One of the problems with this fic is that it's written over three different master files, and is essentially two stories. I could have released them separately, but then it wouldn't be a challenge. That and the majority of what's been written is sex or violence. Ones I'm not sure I can release due to content. Argh. I regret that now. OH WELL.
TRIGGER WARNING: Drug use, stalkers. A fair few swearwords due to Susan and possible ooc-ness. If it bothers you, please let me know. This chapter was actually quite fun to write.
PANDORA'S SONG
CHAPTER TWO: Peon, Interrupted.
PRESENT DAY
Afternoon, the light fell in dappled orange splashes across the cheap carpet and scuffed furniture. It was getting late, and Sarton still preyed on his mind, something there that continued to try and get his attention – it would come in time, he couldn't force it.
Chris looked to the one closed door in the place he'd called home for the last month. Jill was behind that door. He grimaced, tugged a beer out of the fridge and slumped into the second of the two couches – the one he'd gotten used to by habit. He could watch all the doors from there. Hard to sleep sometimes. At least here he could view everything.
The maid had stopped cleaning when she'd found the knives stuffed down between the cushions, but old habits died hard.
This beer was, in fact, quite hard. Unforgiving. Chris drank it down anyway and wished that he'd said yes to Sarton's offer of lunch. Cooling his heels here until Sheva returned was not his idea of a fun time, because it meant having to explain things to Jill. And Jill would not take it well.
No time like the present.
Feeling the sweat trickle down his back – when would he ever get used to this heat? – he crushed the can and lobbed it at the bin. It didn't even hit the rim, which made him frown. You're off your game, Redfield.
"Jill?" No answer. He got up, walked to the door, opened it a crack, or at least tried to. "Jill."
A muffled grunt. The curtains were drawn, and it was hot in there, he could tell.
"Jill, open up." It was more of a pleading whisper than a demand, and at last there was movement, just on the edge of hearing. The door was unlocked, opened a crack.
A pale blue eye framed with lank pale hair started up at him from the face of the woman he'd once trusted with his life. "What."
"We need to talk."
"Fuck off."
"Jill." Go slowly with her. "Jill, I'm leaving soon. We need to talk now."
Her pupils constricted, just slightly. The door clicked shut and was then opened again. Jill Valentine. His best friend. Someone he'd once almost considered a lover had he the courage to say something. What did Wesker do to you? She was too skinny by far, ribs showing under her tank-top and the loose sweat-pants hung on flesh that wasn't there. Arms raised to the door frame, fingers curled, an awful parody of an attempt at seduction. She chewed her lip and eyed him from that hood of hair the colour of sun-bleached wheat. "Where?" She said, her voice cracked.
"I'm not sure."
"You can't."
"I have to." He felt awkward, like a boy trying to ask his crush out, knowing it would never happen. His affection for her was still there, but this change was drastic. Too drastic. "The BSAA need me to track something down. In return they're going to get you the proper medical atten-"
"No."
"Jill!"
She grabbed at him, her grip was strangely weak, her face pressed close. She smelt of vomit. There were needle marks on her arms. Shit. Shit I should have known. "I don't want them. I need it. I need it here. They'll take me off it, I can't come off it! You don't know what it's like!"
It took all the effort in the world not to crush those fragile, once beautiful hands. She'd chewed the nails off. "You need help, Jill."
"I don't need help. I need my fix!"
"I can't keep letting this slide anymore. I figured it would take the edge off it for you, but I'm counting three plasters there. How many now, Jill?" He gripped her, didn't let her twist away. "How many?"
She wouldn't answer. He wanted to hug her. He wanted to cradle her, tell her everything would be okay, but stubborn Jill wouldn't let anyone in. She'd much rather sneak out, bribe the maids and the porters for drugs. Anything for a drop of P30 to put her back into diamond-edged bliss. Bring her back into that control. Back to being Jill. But it wasn't coming from the source. It was muddied. It was different. And with this inferior material, Jill was staging a fairly brilliant Doctor Jekyll and Hyde trick that would have made even the toughest of people take a second glance.
She went to say something, but then she jerked. It took a moment to swing her into the bathroom, let her vomit.
Sheva was going to kill him.
But he'd do anything for Jill. Anything at all.
Hating himself as he wiped the sweat from her brow, hating himself for what was forming on his lips as she clutched onto him like she was drowning. Trusting him, despite her sharp tongue and even sharper nails. "I'll look. They might have some left. We can figure something out. Something to set you free."
