Six
Jill is sitting in the surveillance room of the facility, staring at an ancient black and white monitor. The more DVDs she reviews, the more frustrated she gets with the blurry pictures. The organization hasn't bothered to provide them with the latest audio/visual equipment. She can actually hear the laser skimming the disks as she watches them. The equipment sits on flimsy metal tables that have legs that fold out and lock in place. They have to be very careful when they walk by or they'll knock something over.
Jill is fighting to stay awake. Somehow she thought this task would be infinitely more exciting than it is. But Umbrella was careful, it seems. Everything she has seen on the disks so far is rudimentary research stuff. Nothing interesting at all. None of the terms the employees use make any sense to her. She's supposed to make a note of anything that sounds suspicious, but it all sounds suspicious to her, so she stopped. Now the page on the table in front of her is covered in squiggly lines and doodles, and her eyelids are growing heavier.
That all changes when Chris walks in.
"Hey," he says.
"Hey," she answers in a tone that tells him she's fighting ennui.
"Easy job, huh?" he smiles. "Sorting through this shit."
"Fuckin' piece of cake," she answers.
He moves to sit next to her but, in the process, accidentally jostles one of the tables. Startled, he holds his hands out to stop the potential catastrophe. When the wobbling ceases, he points at it angrily with both fingers.
"I hate these tables! I hate them! I want them to die!"
"What are you, casting a spell? You're Harry Potter now?"
"'Cause it's bullshit!" he exclaims as he takes a seat. "How much money do you think these guys make, huh? You'd think they could go to Ikea or something and pick up some decent tables that don't want to fall the fuck over whenever someone farts."
"Since when does anything from Ikea last?"
"Whatever. This whole thing will all fall apart in five years anyway so it won't make a difference."
"What, these guys?"
"Yeah."
"Why do you say that?"
Chris looks at her.
"Why wouldn't I say that?"
"Oh, so now you're an enigma?"
He reaches out and messes up her hair. She's too tired to fight him. When he's finished she leaves it mussed.
In a moment both Chris and Jill are staring at the monitor. Chris can't make heads or tails of what the researchers are talking about, but he can guess. Eventually his eyes skim over the room. The green paint is peeling off the walls. There's a large cobweb in one corner; a housefly's drained carcass is still caught in it. Two of the fluorescent lights overhead have burned out.
And Jill still won't talk about what happened all those years ago.
The image on the monitor freezes up. Jill knows it has something to do with the noises the DVD player is making. She's cranky and frustrated, so she slams on it with an open palm. "Nothing in this place works!" she huffs. "Nothing! The microwave stopped working, the photocopier is older than God, the stupid lights are out, now the fucking player is toast! This sucks!" Chris watches her bang on the player again with increasing concern.
"I know. This whole place is going to hell."
"Like, why don't they buy us some decent stuff to use? You know? I've been staring at this stupid TV for days and none of it is making any sense, and nothing works, and there's nothing I can do about it because if I ask for some new equipment I've got to wait fucking six weeks for it to arrive anyway, and whoever the boss is doesn't think we need it, and I'm so fucking exhausted..!"
Jill is close to tears. Chris runs his hand up and down her back to console her.
"I know."
"I'm sick of this bullshit!"
"I know, I know."
"Like, what am I supposed to do?"
"Nothing, there's nothing you can do."
His hand slows. She likes the way it feels against her shirt.
"Every time I get involved in something like this… you know, like, 'Take out the bad guys, Jill', it's always the same. No one tells me anything, and nothing gets done, and then we all look like shit for a while until we go in and save everybody's asses, and then they ship us off someplace else where the stupid DVD player doesn't work."
"I know."
He strokes her back while she calms down. Eventually she turns the machine off and on again. When she presses 'play' it runs normally again.
"So have you figured anything out yet?" Chris asks her.
"Not really. It's all a fucking blur now. There are only two things that bug me. Look at this."
She swaps one disk for another and begins playing it. The image on the screen is of two very young men, both Umbrella researchers. "Recognize them?"
Chris squints.
"Fuck off! Is that Wesker?"
"Yep, that's him."
"Holy shit! What year is this?"
"1982."
"Christ, lookit how young he is!"
"Hunk transferred all these videotapes onto disk for me. They're grainy alright, but you can still tell it's Wesker. Recognize the other one?"
"That can't be William Birkin."
"Yeah it is."
