There were things the children knew, and things they did not know.
So Wesker read what they didn't know while he listened to them discussing what they did. They probably thought he was asleep; they were near the window to watch construction taking place on the building next door, while he was in the back of the room, leaning sideways with his work sheltered by his body. It was a negligible risk to appear in public; after all, he owned most of the island. The two needed time outside the labs. So he listened to them discuss the reality he'd shaped.
"What do you mean, 'not his kids?'" That was Topher. His tone was part scorn, part surprise.
"We don't look anything like him. Well, maybe the nose? But otherwise we don't. We had different mothers. It doesn't make sense we look like twins."
"He says we are. He has us call him 'Father.'"
"If we're adopted, why don't we have his last name? We don't have any last names. We don't have middle names, either." Chris sounded rather crushed about it, and Wesker marked that down for later consideration.
"But he takes care of us." Topher sounded down about it too. Hm. Could be quite the motivator, a name. "He gave us Steve and he spends time with us."
"Yeah. . . but. . . he's always disappointed in us. Today I was working on that maze puzzle and I got it done in forty seconds-"
"I never get it done by then." There wasn't much resentment there, but he heard a little. Topher hated being outdone.
"Yeah. And he looked at the time and said, 'you performed nearly as well as I expected.' I didn't want to say anything-"
"-thanks."
"But forty seconds!" Chris was clearly baffled as to how he could defeat that time. Admittedly, Wesker had expected forty-two.
"He let me help in the lab today. He wanted to do an autopsy on an ape." Wesker noted his matter-of-fact tone, and approved of it. The child had been too concerned about the deaths of furry creatures. Tonight's exercise should push them another notch towards the level of detachment they'd need one day, provided they turned out well enough to get there.
He let their conversation pass by while he compared the year's reports for the two placed clones. One was drifting towards outdoor sports—he rolled his eyes at Mrs. Redburn's paragraphs worth of concerns for his safety—and the other appeared to be. Hm. Doing nothing at all besides a great amount of reading, showing a tendency to furtive behavior, and expressing a strong interest in the outdoors. Socially, they were as devoted to their younger siblings as expected. Loyalty had a genetic component? How interesting.
He tuned in for another moment to see what Chris and Topher were discussing, but they had moved on to the construction project nearby. HUNK, sitting in his peripheral vision, moved suddenly. "Sir."
"Yes?" He shook away the lateness of the hour and sat up.
"They've called. They're on their way." HUNK was dressed as just the average traveller. His suit did nothing to make him look harmless.
He didn't see exactly when it began, but he knew they both did. There was no shout of warning; there wasn't time. He looked back at the construction site to see one of the groups of girders hanging from a crane above the site slip, in slow motion to him. He heard one of the boys start to scream and smash the side of a fist against the glass to try to warn the workers, heard the other start to run for the door. He watched the men scatter, watched one react too late.
They probably heard the man scream, but the crashing of metal was far louder. Wesker heard the fraction of second in which the scream cut off—instantly fatal. He restrained a nod.
He glanced over. That was Chris who had tried to run out to help, caught by HUNK on his way to the door, leaving Topher still staring out, fist against the thick security glass. Neither of them had been shocked into stillness while it was happening.
"Come on," he said, as the shouting outside picked up. "Topher. Come away."
"He died," Topher said, turning to him, huge-eyed. "Didn't he?"
"I think so." Hunk had released Chris and was escorting him over in the businesslike hustle of a stressed bodyguard. Chris was starting to cry. They both clung to him, small, scared human bodies. The scent was starting to get on his nerves; there was nothing like only a tiny amount of destruction to cause a Tyrant impatience. The car pulled up shortly afterwards, and he sent HUNK to the base with them. After all, he hardly needed a bodyguard. He leaned into the backseat. Topher was starting to get teary-eyed now, too. "I'll need to tell them what I saw. I'll be in soon." They'd be all right. And it was better he not be there for the initial storm of emotion.
He got in an hour and fifteen minutes later. Chris opened the door. Topher was in the back of the room, huddled in the blankets. Chris glanced back, then slid out into the hallway, closing the door behind him.
"Come on. We can talk in here." There was a side room with a couch and an afghan draped over it; he slept here when a project required his full time. Chris followed him in, smelling of misery. Wesker glanced down at him. He had a plan; it didn't involve causing either of them undue pain. He drew up a chair and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Are you all right?"
Chris made snuffling sounds for a moment, making a heroic effort not to cry. Wesker admitted to himself that was remotely touching, if irritating. "Son?"
He'd overestimated the amount of concern the moment needed, because that got a small clone of his worst enemy burrowing against his side. Shades of a sixteen-year-old Birkin who'd just discovered how deeply into the pit they'd fallen. As much as that touched the ghost of his paternal instinct, there was still the fact that he was a predator being approached by something hurt. He grabbed the afghan, wrapping it comfortingly around the child to insulate himself from the beating of its heart and the smell of its pain.