Jill didn't say anything, she just smiled. And retched. And smiled again.
ARKLAY, MAY 9, 1998
Ordinarily, the Arklay facility ran like clockwork, provided you liked your clocks eccentric, suffering from OCD and with a taste that ran into the white coat and slacks variety with the occasional suspicious stain. As long as the cafeteria kept serving food that was passable, the coffee was on tap and everyone remembered to shower at least every third day, there were no problems. Everyone got on with each other. It was…okay. Umbrella was precious about its scientists, and a fair few staff had been employed to make sure each cog and each dial of the proverbial machine was oiled in the right way and arranged in the correct sequence so Doctor Whatshisface didn't have to work with Suchandsuch's team and vice versa. They had it down to an art.
So naturally, when several of the admin divisions suddenly turned up at the door, there had to be some friction. And with friction came smoke. Smoke lead to fire.
This was an in-joke amidst the researchers because people stuck in small labs and playing with dangerous things tend to be a bit insensitive to outsiders. It had absolutely nothing to do with them, y'know, that an animal rights activist – several activists, actually, had decided that hitting a lab was too difficult by security standards, so why not hit one of the ground offices instead? Served them right for doing bloody desk jobs. Stupid, you know. So when we joke, it's because it's funny, so stop being so damn sensitive.
The scuffles in the corridor were the source of much amusement to the higher-ups, but concerns were still there that now there were other things to occupy the brightest minds in the world and distract them on finding out how many ways a mouse can kill a man. There were words. There were pointed fingers. Passive aggressive notes.
But the executives at the time had decided no, they weren't going to set up shop somewhere new, especially when the fire-happy little sods were still out there. There was enough trouble at the moment seeing as several people had been seriously injured and somehow, Umbrella was taking the blame for it. Because some health and safety standards hadn't been followed. For shame!
If they were regretting the decision to move Complaints and Logistics to Arklay, they were keeping suspiciously quiet about it. And deleting the multitude of messages, complaints, threats and tears from the staff that had had their perfect world so elegantly destroyed.
And that was just the start of it.
"We shouldn't be doing this."
Never a truer word was said, but at the time he didn't admit it. He was in enough trouble already.
"This is going to end badly. It always does. Look, let's pull over, turn around, go back to the city and forget we organized this meeting. Pass it off as a clash of schedules."
"Spencer wants that report."
"Then we…we fabricate it." Birkin leaned back, tilting his pale face into what was left of the light before the clouds took over the sky completely. Without even thinking he drew his leg up, planting the sole of his shoe against the dash board - his toes were twitching beneath the leather. Wesker hated himself for knowing that intimate little detail. "And we never have to see this godforsaken pile of crap ever again. Except in our rear-view mirror. And next year. Uh. If they don't tear it down. I hope they tear it down. Hnh."
Wesker shifted gear, mind ticking into overtime. The tones in Birkin's voice were beyond what constituted as normal for the mousy little man– if he was this worried being away from the lab then it was possibly time to stage an intervention. Not that he'd be doing any intervening himself, that was Annette's job – when William Birkin got nervous, he got sloppy. And when he was sloppy, his wife was distracted. Albert Wesker liked it when people were distracted. Their mistakes were so much easier to exploit. He glanced at the man he'd once considered a friend, took in the stained lab-coat, the messy shirt. The speckling on his chin and the hollows of his cheeks, he wondered if Annette was feeding him, or if Birkin really was just…attached to the desk. His samples.
Wesker never once regretted his cut in pay or transfer to STARS. No way in hell. The jeep's engine strained as the hill became steeper, bringing him back to the present. "Fabricating a report is not something I'd recommend, Will."
Birkin made a face. "Stop it. Just stop, okay? I don't like it up here. Brings back too many memories."
"Will-" There was a buzzing, but he didn't pay it much attention. He was just frustrated – horribly so. "Will, I understand, but-"
"No. No Al. You don't understand it." Spittle flecked on the younger man's face, he was so worked up. "I am this close to knowing what needs to be done. And suddenly I'm out here." Pause. Wild-eyed, intense stare at his ear, enough to make Wesker cringe. "Why are you out here?"