"Couple of scrawny bastards back then, huh?"
He shivers.
"I know. Scrawny was in back then, I guess. But this is what bothers me. This is apparently the main room they did all their work in. That camera was on all the time, twenty-four hours a day. And the tapes go all the way back to when the Spencer mansion was first used as the facility. They were state of the art."
"That's how our building looks now," he says. Jill smiles.
"I know. Anyway, I've gone through every tape from 1978 until 1983. Every room was monitored. Everything was recorded. But… there's a period of six hours missing from this room. Hours and hours of surveillance, from both the Arklay Facility and the Spencer mansion, but sixof themhave disappeared."
Chris' eyebrows knot together.
"He probably destroyed it," Chris says. "Knowing Wesker. He wouldn't want something like that getting out."
"Why would he destroy that tape and not the others?"
"Because he's a psychopath?" Chris offers. "It probably incriminates him."
"All these disks incriminate him," Jill says. "Why that one in particular?"
"Who knows?"
"We need to find that tape," Jill says.
"If you think it's important. What else?"
"What do you mean?"
"You said two things bug you."
"Yeah…" She skips ahead on the disk. "Listen carefully to what they're saying here."
They stare intently at the screen.
William Birkin is standing behind Albert, watching him as he peers through a microscope. "Did you get anything?" he asks.
"Not yet," Albert replies.
"Fascinating, isn't it?"
"Yeah, it's pretty neato."
"Jeez, Albert, no one says 'neato'!" William laughs.
Albert doesn't respond. William leans over further, lays a hand on his shoulder. "Don't waste the sample. Here," he says, pulling a syringe from his coat pocket. When Albert catches sight of it, he flinches and pushes away from the table. "What?" William asks.
"Don't freak me out like that, Will."
"Like what?"
"Like, don't just pull a needle out and wave it at me."
"I wasn't waving it at you, I'm collecting the rest of the sample!"
"Well, just… warn me next time, okay?"
"Why?"
"'Cause I hate needles."
"You're a scientist and you hate needles?" William is exasperated.
"I just… they make me nervous, okay?"
"You use needles all the time, Albert!"
"It was just… it was close to my face…"
"Alright, relax! Jeez!"
William shakes his head. Albert nervously runs a hand through his hair. "So what are your plans for tonight?" William asks.
Jill stops the disk.
"Aw, man, I wanted to see what those crazy kids were up to back in '82," Chris jokes.
"What do you think?" Jill asks.
"That they were nerds. I don't know. What?"
"I watched this thing over and over, and it always kind of stuck out as odd."
"What's odd about it?"
"You don't think it's odd that Albert Wesker was afraid of needles?"
They look at each other.
Seven
He noticed it the other day. Rebecca was curled up on the chaise, drifting off to sleep. She's been sleeping a lot. He suspects it's because there isn't much in the penthouse that appeals to her. He can't blame her. He wonders why she hasn't looked in the wall unit yet. She doesn't know she can pick a movie to watch, or choose a CD to listen to. She's still afraid of him. As she should be.
That day, when he heard her breathing gently as she was dozing, he decided to take a closer look at her. He's kept his distance since the night she first came. There's too much at stake to have her drop dead of a heart attack. He crossed the room to where she was lying and peered over the back of the chair. Her lips were parted, her eyes lightly closed, her hands up near her face. He took his sunglasses off and leaned forward, watching her chest rise and fall with each breath. That's when he felt it.
A heartbeat.
His heartbeat.
At the time he shrunk back, not wanting to believe what he had felt. But when he leaned over again and saw her napping soundly, when she moved her hand and sighed in her sleep, there it was.
It was slow, and not very strong, but it was definitely there.
He walked back to his desk and picked up where he left off, eventually forgetting about it. Rebecca woke after an hour, sat up, leaned her head on the back of the chaise, and stared out the window. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. She didn't move for hours. He wondered what she was thinking. That night, when she had retired to the bedroom, he saw the sweater she normally wore over her t-shirt sticking out from the seat cushion. Deciding it was best to hang it on the bedroom doorknob, he pulled it from beneath the cushion. And just because she wasn't there, she wasn't looking, he brought it close to his face and smelled it. The sweet scent of her body was still there.
Heartbeat.