"It was an accident," he said, when he knew Chris wasn't going to start crying. "It broke his neck. He didn't have time to suffer."
"There wasn't time to do anything."
"You tried." Chris twisted up to try to see his face, alerted by his tone. Wesker looked back at him, not entirely approving. "I've only got two sons."
He burrowed back in again. Wesker considered, and decided twelve wasn't too young—Chris was merely soft. He probably should have done this a year ago. He gentled his criticism: or perhaps the child simply had a requirement for human contact he'd been keeping restrained, but had temporarily given into given his grief. "I wish I could have done something."
"Chris, nobody out there could. They moved to save themselves because if they'd tried to get close enough to pull him away, they would have been killed too. It was fortunate only one person died." The child made a small choked sound. "Yes. He didn't work for us. It was a sad accident, but it wasn't Umbrella's responsibility." A lie; he'd arranged the situation. But a necessary one.
"Who was he?"
"I don't know. Just a worker caught by surprise." There was no more snuffling, and he stroked the child's hair once, rewarding his stoicism. "It was a sad waste of life, but it was only one worker."
"But. . ."
"Hmm?"
"Did he have any family?"
"No." But it was irrelevant. "Chris, you shouldn't have tried to run out only for him. He knew there were problems. What if you'd been killed? I have you, and I have Topher. Do you think I'd want to lose you just for that?"
". . . oh."
Wesker let it rest there; Chris was determined, and he'd increase the value on the man's life, given further time to argue. But in this state, he wouldn't argue, and he'd remember it for later. He let the child think.
"Come on," he finally said. "You need sleep, and I need to talk to Topher. Was he asleep when you left?"
"I don't think so. He just isn't talking."
"All right. I'll see what I can do." It was going to be harder to make Topher see the relative value of life here. Still, he was confident in his ability.
Hey Journal!
My name's Christopher Redburn. I'm twelve. I live in Tansville, Minnesota. And I think something weird's going on. Maybe some sort of secret government project?? Chantal isn't in on it. I can be sure of this. She says conspiracy theories are a waste of time and conspiracies are too hard to hide now anyway. She's just a kid. She'll figure it out someday!
Time to get this all written down so I can look at it.
Fact #1: I've been looking through family albums, and I don't look like anyone. Neither does Chantal even though Mom says she has her hair. They sort of do, but Chantal's is wavier like it wants to curl up and Mom's is straight.
Fact #2: My parents are sending off copies of my doctor's checkups. They've always asked for printouts when they visited the office. I didn't even catch it until Dad told me it was for insurance and Mom said the dentist's report was to a place to hold my records. Which I don't know what's going on, because I know they wouldn't hurt me, so what are they doing?!
Fact #3: They're supposed to be following some sort of schedule. I'm not sure why. Dad never played sports, but he took me to Little League until I told him I wanted to quit. And then there was the gun safety stuff. And the self-defense lessons. I stopped all of those. I want to be a fireman and firemen don't need to worry about guns. Oh—and the bike. Something happened when I didn't ride the bike? I think.
Fact #4: Where do they get all their money? Dad didn't work for a while and Mom didn't either but we didn't have to sell anything? Ronnie's parents had to sell their truck in a month after he lost his. My parents never talk about money, but it's weird we have so much. Grandma lives in an apartment and PawPaw and MawMaw rent their house.
It's all weird and I'm going to go back to the range and self-defense classes. I don't know what's going on. So it can't hurt to be ready. Be prepared like the books all say.
I'm hiding this journal and putting the one I got in first grade in my bedside table. My parents will never know the difference, I never wrote in that one.
JOURNAL ENTRY. THING. Stardate something huge.
Hi journal! I'm Chris Reckart, signing in! And I have so much to write now that I'm finally writing in these stupid things.
Cher is always following me around! I can't stand it! I've started moving all my stuff from the secret clubhouse cave on the cliffs out to a shelter I made in the woods. Okay the first shelter since the last two fell down. But I think this one's going to stay. I can ride my bike all the way out to it and she can't keep up, so I think it will be safe for a few years. I wish she'd cut it out following me!! Doesn't she have something else to do? I mean, this part of New Mexico is dead boring, but I stay busy.
Okay besides the paper route. I am so embbarassed I missed that and she got it. I have to help with the recycling drive next week, too, and she gets out of it because she won't have time. Stupid recycling drive. Why are my parents so into environmentalism? I wanted to go on that fishing trip but dad says it's wasteful and fishing is boring anyway.
This morning Dad was looking at my archery targets. And then this afternoon Mom was talking about how well I do in karate. I think they think I need more to do, too.
But Mom and Dad have been fighting a lot this month. I don't think we have a whole lot of money now. I'm confused. Dad didn't lose his job or anything. Maybe he got demoted and they wouldn't tell us. I have to hide this someplace Cher won't find it now or she'll be scared. Cher if you read this we'll be fine and leave my stuff alone you brat!!