Another shift of gear, but for both the car and his mind. The tarmac was getting steadily worse. He'd need to speak to Annette, regardless of the worry about their damned offspring, to hell with her delicate sensibilities about mummy and daddy – this was getting ridiculous. "That. Is none of your business."
"Really?" The expression was one of distaste, but there was a glint of perverseness in his eyes. "Do you swallow for Spencer, or do you spit?"
Wesker's retort was cut when something shot past the passenger's side, a moped, howling its way up the mountain without much of a care. The passenger on the back turned around – face obscured by the old fashioned helmet - and gave them the two finger salute. Not only did he have to deal with a PMSing Will, he had to deal with angry locals as well. Brilliant.
"Just fucking great." Birkin snarled. "I bet that was accounts. Have they moved accounts up here? I bet they have. Pricks. The lot of them."
"When was the last time you slept?"
"Does it matter? You've changed since you left and went to help the cops. You used to be cool." Sullen. Childlike.
"If you don't shut up I'm going to throw you out of my car while it's still moving. I don't know what you're on, or what you've done to yourself, but this is getting ridiculous and to the point where even I can't take the abuse anymore. Think of the repercussions. Annette will kill me. Have some pity."
The mansion slowly came into view, just as brooding and malicious as it had been ten years ago. He didn't want to admit it, but he'd hated working there. He was just as uneasy now as he had been then, but then that could be because of who was breathing down the back of his neck. Spencer. And babysitting Will.
The suddenly close Will, breathing into his ear. "Just hurry this up, okay? Okay. I have better things to do than be up here."
oOo
The carpark wasn't empty. It just looked like it was.
She stood by the door and squinted in the light, ignoring the prickling of her skin or the rapid thump of her heart. There were the caretaker's two trucks – both scratched and dented, with one still attached to a trailer. He'd been hauling down two of the new stasis tanks needed on level three just the other day, right before the main lift was broken. Probably what broke it, come to think of it. Beside it sat one of the delivery vans from the city, complete with logo and looking as innocent as large white vans can look when not driven by perverts on the hunt for fresh meat. Her destination lay just to the right of it; a pile of boxes and what looked like computer parts; left there by the previous van before it had gone back to Raccoon.
The remaining delivery van obscured part of the forest however. Innocent, maybe. But still…Do you want some candy, little girl?
She was being watched.
The hairs stood up on her neck, ramrod straight, her ears pricked. Behind her the mansion muffled the noises of the labs and facilities' generators, and distantly she could hear the dogs, huffing about their pens. The caretaker, hacking away at something in the forest – at what, she didn't know. It didn't matter.
It was broad daylight, and incredibly warm for a day in May. And standing in the doorway of the building that had virtually been her home for the last week or so, Evelyn Jackson had never felt quite so frightened in her life.
Crickets had stopped chirping. There were no birds. It was bright, and it was cheerful, but the world filled her with an unease that could not be halted with common sense. Even the breeze felt skittish, tugging at her dark curls. Arklay was out in the middle of nowhere, so nobody except hikers would drop by – there was nothing to be frightened of.
Just…
"So, is he out there?" Came the jaunty cry at her back.
"Balls! Suzie!" Evelyn caught the side of the door, glaring at her co-worker with disgust. "Don't do that!"
"Don't do what?" Her shorter and rounder companion was full of mock innocence, topped with a cherry-red bob of immaculate hair. Susan Vanderhilde wiggled her fingers and blew out her cheeks. "Ooooh, the scary man is going to get yoooouuu!"
Evelyn blushed, her freckles odd against the bright red. "Oh, stop!"
"You're too easy. Relax." Tottering on heels tall enough to be almost illegal, Susan went to the steps, but her hesitation was just as obvious. "It's just, y'know, us out here." But it didn't sound convincing.
"Then why is it so quiet?" Carefully making her own way down the steps, Evelyn looked around, scanning the horizon; the trees. She was ruffled and plain where Susan was crisp, but that was more due to circumstance than taste. It was difficult to make yourself pretty when you were sleeping under your desk. Beneath the paleness was the mark of exhaustion, stress, brought on by a trial separation and an attempt on her life – all the lives – of the reception and administration staff.
She swallowed the memory of fire and burning, along with everything else that had come with it, grimacing at its bitterness. Susan had enough tact not to say a word at the shadow that crossed the taller woman's face. In fact, she took this as her cue; straightening her shoulders and stepping out onto the gravel. "I hear an engine. Pretty sure our little stalker doesn't drive."