He hasn't returned the sweater yet. It's in the bottom drawer of his desk. Rebecca knows that he's taken it, but she doesn't want ask him to give it back. She's sitting on the steps that lead up to the second floor, staring off as usual. He notices she's shivering. Without looking at her, he says, "Is there anything you'd like?"
"What?"
"Is there anything you'd like?"
"What do you mean?"
"I was just inquiring."
"I don't want anything."
"Alright."
Hours go by. Rebecca sits in different places all around the office, as if she were a cat. Her expression never changes. At one point, when he raises his eyes for a moment, he sees that she's watching him intently. He waits to see if she says anything. "Do you want something?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"You're looking at me."
"I've looked at everything else here. I might as well look at you too."
She doesn't sound happy about it.
"Carry on, then, if it suits you."
"What do you do all day, Captain?"
She doesn't know why she called him that. He smirks.
"I'm not your Captain anymore, Miss Chambers."
"Do you sit around and sign death warrants?"
"Don't try me."
"You can't hurt me."
"Yes I can."
The day wears on, afternoon dissolving into evening. At eleven o'clock, Rebecca mounts the steps and retires to his bedroom. When he's certain she's in for the night, he opens the bottom drawer of his desk and takes out the sweater. He lays it on his desk while he removes his gloves, then picks it up and feels the soft wool with his fingertips. As he's touching it, it starts again. This time, he doesn't put the sweater down. He brings it to his cheek to see how it feels against his skin. He can faintly smell traces of her perfume mixed with her natural scent on the garment.
With one long, deep inhale, he realizes something.
Shit… this can't be happening…
Still holding the sweater, he pushes away from his desk and climbs the stairs to the second floor. He locks himself in the bathroom. He places both his hands on the edge of the counter and looks at himself in the mirror.
This can't be happening.
He takes his sunglasses off. Everything about him looks the same as it always does, but for two major differences.
The first is his heart is beating.
The second is he's getting hard.
He knows he'll have to be quiet. Rebecca is asleep in the next room. She might hear him. He won't be able to explain himself. He sits down on the cold tiled floor and leans against the bathtub. He unbuckles his belt, slides his hand over himself.
Shit…
He reaches into his pants and wraps his hand around himself. He's stiffening.
Oh shit…
In a moment, he's stroking himself.
Images are dancing in his head. He has her in many different ways; standing in front of him in shorts, in a skirt, with a bra, without one. High heels, bare feet, stockings, something lacy… something that feels good when it rubs against his chest. Something black.
She would purr…
He squeezes his eyes shut, blocking out the track lighting and tiles, the toilet seat, and thinks of her kisses, her lips, her breasts, her ass; claiming them for himself. He had forgotten how good this used to feel, didn't think he was capable of it anymore. But the more he hears her voice in his head, the closer he is to coming. He bites his lip to keep from moaning, reaches up and opens the top two buttons of his shirt. He's sweating.
Shit… she'd call my name out… or she'd whisper it…
He pictures her looking at him with big, beautiful eyes, soft spoken as the day he first met her, and open, eager for him to please her.
She'd whimper… she'd beg me… I won't hurt her… I'd never hurt her…
He arches his back and comes; a desperate, searing orgasm.
When he stands, his legs are weak. He picks the sweater up off the floor and holds it close. He turns his head and catches his reflection in the mirror.
For a minute, he could have sworn his eyes were blue again.
She'd think I was sick. Completely fucking sick.
She'd be right.
Eight
"When you're a ward of the state," he begins, "it means the state is responsible for your well-being. They're your legal guardians; they're the ones that feed you, clothe you, educate you, and try to raise you to be a decent citizen. 'Try' being the key verb. So when I first arrived in the U.S. I was made a ward of the state because no one had come forward to adopt me." He smooths his hand over Rebecca's hair. She nuzzles his chest with her cheek and continues to listen. "Though I suspect it had something more to do with Spencer's knowledge of who I was at the time. Anyway," he groans and shifts his position against the headboard, "when I first got here I didn't speak any English and I was really pale. The other kids used to call me Kraut."
"What does that mean? Is that racist?"
He chuckles.
"Not really. It's slang for 'German'."
"That's not very nice," Rebecca murmurs.
"And they used to pronounce their 'W's like 'V's when I was around. One kid kept on asking me if I wanted chocolate. Every day. He thought it was really funny."
"Stupid kid."
"Mmmm…"
He kisses the top of her head. "Funny thing was, he was the fat kid, not me."
