As she was lead to a large oaken door, she began feel more like herself again. And she began to think that this might not have been the best of ideas, walking right into the spider's web. True this may be where the answer was found, but then again, it could also be a trap.
Too late, came a voice in her head. It was right, it was too late, she was already in too deep. That didn't mean that she still didn't think this was a good plan. She didn't want to end up like every other poor wretch she'd come across that these two companies had taken. She didn't want to be some experiment to be poked and prodded , and driven slowly insane. Never, the voice said again.
Hunk opened the door for her. She looked at him again, and couldn't help but feel a little grateful towards him. His name had made her laugh, at least inwardly, and it helped bring her back to herself. She stepped passed him into the office, afraid if she looked at him too long, she'd start snickering. It wasn't even that funny, but it had been a while since she had a really good laugh. She needed one.
"Someone will be with you shortly," he said and closed the door before she could reply. Alone, she wandered the office. It was spacious in that opulent way that rich men sometimes have. An over abundance of space with just enough to fill it so it didn't echo when you talked, but everything in it was obviously pricey.
For the first time in a long while she thought about how she must look. Her clothes had seen better days. Her shirt had turned into a dirty black rag a long while back. It had more than a few bullet holes in it, the whole of it ragged and shredded. One of the sleeves had torn away all the way to the shirt collar. She couldn't remember when her bra had given way and been discarded.
Her jeans had faired no better. The first tear had come just from the friction of walking so much, and ripped slowly around her leg, right below the back pocket. The second leg had torn in much the same place, leaving her with jean shorts. Her boots had lasted longer, but they too had their share of bullet holes. And over all she was covered with dirt and spatters of dried blood, most of it hers.
She walked to the large bay window that dominated one of the walls. It was getting ready to storm outside, blanketing the world in a false night. But it was dark enough for the internal lights to cast her reflection on the window, translucent but usable. She ran a hand over her hair, mildly attempting to smooth it down. It did little good. Her hair had grown a lot and was badly windblown. The fringe of bangs she once had had turned into longer strands that did more to frame her face, but had a tendency to get into her eyes more. She wished for a brush.
She heard the door open behind her, but she didn't turn around. The smell of subtle but expensive cologne reached her and she breathed it in. The scent was as familiar as the voice that came with it.
"Ms. Redfield, I am glad to see you could make our appointment," Wesker's voice was deep and full of that self-satisfied tone that it always had. It raised a mixture of feelings inside her, hate, rage, annoyance, as well as stranger ones, more alien when it came to this man; amusement, pleasure.
"Well, you did ask so nicely," she replied, leaving her back turned to him. She could hear his footsteps as he moved through the office, soft, deliberate, stalking her. "Your note mentioned you had questions."
"Indeed, but you surprise me, Claire," the mention of her name made her turn slowly to face him. He was leaning on the edge of the office's large desk, his arms crossed lightly over his chest. He wore his perpetual sunglasses as always. "I would think, after your rampage across the country, you'd be asking as to the whereabouts of your beloved Mr. Burnside. But perhaps he's not your primary concern anymore?"
"No," came her soft reply. She really hadn't thought about Steve and a long time. Her drive had been to find out as much about T-Veronica as she could because... Because something had gone wrong and she had to know why. More importantly, how to fix it. Umbrella hadn't known anything, but the Agency might. Because they had Steve. But she hadn't come to save him. She'd come to get whatever information they'd managed to pull from him. Guilt swamped her suddenly and completely.
"Don't feel too bad , dear heart," Wesker's voice pulled her attention back to him. "After all, viral mutation can be a bit overwhelming." His voice was mild, but beneath it, he was laughing at her.
The worst part was, she too could see the irony in the situation. Maybe under different circumstances, she might've had a laugh at it herself, but not here and not now. With her head up, she walked passed him, heading for the door. She wasn't even half way there when she heard a mechanical click. He'd locked the door.
"Just where do you think you're going," the amusement was breaking through his cool, making her hackles rise a little bit more.
"I didn't come here to be mocked."
"You don't really think I'll let you leave," she heard him move, boots softly clicking with each step. "Do you?"
She started for the door again. If he thought a little lock was going to keep her out, he was sorely mistaken. "Stop me," she tossed over her shoulder.
She felt the air move behind her and that voice from within hissed at her, duck! She obeyed. Crouching low to the floor, she looked up to see Wesker swiping at the air where her head had been. She needed no internal encouragement now, and stood up swinging.