"No, he just stands there and looks in windows. He caught Alex and Yasley from accounts, apparently." Came the mumbled reply.
Shock, widened eyes at the mention of gossip. "Why did I not hear this, Mizz Jackson? You kinky bitch, were you watching-"
Evelyn went even redder. "Suzie! No! Oh my god, no she was in the bathroom crying about it! What was I supposed to do, leave her there?"
Waving her silent, Susan sauntered out to the van. "Yes. Now hurry up and help me with the packages before the components melt and our precious little computer wizard has a conniption."
"Um, of course, but-"
"No buts." Susan deftly unhooked the hand trolley from the back of the van, unfolding the ledge and setting it down beside her. "Help me load this piece of crap. And stop fussing about Alex. You fuss too much, Evie." She held up a chiding finger when Evelyn went to reply. "You've only been with us three months. You've not seen the extent of Alex's bullshit. That woman will eat you up and spit you out. She doesn't care about your feelings, if she's crying in the toilet it's probably because she couldn't entice tall dark and ugly between her legs too."
"I'm going to be sick."
"Be sick on your own time!" Susan snorted, doing a fair impression of their supervisor, before hefting the first box onto the trolley. "D'you think we can get this all on at once?"
The rumbling got closer, and finally a moped pulled into the drive, parking haphazardly by the much-neglected bike racks that were supposed to encourage company morale. The two women watched the people rush inside, carrying a couple of what looked like satchels – bags that were specifically made to carry things back on bikes, mopeds, any two-wheeler. Susan made a rude noise, sticking out her tongue. "Lunch express. Wish they'd crash and kill themselves."
"You don't mean that."
"I do." Something thumped in one of the boxes. They watched it with some suspicion, but when it didn't thump again, they put it down to something loose. "We are totally doing this in one hit, you're right it's damn creepy out here."
Finally, Evelyn thought. So she wasn't paranoid. Not completely. "Red Queen won't like it."
"And what's that overgrown calculator going to do? Report us to our superiors? Vincent couldn't give a shit and everyone knows Billings just comes down here for the free donuts. Not that we have many of them nowadays." A pause. "Do you think the researchers come out of their holes when we leave? Well. You'd know since you-"
"I haven't heard anyone, I don't know anyone. You are not pulling me into another one of your sorties against the staff who were here in the first place. They have a right to be here. We're just borrowing level two until…until, I don't know, they fix our offices. If they fix our offices. Um." Sometimes it was really raw being the new person. Not that she was even that new, her probation hanging over her head like a guillotine with all the trouble of late. Maybe it showed in her eyes, that constant panic. Evelyn hefted the next box and slid it into place, hearing the clink of metal and glass inside. Lab parts? Had they finished with the files? At last? Good news, finally. "…Please?"
"Ugh. For the last time, nobody cares. They just don't like the commoners like you and me." This one was heavy. They had to strip down the trolley and start over again, a fine balancing act. All the while they kept an eye out. There was a distant rumbling again, heavier and deeper this time, but neither woman could tell what it was. "Soooo if we should get back into our little haunted house, and if I decide to replace the coffee with decaf again, you'd better back me up, girl."
Evelyn grunted in reply. That little practical joke had not been well received, but she didn't feel she could chastise her friend for it – In a company as large and sprawling as Umbrella, friends were hard to come by.
The conversation lulled. The day was too hot to think, and with both of them dragging the overloaded trolley back across the gravel, there was almost-
Evelyn stopped, not knowing why. She could hear the rumble (car, definitely), feel the sun (too hot for May), smell the grass (Something sickly, something dead. Overtures of blood. Remember what it smelled like when they burned). But where were the birds? (Where did everyone go?) Looked over her shoulder. Caught a glimpse of something to their right. Something that drove the heat from her body. "Shit, Suze!"
"What?" Both twisted around, the trolley teetering without its support. "Fuck me! It's-"
And then screeching, blaring, tumbling – the black car swung into the carpark without heeding the fact that either of them were there. Fuck. With a strength Evelyn didn't know she possessed, she managed to haul Susan out of the way a moment before bonnet could catch them. The trolley at last fell, dinted by the bumper and spinning on a wheel as parts went everywhere. Bruised from where one of the boxes – oh, lab parts alright – had hit her in the calf, Evelyn swallowed down a string of curses and was forced down as Susan used her to get upright. Something was still tinkling around them – glass, sod, that would be Doctor Anno's junk probably – and the doors were swinging open-
Ah, shit. Goodbye job.