"Kids are stupid."
"I agree. But it wasn't so bad. I just kept to myself mostly."
"Did you have any friends?"
"No."
"None?"
"No."
"Wasn't there anyone you could talk to?"
He sighs.
"There was a woman who used to take care of me. She left when I was twelve."
"What was her name?"
"Eunice Johnson. I used to call her Ma'am Eunice."
Rebecca smiles.
"Do it again."
"No."
"Come on!"
He smiles and shakes his head.
"No."
"Why not?"
"I worked very hard to get rid of that accent," he tells her.
"Just once more."
"Nope."
She pouts. He decides to keep going, just to tease her.
"She used to say this thing to me over and over again every time I did something I should have known not to do. Every time I did something stupid."
"What was it?"
She looks up at him and waits. His eyes are closed. He continues to grin. "Come on!" she says.
"Alright. She used to say," he takes a deep breath, then starts to speak with a crisp, Southern drawl, "'Albert, you maybe ain't got no head full of brains, but boy have you got pretty.'"
Rebecca starts giggling.
"I can't believe that!"
"It's true."
She laughs, wrapping her arms around him. He holds her close.
"Why did she leave?"
"She got fired."
"For what?"
"I don't know," he says softly. Rebecca catches sight of their reflections in his dresser mirror. His face has darkened.
"Were you upset?"
"Oh yes. I cried for days."
Rebecca's heart stops when he says the word.
"You cried?"
"Mm-hmm."
She strokes his collarbone with her fingers. For a moment, they're quiet.
"Albert?"
"Yes?"
"Are you telling me the truth?"
He doesn't say anything.
"I don't expect you to believe anything I say," he answers finally.
"I want to believe you."
"Then believe me."
"You tried to kill me once."
"Yes, I did," he admits.
"Why?"
"I can't answer that."
Rebecca lays her hand on his chest.
"I'm afraid of you," she tells him.
"I know."
He caresses the nape of her neck.
"Not for what you might do to me, though. For what you've done."
"I understand."
"Why did you do it?"
"Do what?"
"Inject yourself."
Her questions are piercing.
"I don't remember… why… what my reasons were back then. My reasons have changed."
"What are your reasons?"
"I like the power."
"That much?"
"Yes."
"Did it hurt?"
"I can't remember…"
She closes her eyes. "Are you okay?" he asks.
"Yeah. I just… don't…"
"Rebecca," he murmurs.
"Yeah?"
"There are many things I can't explain to you. But you've made me… you make me very happy. I want this to last. I don't deserve you to be considerate of that, I know. But I'm asking you… just let me hold you."
"Okay."
They lie together. She can hear his heartbeat. Of course, she breaks the silence. "Albert?"
"Yes?"
"Let me see your eyes."
They've remained closed. He heaves a heavy sigh.
"Why?" he asks.
"Because they're yours."
He knows he can't keep this from her forever. Slowly, cautiously, he opens his eyes and looks at her. She gazes deeply into the golden, cat-like irises, the menacing red rings. "You kept your eyes closed the whole time," she says.
"Yes."
"Don't you want to look at me?"
"Very much."
"Why didn't you?"
"Because if I did, you wouldn't believe me."
Nine
From where he is kneeling, with his hands behind his head, Leon can see Jill and Chris, but not Claire or Rebecca. He has an itch; if he moves to scratch it he might get his head blown off. He remembers a lesson he learned when he was younger. An itch is technically pain, albeit a light pain, since it's registered by the same neurons in the brain.
If I move, I'm going to be really, really itchy.
He's proud of the thought, though it's not the time or the place to share it with anyone.
They've been kneeling on the concrete floor of the warehouse for fifteen minutes. Everyone was told to put their hands behind their heads. Their weapons were taken away. Every member of the team is flanked by an armed soldier. The soldiers wear gas masks; each is pointing a gun at their captive's head. No one is facing each other. Leon can see his breath when he exhales. He doesn't know what's going to happen.
Chris can see Jill, Claire, and Leon, but not Rebecca. He regrets throwing his jacket away now. He didn't think he'd need it from all the running they were doing. Now that he's forced to kneel in one place, he's shivering. He raises his eyes and glares at the soldiers. He's angry because he can't see their faces, though even if he could it wouldn't change their situation. Chris always seems to think in terms of revenge. He's not aware of it, but he's grinding his teeth.
