DISCLAIMER: Resident Evil © Capcom
PLOT: Post Resident Evil 5 / Not everything ended in Africa - fates can be forever entwined. Concerning Sherry Birkin, the girl who disappeared.
Poetic justice – noun; an ideal distribution of rewards and punishments such as is common in some poetry and fiction. The rewarding of virtue and the punishment of vice, often in an especially appropriate or ironic manner.
Somewhere in her education she had learned the definition. It was one of those minor smarts; a polished discernment. She could recognize the justice even as she carefully loaded the correct dosage into the hypodermic needle. The scientist had become the experiment. What had been an untouchable power was now a vulnerable weakness. She flicked any air out of the syringe, checking the measurement. The orchestrator had ended up nothing more than further biological research. Albert Wesker was just another Umbrella leftover.
..
In the morning, Sherry had briefed Claire's Terrasave group in regards to Tricell's classified air-transport. Three days. They would have three days to prepare. Her acquired paperwork notified them of the date and time of the play - 2 A.M. on Tuesday morning. The cargo, however, had maintained its mystery. Sherry had admitted she was unable to access any information regarding it. Terrasave remained undaunted; they would carry out the mission as planned.
Sherry would be well away for the proceedings. After mission completion, Shelly Williams would leave Tricell and begin her new career as Sherry Birkin of Terrasave. She would regret abandoning Greg, but there was nothing left for her to stay. She would work with Claire, she would see Leon again, and she would meet Chris. There was a bright new future. Only Sherry could see the clouds gathered on the horizon. For a while, she let herself pretend she couldn't.
..
It was a strange and unsettling feeling – how much she was a sudden echo of her parents. Consumed in her work. Surrounded by equipment. Absorbed in the subject at hand.
"You remind me of your parents, Sherry."
She hadn't wanted to be down in the labs. Their stark emptiness was a sterile and unwelcoming environment; she was sure he had endured enough of them for the time being. As ridiculous as it may have seemed, she insisted on setting up in the lounge. Windows, books, and color – a home. He was positioned on the large sofa and sprawled around were all the tellings of the basement laboratory. She would have to administer the drugs; she was aware. She had read over the report several times. Top to bottom. Start to finish. She was aware of the circumstances.
From the ashes, Tricell had discovered the greatest biological weapon to date – remnants of perfection. Over months of time it had rehabilitated into something they could use. It was dangerous and intelligent and offered possibilities previously unattainable at such a level. It was a building block, and it suffered for their research; like so many before. Poetic justice.
She carefully loaded the correct dosage into the hypodermic needle and marveled over her actions. So much thrown away on something she didn't even understand. So much misery and death, unforgivable deeds. The hands that had pulled her from perdition, dripping with blood.
"You remind me of your parents, Sherry."
She flicked any air out of the syringe, checking the measurement, and leaned in close. Faster than she could understand, his hand was around her neck, squeezing. He shouldn't be awake yet. The air was robbed from her lungs and something painful was welling up beneath iron fingers, digging into her throat. She stared at his eyes, burning like a flame, and was frightened by the feral rage. He wasn't supposed to be awake yet. She suddenly understood the report's warning - "do not remove sedatives". The syringe clattered to the floor as she clawed at his grip.
"You remind me of your parents, Sherry. Just don't follow in their mistakes."
Something was dawning beyond the snarl, beyond the glowing embers, the inhuman slits, narrow like a cat's. His fingers twitched sharply and she pulled with what was left.
"SH-SHERRY!"
And just as simple as her statement, his hand recoiled sharply from her throat. She threw herself away, crashing past tables, stumbling over her legs onto the floor. She hacked and gasped and rubbed her raw neck. He was sitting up, staring across at where she was collapsed. She was frightened, shocked, and she glanced warily at his position.
He was taking stock of his surroundings, slowly turning his gaze along the four walls. Maybe he recognized the room. He hadn't recognized her. Why would he have? He remembered only a little girl. A sudden terror seized her. What if the man she had known was dead – what if this was something else entirely? Just don't follow in their mistakes. She trembled. His gaze turned back to her and she went cold all over. Maybe he saw her fear. His eyes had stopped burning so fiercely. She tried her voice – it was small in the space between them.
"Wesker?"
He was regarding her from his spot, silent. She thought he hadn't heard her. It was a moment before he tried his voice – it was raw in the space between them.
"Sherry Birkin."
Beethoven - Sonata 14 "Mondscheinsonate".