-door slamming as Susan threw herself against it, her fist pounding the glass. "Watch where you're fucking going, fuckface!"
Balls, she'd cut more than just her leg. Tights torn, Evelyn struggled to her feet, thanking herself for wearing sensible low-heel shoes on something as treacherous as gravel. Dragging her hair out of her eyes, she fished for an elastic band in the pocket of her skirt, tied it back, and then winced at the grazes on her palms. It could be worse.
Well. Almost. There was a mousy man looking in absolute terror at Hurricane Susan who was now making very lewd gestures at him and the driver – who was unreadable behind dark glasses and currently trapped as his charge was now practically in his lap. The car had driven between them and the trespasser – That's the fourth time this week, and in broad daylight, too – and with a quick glance at the logo, Evelyn felt a further sinking in her guts. Corporate.
"Susan?"
"You mousy little prick! Come the fuck out here and face me like a man, cock-mongler or I'll damn well come in there and drag you out-" She tried for the door, but the sang-froid driver had engaged the locks. How he was keeping his cool when being pawed like that she didn't know.
"Susan!"
"Cowards! Fucking cowards! Try and run a couple of employees over, you after our life insurance? Hah! As if you need it you greedy cun-"
"SUSAN!"
"WHAT?" And the rage was now directed at her. But Evelyn was too strung up to notice. Instead, she pointed at the now empty patch of forest.
"WHERE DID HE GO?"
"I DON'T CARE. I WANT A PIECE OF MISTER FANCY HERE AND HIS BLIND DRIVER." Slam went her fist against the glass.
Okay, this was getting stupid. And now the driver was forcibly pushing his passenger back. The man looked like he was about to have a heart attack as he found himself shoved up against the glass in front of his employee. Susan cackled gleefully.
The driver's side opened and the man wrestled his way out; wearing a uniform that was vaguely familiar and very un-Umbrella. It took a moment for Evelyn to realize it was that of the Raccoon police department. His escape – as cool and as apparently collected as he was – was marred when the passenger lunged for him again. Toppling, seeing what was going to happen, Evelyn found herself running around the front of the car and yanking the door open, catching an arm before he slid out completely.
She had no idea what to say. So she said the first thing that came to mind. "Um." It was not a very good battlecry.
"This is not a good day."
"I can tell. Hang on." Evelyn peeked over the top of the car as Susan continued to scream obscenities. Her shoulder blades itched; but the fact there was a third person here who had some sense, she squashed the terror and called out. "Susie! Susie for God's sake calm down and pull yourself together!"
"No!"
"The sooner you do, the sooner we get back inside! And we need them alive!"
"Thanks." Came the sarcastic reply below her. She glanced down at a pair of blue-green eyes that watched her over the rim of those ridiculous sunglasses. She'd seen kinder expressions on cats before they slaughtered mice.
"Someone needs to sign the chit." She grumbled. "You ran us over. I've taken enough responsibility already for what happens up here – that delivery is going to have you or your friend's name on it."
"He's not my friend." Pause. "Will! Will for-"
Another moan of terror from 'Will'. Possibly because now Susan had backed off. Finally coming to her senses. Scanning the area. "Evie?"
"My back's to the place, you tell me." With a grunt, she helped the driver out. "Watch your step, we have a trespasser on the property."
"I'll have you know I used to work here!" Came the shriek from the car.
"I don't think she meant you, Will." The man dusted himself off. He was a lot taller than her. Evelyn rallied what strength she had left as he faced her. "Trespasser?"
"He's almost as tall as you. Dresses shabbily. In white for some reason, could be a hooded jacket, I don't know. Dark hair, wears it long. Um." Suspicious now. "Are you from head office?"
"Not exactly."
Susan squared her shoulders. "Explain. Why. You. Tried. To. Kill. Us. Now!" She pointed at him. "After the bombing, you bastards left us-"
"Albert! Albert shoot the crazy bitch now! I want to go home! Take me home!"