Out of the corner of her eye, Claire can see Chris and Jill, but not Leon or Rebecca. She's trying to think of ways to get them out of this situation. She's berating herself for getting them caught. As their Captain, she thought they should abort the mission and leave through the warehouse. It was obvious they were on the wrong trail. She should have known not to leave through the largest exit. There are always barrels and crates lying around in places like this. They were surrounded, ambushed. She didn't think this through. She's afraid Leon is disappointed in her.
Jill can only see Claire kneeling in front of her. She's thinking of all the different ways they could have completed this mission. Different routes they could have taken through the complex. The more she thinks about it, the more she feels she should have been listened to. But Claire is their Captain, and she's the one who's supposed to make decisions like that. Jill recalls her training, goes through everything she's ever learned about dangerous missions like this in her head. She can't believe Claire has fucked it up so badly. The more she thinks about Claire, the easier it is to forget her own guilt in the matter. Right now, Jill would rather blame someone else.
The heavy metal door of the warehouse opens with a loud clang. They hear determined footsteps echoing on the hard floor, the sound of expensive shoes. Chris and Claire meet each others' eyes. Whoever was walking is now standing fifty feet away from them. It's quiet for a moment. Then a soft, cold voice speaks. "Hello."
Though they can't see him, they know who he is.
"Shoulda known it was you, Wesker," Chris sneers.
"A little too late, it would seem, Redfield," Wesker replies.
"What do you want?" Claire asks.
"It seems we're playing on the same team this time. I know why you're here. I'm here for the same reason."
"How do you know what our reasons are, Wesker?" she demands.
"I have my sources."
Leon grits his teeth. He knows who Wesker's "source" is. "In any case," he continues, "I have a proposition for you."
"We're not interested."
"I think you are. We all want the same things now. An end to Umbrella."
"You were trying to re-establish Umbrella not too long ago," Leon growls.
"I wonder who told you that," Wesker purrs.
Leon doesn't say anything.
"What are you asking us, and why are you asking?" Claire wants to know.
"I'm feeling nostalgic," he says. "I was remembering how efficient S.T.A.R.S. was all those years ago. And no doubt, if you've all gotten this far, how efficient you still are. It will take an elite force to penetrate Umbrella. With the right information, you'd be unstoppable."
"Thanks for the compliment," Chris scoffs, "but I don't think we need your help to take them out."
"Is that so? You haven't been successful so far."
"Neither have you," Claire says flatly.
"Yes I have."
A chilly silence descends on the group. Claire wants to look at Wesker, to see if she's still afraid.
"I've asked you what you want," she points out.
"And I've already told you what I want. I know your organization has sent you to destroy Umbrella's main database."
Their hearts leap up into their throats. There's no way he should know what their mission is. "Quite a heady task, I think."
"You know we're capable of it."
"I do, yes. But a mission like that can take a year, maybe two to complete."
"We're not in a hurry," Chris lets him know.
"You should be, Redfield."
"What do you know?" Claire asks.
"I'm not free to discuss what Umbrella has planned, unfortunately. I can only tell you that, like their other nefarious operations, it's very big, and very dangerous."
"What's your offer?"
"I know Umbrella. I know everything they've done and everything they plan to do. I know layouts of the facilities, the number of staff, security codes… everything. I'll give you all the information you need."
"Out of the goodness of your heart?" Jill pipes up. "I don't believe it."
"Partially," Wesker answers her. "Partially because I'm impatient. With the information I possess your mission can be completed in four, maybe six weeks. I won't tell you how to run things. That's not my concern."
"You'll give us this information?"
"Yes."
"It's a trap, it has to be," Chris hisses.
"What's the catch?"
"That you don't leave a single trace of anything behind. If you're going to destroy it, I want it all gone. All of it."
"I think that goes without saying," Claire huffs.
"It has to be said, unfortunately. If I don't give you the knowledge you need you might overlook something."
"Given our welcome, Wesker, something tells me you want more than that."
He looks at the soldiers.
"Yes. The information I possess is highly sensitive. I don't want it getting into the wrong hands. The hands of the officials you work for, to be exact. They can't know this conversation took place, and they can't know you have access to it. Therefore, I require one of you to stay behind until the mission is complete."
"No way!" Leon barks.
"You don't have much of a choice, Kennedy."
The soldier standing nearest to Leon butts him in the face with his rifle. His eye immediately starts to swell.
