to black and to him.
She regained consciousness in a sterile looking room - all white tiles and grey steel. Her breathing was steady and loud in her ears.
Complicated equipment surrounded the metal slab she was lying in. Little lights twinkled in varying colors of red, green, and orange. Her eyes searched for something familiar in the room, something recognizable that would hint on her whereabouts, something in equal partitions of red and white. But the only red in the room were the little bulbs like hanging lights on Christmas. The only white were the tiles.
Craning her neck to the right, she studied the frosted door.
On it were simple letters written in gold.
H.C.F.
Anxiety reared its ugly head, biting strands after strands of her confidence. The pulse monitor automatically picked up the turmoil within her.
Claire quickly slid off of the bed, heart thundering in her chest, surprised to find that she wasn't strapped in. She winced the moment her feet made contact with the cold as ice floor. Frantically her hands wandered over her body, checking for entry points, looking for sore spots where in needles could have broken into her skin.
Nothing. Her eyes trailed back to the door.
H.C.F. — She had no idea what the three letters mean. No idea at all. But she was familiar with it - having seen it once before, having seen it recently. Yellow on black. Blond hair. Sable sunglasses. There was no mistake... On his uniform... those letters had been printed.
It was not a dream.
She remained crouched, cautious and wanting to remain stealthy as she made her way against the wall containing the exit. Her eyes searched the room for anything, anything that could be of use - a scalpel for slicing in, a cable wire for snuffing out, a bottle to smash against skull...
It was not a bad dream.
The hospital gown gaped open at her back, allowing the chill to prick over her spine, heightening her senses. Breathe, she berated herself. Eyes darting at the four corners of the room, watching out for cameras. I have to get out. Sweat beaded on her forehead, trickling down the side of her face. Need to calm down. She swallowed the nervous lump in her throat as she reached for the silver handle.
Escape before he comes...
The frosted door opened to a small laboratory, housing monitors with screens glowing with that golden acronym. But she was lucky, for it was empty of living things.
A red sign taunted her at the other side. EXIT, it said.
She straightened from the crouch position and dashed to the neatly lined tables, throwing open unlocked drawers, searching as fast as she could for something useful.
A gun. Please, give me a fucking gun!
Papers scattered on the floor with her careless movements. Fancy pens dropping. An intricate looking paperweight breaking.
Among the delicate and sharpened pencils, she found a shiny scalpel.
It was better than nothing, she thought as she stepped out to a deserted hallway. A scalpel could kill. And she could be real sneaky. It was better than nothing. It was better than defenseless. If she stumbled on a lax guard then she could steal some heavy weaponry. It was a good start. She could get out if she put her mind to it. She could.
Careful and smart. She whispered to herself softly. Careful and smart. A mantra in her head.
Her bare feet were soundless against the concrete. The corridor seemed to be a long stretch when she first saw it. But she had covered the length of it... so fast, too fast. There was a strength in her. A strength she wanted to question. But she was also in need of that strange strength given her current situation.
Worry later.
She pressed herself flat against the wall, gulping down deep breaths, attempting to appease her racing heart. She took a brief peek at the next hallway. There was an elevator at the end of it. The up symbol was lighted. There was no down symbol, meaning she was at the lowest floor possible.
Right in the bowels of hell.
She released the security camera. It fell on the floor, reduced to scraps of plastic, broken glass, and torn wires.
Crushed pieces.
What the fuck—
She stared at her shaking hand, her palm sweating, a fine dusting of what she had accidentally destroyed with ease clung on her skin.
The recent memory replayed itself, how she jumped for the camera, how she was so sure it would result to failure. She was not that tall, definitely never had that leap in her legs, definitely never had such strength.
She was suddenly aware of the rising elevator, senses zeroing on the climbing numbered lights.
Closing her eyes took her back to Antarctica.
To the prison and corpses. To the castle and Alexia.
She could see her sly smile, could feel the silk of her glove against the injection site, could smell her chemical scent.
'Can you handle this, Claire Redfield?'
She could hear herself scream as the virus entered her bloodstream.
She hissed at the sting, before realizing she was the source of her own pain. Specks of blood decorated the tips of her nails. On her left arm was a chicken scratch of torn skin. It was tingling, itching like something was crawling from inside of her.
The elevator came to a smooth stop.
Her breathing turned labored, panic settling in. She tried to recover more memories from the island. But what else was there to recover? Besides the cold kiss of the needle and the fire on her blood that followed.
She stared at the scratches on her arm, knitting... vanishing...
—like a magic trick.
"Drop your weapon!"
Six armed guards held her at gun point, the red dot sights seemed to be trained on every vital part of her they could pinpoint. Why not all go for a shot to the head?
"Drop the scalpel!"
She tried to search for a way out of the situation, the fish in a barrel sort of situation she was in. But all her eyes could see was the picture of her skin sticking back together.
Imagining things, her thoughts whispered, a blatant attempt to blind herself from the obvious.
"This is your last warning!"
Am I infected?, it was her last thought before someone shot the scalpel out of her hand, effectively leaving a hole in her wrist.
Time froze then, capturing the hurt radiating from her injury.
The pain made her ears ring as blood rushed in her head. The pain spiked her emotions up, dragging her anger out in the open.
Her eyes followed the droplets of her blood, falling on the steel floor... pooling there in small circles...
Then blooming into little flames that spread...
"Get her out of there!"
"Shit!" Claire tried to stop the bleeding with her hand, fingers wrapping around her wrist to stop the blood flow. She trembled, as more of her life essence spilled on the floor, contributing to the wall of fire.
It was suffocating, the heat and real flames that were somehow caused by her. It easily conquered the cramped space of the elevator.
"Shit! Shit! Shit!" She cowered in a corner, trying to escape the fire but her wrist was still bleeding, hence the inferno trailed her wake.
"Just stop! Stop!" She realized she could die there, burned into crisp by her own making. "Make it stop!"
A drop of blood hit her hospital gown, a small flame bloomed from it like a hot red orange flower, flourishing and burning.
She screwed her eyes shut, crying in terror as the fire licked her skin.
"Calm down."
Radio static seemed to obscure her hearing. She was frozen in place, screaming her lungs out. She could smell burning flesh... her burning flesh, making her stomach churn.
"Claire."
Someone wrapped a cloth around her wrist, long fingers held it in place and she tried to snatch her hand away, thinking she would burn another person.
"Concentrate on breathing." The voice sounded clearer, sure and even like a doctor's. "Your abilities could clot a bullet wound."
She gasped, shuddering. A finger pressed into her injury along with the fabric. It hurt... It fucking hurt! But it helped her focus on breathing. She lowered her arm, the one she had been trying to protect herself with all that time, taking a peek at her surroundings.
It was his black boots she first saw. The rest of him towered over her, blocking the flickering lights of the damaged elevator.
"You've made quite a mess.", he observed flatly. Scorch marks decorated the steel floor and walls. Ashes stained the pristine white of his coat.
Wesker opened a small silver case in his hand, plucking a syringe out of it. He inspected the clear liquid inside, before crouching down to her position.
She could see herself reflected on his sunglasses. She was red-faced and gaping up at him. Her blue eyes rimmed with tears.
"We'll talk when you wake."
Author's Note: Thank you for reading!~ :D