The man pinched the bridge of his nose. "Can you restrain your companion, please? WILL. Composure. Thank you." And then the smaller man was out, and clinging to him like a lost child. Evelyn recognized the science type almost immediately – the dark circles under the eyes, vague fashion sense (that tie, what was he thinking?) and the stains on his fingers. She was lightly but firmly pushed aside, raked over by those cold eyes and then ignored. Damn her for wearing her nametag! And the officer stepped over the remains of the delivery, dragging the scientist with him. Susan, finally seeing him for what he was, went quiet and almost embarrassed as he regarded her. "From your tone of voice and explanation, I take it the pair of you are from client services?"
"Y-Yes." Susan started. She went to speak again, but the man held up a gloved hand.
"I'll ignore your behavior then and put it down to post traumatic stress syndrome. I'm sorry I was distracted. Fax the paperwork to the office of Annette Birkin, and tell her Albert Wesker sent it on. She will understand and contact your supervisor. Clear?"
"Crystal." Susan said, in her small voice usually reserved for burly firemen or handsome police officers.
Oh balls, Evelyn thought again. Not that voice. How many men now? And she calls Alex bad. "Susan?"
"Yuh-huh."
"Boxes please."
Her gaze was firmly rooted on the two men making their way across the carpark, or more specifically, the officer's rear. She whirled back with a grin. How on earth could she do that when that guy had come back? "What was his name. What was his name? Tell me you got his name."
"Delivery first before that…thing…comes back. Then I'll see if I can jog my memory."
"Slag!"
oOo
The ride down wasn't quite so bad once they found the access lift, hidden behind one of the panels that the previous owner had been so fond of. A love of deathly viruses and puzzles, it must have been great fun and games up here before the two of them killed him – James Marcus. Doctor James Marcus. Kill you for a penny, guv? Marcus. They were at least alone, and in the time it took to enter the place – not quite as shabby now people were paying attention to it – Birkin calmed down. "How does Kendra put up with these people? I mean really." He muttered, straightening his tie then licking his palm, smoothing his hair back.
"Considering they're doing all the cleaning and taking up Level Two, I think she should be happy. Her budget gets increased and nobody has to pay for maintenance."
"You should have fired those harpies."
Damn. Not the sulks again. "I'm not officially part of Umbrella any more. I had my cover to think of."
"Bollocks to your cover. I could have been killed!"
"I doubt they'd have done that, Will." He kept his gaze on the numbers, slowly counting up despite the lift going down. The blinking minus sign just kept on blinking. Just kept going. Once they hit the fifth floor – minus five, he corrected himself – he was only too eager to leave the lift and step into the crisp-
-slightly discoloured white floor and it's heavy-duty felted carpet in a checkerboard pattern of black and grey. "They haven't changed it since we left."
Birkin was far more at ease. "I'd forgotten you'd not been down here since you left for STARs. Why change something if it works so well?"
Wesker wanted to say that there were many reasons why things needed an update – security for one, he could have sworn that his profile was wiped off of Red Queen's database but she'd been too eager to let him in – but settled for something far more cutting instead. "I thought you wanted this over and done with."
"Well, I'm in my element now." He padded quickly into the branching halls, all quiet and leading off to the different labs. It was all so familiar. "And besides, Kendra is a professional. Most of the time."
Kendra – Doctor Kanta Bhattacharya, or Kendra-B to the executives – had taken over Marcus' lab after the old man had died in a pool of his own blood and excrement. It had been one of the more satisfying jobs Wesker had done, but the fact that Marcus' favourite student had taken over and perched on his remains like some great big vulture wasn't exactly pleasant. But unlike many of the staff and rival researchers here, Kendra knew how to play the game.
The electronic lock was just the same as last time. Funny, that. He never took Kendra as being sentimental, but there we go. Wesker took off his sunglasses to let his eyes adjust to the gloom of the lab and the lit specimens of flowers he'd never seen before, laid out on tables and under microscopes. Machinery that he ached for. Fingers itching, he glanced around to see what else was on display, but apart from rack after rack of vials and flowers, the lab didn't have anything at all. Actually, it looked like someone had already been at the vials; two were missing, their empty sockets looking alone and forlorn.
It was still the same L-shaped room, steel and white laminate. The overhead lights were dimmed to allow the work to continue on cell structure he guessed, or whatever it was she was doing with the flowers. Spencer's special little project. Whatever it was, he wasn't sure. He wasn't sure he wanted to know – there were some things that were beneath even Wesker as far as research went. It had birthed the in-development T-Virus, Birkin's pet G project and plenty of interesting monsters including Lisa goddamn Trevor (a horror he never wanted to see again), but what anyone wanted to do with a bunch of dying flowers was beyond Wesker - there could be nothing more you could gather from these flowers, they were one breath away from dead.