"How do you expect us to do what you want when one of us has to stay here?" Jill demands.
"That's not my concern. I'm sure you'll be able to handle it."
"Claire…" Chris whispers.
His attempt to speak to his sister is met with the quick slice of a large hunting knife. Chris' arm is left bleeding.
"That's my offer. It's a good one. You should consider it."
Claire's mind begins to race. There's little she can do at this point. He's made it clear that he won't take no for an answer. He's also made it clear that one person is to remain whether they like it or not. If he was planning on getting them all killed, why not let them all go? It's obvious the status of this mission, a mission given to them straight from the officials themselves, is of the utmost importance to him. She is about to appoint Jill Captain in her absence when someone else speaks. "I'll go."
Wesker is confused. From where he is standing, he can see Claire, Jill, Chris, and Leon.
But not Rebecca.
Wesker watches her as she gets to her feet and stands up. Leon's body was blocking her from his view. Now that he sees her, he frowns.
"I'm sorry, Miss Chambers. I can't accept you."
"Yes you can," she tells him.
"Rebecca, what are you doing?" Chris spits.
"It's alright, Chris."
"I won't allow it, Miss Chambers."
"Villains can't be choosers," she says angrily.
"Rebecca…" Claire begins.
"Claire…" Rebecca is about to move to speak to her when the soldier raises his gun.
"If you shoot her, I'll kill you," Wesker snarls. The soldier lowers his weapon. Rebecca reaches Claire. She kneels in front of her.
"You know what my position is in the team," she says in a low voice. "You're going into very dangerous territory and you're going to need people who can shoot straight, who're good with weapons. If anyone stays behind it should be me. I'll be alright."
Claire looks at Rebecca. No matter how hard she's trying, she knows the medic is scared.
"One condition," Claire calls out to Wesker.
"Name it."
"You have to leave something with us to make sure Rebecca's okay."
"I won't accept Miss Chambers as a candidate."
"You're gonna have to."
Jill is certain Claire is going to fuck this up.
"Alright," he says finally. "What's your condition?"
"I want a vial of your blood."
No one was expecting that. Not even him. For a minute, he's quiet. Then, in his familiar, cool voice, he answers her.
"Leon, toss me your knife."
"I've got needles," Rebecca begins.
"I'd rather not. Besides, it isn't necessary."
Leon slowly pulls his knife from his shoulder, lays it on the floor, and slides it in Wesker's direction. "I'll need an empty vial."
Rebecca reaches into her back pocket and tosses one over to him. Without hesitation, he pulls his black leather glove off his right hand and slices his skin open. Rebecca watches, fascinated and afraid. Wesker squeezes his hand closed, forcing the blood to fall. When the vial is full, he replaces the cap and flings it back to Rebecca. She holds it for a moment, unable to hand it to Claire when she realizes that, in a matter of seconds, his hand has completely healed. "You have a blood oath nothing will happen to her. You also have an oath that you won't be harmed by any of my forces while you complete your mission. Umbrella's forces are a different story. Needless to say, when I return Miss Chambers to you, I want it back. Understood?"
"Agreed," Claire says.
"Come here, Miss Chambers."
Rebecca approaches him. When she's quite near, he turns away from her. She glances in her team's direction. She catches Leon's face, wracked with worry. Jill is trying her best, but Rebecca can tell she's disappointed. Claire gives her a look that tells her not to worry, and that she has a plan.
Chris' expression is one of hurt. Extreme hurt. Slowly, he shakes his head. Rebecca is about to speak when Wesker's voice sounds again.
"You'll be contacted within twenty-four hours." He addresses his men. "Show them out. They're not to be harmed."
The soldiers gesture for the team to rise. They do, their knees sore, their legs shaking. Their captors begin ushering them out of the warehouse. The last to go is Chris, but not before he shoots Rebecca one final, devastating glare. Her heart sinks. Soon, she's standing alone with Wesker. "Follow me," he orders, his voice echoing throughout the empty room. He heads for the door without so much as a glance at her.
Ten
They sent Leon first, because he knew the area.
It's down near the old fishing docks, where the ghost fleet is. Twelve ships, industrial tankers, have been chained together in the water. Leon can make out their looming shapes in the darkness. He can hear the water lapping against their rusting hulls. The ships are so old they're of no use to anyone, so they're here, waiting to be dismantled. Some sort of government action is preventing them from being taken apart. They're in limbo.