"Boys!" Something detached from the largest microscope, a small, dark Indian woman with a bindi on her head that looked like a droplet of blood and her long hair was plaited back and arranged like a crown around her head; a decidedly European thing. There was no trace of her heritage in her voice, but then Kendra – despite her real name – was third generation American. The name was only, Wesker suspected, to appease elders. Like silk she drew close, sliding off her gloves with an air of great practice and dropping them in the trash, before sliding an arm through Birkin's cocked elbow, kissing his cheek and then smiling slyly at Wesker. "What brings you to my little corner of Arklay?" She cooed.
Birkin got bashful. "Spencer sent me. Al is just here as back up."
"I wish you'd said goodbye when you left." She wound away from Birkin, sinuous as a snake and twice as cold-blooded. The two of them eyed each other up, but Wesker found it hard to outstare a master such as Kendra, she had it down to an art. Especially when that manicured hand was placed against his skin. The nails bit for just a moment and his skin sizzled.
Ruffled, he slid his glasses back on. "I outgrew my place here."
"I can see that. You must have put on, mmm a couple of pounds at least. Desk job?"
He smiled down at her, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "Nice to see the company funds going into growing orchids, Kendra. We'll make a killing on the gardening market."
Quick as lightning she was close, her lips against his. It was just a brief peck, but he was revolted. "How I've missed your scathing wit. Thank you for dropping by, Albert. I'll take care of Birkin while you're here…Red Queen will guide him back to you once you're finished, mm?"
Such a dismissal. He contemplated contaminating some of her samples while her back was turned, but that was far too petty even for him. Birkin gave him a little wave over her shoulder, mouthing I hate this bitch and then they were gone into the hissing quiet and half light.
Sod this. Wesker straightened his shoulders and left.
oOo
Birkin felt a thrill, looking down the microscope. This was amazing. This was fantastic. It was beautiful and he'd have given his right leg to be a part of it. "You have no idea how jealous I am of you right now."
"It's still unstable." Kendra said tiredly from the brim of her mug of chai tea as she leaned against the adjoining bench. Its' pungent smell was delicious against the blooms. "I was surprised as anyone else when Spencer asked me to look into Marcus' research about it, but he was desperate."
"What are you calling it?"
"That's something I can't tell you, but Spencer of late has been referring to it as…ugh. The Wesker virus."
There was a pause. "You are not serious."
"Mmm."
"I wasn't being serious when I said…" He trailed off, horrified at the mental image of Wesker and Spencer. "Oh my God."
"Yes, well, Spencer fancies himself to be that." Kendra paused, having just picked up on the sudden change in tone to her companion. "Serious about what?"
"Nothing." Birkin said hurriedly. "But is it ready for testing?"
She looked at him for a moment – truly looked at him. Her gaze made his skin crawl, but he faced her down just the same. "He's been your friend for years." She breathed, in awe. "And you're happy to do this?"
"Al…He's a stepping stone, Kendra. He's Spencer's, from the ground up. Spencer gave me a home, he gave me a chance. He gave you a chance too."
Something darted in her eyes. Sadness. Betrayal. It was gone in a moment, but Birkin found himself feeling a little bit sorry. It wouldn't have mattered in the end because Marcus was on his last legs anyway, but…Kendra set her mug down, and walked to the vials. Picking one of them out, she looked at it in the light. It gleamed faintly, purple. Birkin was struck at how much it looked like G – visually, of course, he ached to get one under the microscope. "It's as ready as it will ever be, it's been matched to all the specifics Spencer required and Marcus set up. I send these out tonight." She said softly. "One of them is, of course, yours. The rest." A shrug. "Whatever Spencer's going to do with them."
"And the T-Virus?"
"Lab C is looking into that. My business is here, with Progenitor."
Birkin gave a low whistle. He was jealous, of course, but then they'd all had a stab at Progenitor. Kendra was the only one to have cracked it, or at least cracked it partially. He took the vial from her, placing it in the glasses case he'd squirreled out of his lab specifically for this purpose. Cold air leaked from the inside; a secret little refrigeration unit that weighed as much as a can of soda. Nifty. Spy-stuff. Birkin grinned like a kid. "What's its half-life?"
"Dies off fairly quickly. It's not airborne hence why it's outside. Transmitted via blood, so if a vial breaks, it'll be dead in a couple of minutes if left to the elements. I made sure that it wouldn't spread too quickly, as per orders. Will, I want to say I don't approve of this."
"Noted. Do you have a direct line to Spencer?"
A curt, professional nod. "Of course. He's waiting for us, actually."
"…Fuck. Okay. Let's get this over with."
PRESENT DAY
Someone knocked at the door.
Chris awoke from his doze on the couch. Jill lay beside him, curled like a child with hear head on his lap. The last he remembered he'd been stroking her hair. The towel over his legs was clean, she'd only been having stomach cramps and that was it. Another crisis averted. She looked tiny in one of his sweatshirts, weird with a string of drool, she was so far under. But she looked more human than she had in ages.
Carefully pulling himself free, he waited for Jill to settle down once more before going to the door, feeling a lump in his throat when he opened it.
Sheva Alomar hugged him tightly. For a moment they clung together, bound by a shared experience of madness. "Chris. Oh Chris. How is she? How are you-"
"Come in. Just be quiet, this is the first time I've gotten her to sleep properly in ages. I have to cook. Are you hungry?"
"Yeah. But-"
"Just something quick. I'm allowed to get groceries thank goodness." He slid into the kitchenette, cramped as it was, turning on the kettle. The water here was filtered, but he boiled everything by habit – heat killed off pretty much everything. "We're okay. We're going to be okay. It'll take a while, but we're gonna be okay." His eyes felt hot, itchy with tears that he wasn't allowed to shed.
She could tell he was having difficulties, and to her credit directed the conversation away. "What's the mission?"
"Search and retrieve with a bit of rescue on the side. Is Josh still out there?"
"Holding the fort in Kijuju, or at least what's left of it." Sheva chewed her lip, leaning against the bench top and watching Chris work the chopping boards and a bowl to make an omelet. As the smell permeated the room, making her stomach growl in the process, she heard Jill stir, and sit up. She was regarded with some suspicion, but when Chris tipped the concoction onto the plate, Jill was on it like a starving animal. "Easy there."
Jill glared at her and took the plate back to the couch, almost going back to her room. It was only Chris's clearing of his throat that stopped her. So she sat there. She ate. She licked her plate clean.
Sheva wondered what was going on behind those pale eyes. If they would ever make sense again. "Are we going back into that place?"
"We have a high backer. Someone from the board. No idea who it is, but someone who's possibly been burned by Wesker if this box is anything to go by." Chris peered at Jill to see if the name of their nemesis made any reaction, but it didn't. It never had. He'd just been an inconvenience, the pusher who had gotten her into this mess in the first place. "The file is sitting on the table there. No idea what's in it. Just a box."
"Samples? Another virus?" A gasp of horror. "Oroboros?"
"No idea. Just a box, and we spring the others out, I think. Clean up mostly. They're offering me an' Jill a way out. I have to fix her, Sheva." He clutched at the stove-top, shaking a little as the pan bubbled with the rest of dinner. "I owe her."
There was a clatter as Jill – when had she gotten up? – placed the plate beside him. They stared at each other, and Sheva wasn't sure if she should intervene. If she could. Jill moved slowly, touching the man's shoulder, his neck, drawing him into a one armed hug, before padding back into her room.
The door closed in what was almost a slam, locking shut.
It took a moment for him to speak again, and when he did his voice was very small, and very sad. "They come for her tomorrow. We need to be gone by then." He breathed, as he dished up the rest of dinner. Sheva took her plate gently, watching him.
Here is a man I'm happy to follow into hell. I just wish he knew that. "I'm ready when you are."
Chris gave her the first genuine smile she'd seen on his ugly mug for a fairly long time. "Thanks…partner."
-To be continued.
Jill is going to come out of this okay. She's an addict who has had some bad blends and is looking for a pure fix – she will get better. It just might take a while.
I've noticed that Evie bears a slight resemblance to another OC haunting the archives. Note that Evie is a great deal shorter, not exactly slender and has freckles. Alex is not the fabled Alex Wesker, but rather Alexandra, one of the office…uh…crazies? We all have them in the office.
I'm going with the whole 'Nobody has owned up to Progenitor/Mystery virus' plotline with Birkin working with Spencer. Hope that's okay.