Leon is waiting at the appointed location. The one thing he hates most about his job is the cliché he must inevitably act out. Every time he's sent on one of these little missions, he thinks, the crow flies at midnight. The night is cold. He's standing beneath a street lamp, his back against the pole. It's film noir bullshit, but he has to comply.
At any moment, one of Wesker's men will deliver the first of a series of reconnaissance packages. Each package is meant to brief them on some aspect of Umbrella. Wesker won't give them the information all at once, in case something happens. Leon knows the "something" refers to their possible deaths.
He rests his head against the pole. He's tired. He knows someone is coming up behind him. If he moves, he's sure the liaison won't approach for fear he's drawing a weapon. He listens intently to the advancing foot steps. Without warning, someone puts the cold blade of a knife to his throat. "Are you armed?"
Leon's heart skips. It's a woman's voice. He knows who the woman is.
"Yes."
"Don't try anything funny."
"I never do."
He hears a soft laugh. With the blade still pressed against his throat, the woman walks around the pole to face him.
"I took your advice," she says. "You're right. Knives do work better for close encounters."
"I thought you'd show up sooner or later."
"Really? Why's that?"
"You always do."
She smiles at him.
"You know me too well, handsome."
"Sure I do."
"I've come to deliver a present from Wesker," she says, ignoring his weighted comment. She pulls a disk out of her pocket. "Part one of several. It won't be me delivering them all the time. Has to be changed up from time to time. You understand, don't you?"
"All too well," he says.
She steps up close to him. He turns his head and stares off into the darkness. He doesn't want to look her in the eye.
"Miss me?" she asks.
He chuckles, but doesn't answer. "Leon…"
He can hear she's upset by his cool behaviour. It isn't enough.
"Did Wesker give you any instructions?"
"Regarding what?"
"Regarding the mission."
"Some."
"I suppose it's classified."
"No. If you ask me nicely, maybe you can hear it."
They stand beneath the street lamp. Neither of them says anything. "We're on the same side this time, Leon."
"For now. It won't be long before you've got another gun to my head."
"Maybe. It goes with the territory. You'd do the same."
"No I wouldn't. I wouldn't work for a creep like Wesker."
"One of these days," she says, the tension rising in her voice, "you'll have to make the same choices I make. We'll see what you do then."
"Yeah, we'll see."
He can't see it, but her expression softens. She leans into him, nuzzles his ear with her nose. He puts his arm around her waist. The knife is still at his throat. "Don't," he says.
"Don't what?"
"Don't do this."
"You're not stopping me, are you?"
"I can't do this."
"Yes you can."
She parts her lips and catches his earlobe, kissing it softly. "Yes you can. You have my permission."
He squeezes her side, brings her closer.
"I should punch you."
"You'd never hit a woman, Leon. I know you."
She moves her lips down his neck. He tilts his head up, lets them roam, closes his eyes.
"Stop it."
She's not listening to him. "Stop… it…" His voice trails off into a whisper. She doesn't stop. "Don't…" He feels her lips part. She traces his skin with a cool tongue. He can hear the wet noise of her licking his neck. "Don't…" His other arm encircles her. He puts his hand on the back of her head and squeezes her hair. "Stop…"
She pulls away and looks up at him. At first she thinks he'll ignore her, but he doesn't. Instead, he lowers his chin and gazes into her eyes. Their lips meet, then split into a sensual torrent of kisses. "God, Ada…"
"Leon…"
Her voice is gentle. He kisses her again and she moans tenderly. The blade against his throat is hot.
"Why do you do this to me?"
"Leon…"
They stop and catch their breaths. Leon can't forget why he's there.
"What orders did Wesker give you?"
"That under no circumstances are any of you to be harmed."
"Is that the truth?"
"Yes."
"Then why'd you kiss me?"
She laughs.
"Don't be so dramatic, Leon. I didn't know they were sending you. Maybe I would have kissed someone else tonight."
"Somehow I don't think you would have."
She's frozen in his gaze for a moment. Then she backs away and sheaths her knife.
"Time's up, Leon. Gotta run. I'm sure I'll see you again."
"Wait…"
"Bye bye," she calls as she drifts out of the pool of light.
"Ada, wait!"
It's no use. She's gone.
He bangs the back of his head against the lamp post so hard it draws blood.