The next few months of my life were spent in training. I was already as skilled a combatant as you could hope to recruit, but my newfound strength, agility and flexibility opened up worlds of possibilities, and Wesker wanted me second only to him in my ability to defeat any threat force.
As promised, I never saw the cell again. I was moved to a private suite, devoid of ornament but spacious and more comfortable. No lock on the door. None needed. My orders were clear: Don't try to escape, don't try to hurt Wesker or any of his men, don't try to hurt myself, don't try to damage or interfere with the operation of the Jewel, don't try to communicate with the outside world, don't interfere with Wesker's plans. When I wasn't training, I had an entire floor to myself with many amenities – exercise equipment, a full kitchen, my own private bathroom. I'd preferred the cell. This was a jail that continuously mocked me. I had no choice but to go through the motions of life – I had to do what was best for myself physically and mentally, whatever would keep me at peak operational status in Wesker's service. I think what I hated most about that place was the mirrors placed tastefully and practically here and there. I didn't have to spend any time looking at them, but I couldn't smash them and I couldn't help but catch a glimpse every once in a while; some blonde woman with alabaster skin, shale eyes and a monstrous red mechanical implant for a chest was staring at me as though I should know her.
Beyond sleep, I did not spend much time there. I spent twelve solid hours a day in training. I had traded in my white prison clothes for what I could tell was a very expensive, state-of-the-art body suit. It was completely form-fitting, tough as Kevlar but extremely flexible. It was actually the most practical choice for a warrior of my new skills as it allowed me to pull off any move, no matter how acrobatic. The built-in heels seemed an odd choice, but I found that I had perfect balance no matter what I was wearing on my feet, and they turned out to be an excellent built-in weapon, contributing devastating crushing force to my kicks. There was even a trick built in for convenience when using the restroom, but I'd prefer to remain discreet about that. It doesn't add to the story.
I sparred with many of Wesker's best men. Individually they posed little challenge; the trick was learning to defeat multiple attackers at once. It would have been easy to simply enjoy this as good sport, as a whole new way to use my body, especially since I wasn't in the field, being asked to do anything repugnant yet. But what little was under my control I was very careful about, and I never trust the easy way.
At least twice a week I would spend several hours sparring with Wesker. I dreaded this more than anything, mainly because every word he spoke hurt like a dagger as it fractured my mind to achieve his goals. He was the only individual challenge I had; I never managed to take him down, but I did land some good hits and smashed a few pairs of his sunglasses. He was too pleased by this for me to be anything but disgusted by it.
I started to come to a realization that horrified me. Spending time with Wesker was about more than training: I was being subtly conditioned. Having to hear and obey a specific set of words was inefficient; in order to most effectively bring about Wesker's will, I realized I was starting to be able to interpret his intent through all the subtle cues of human communication: tone, expression, body language. He didn't always need to tell me exactly what to do; my actions became an extension of not just his words, but also his will. I didn't think I could be more sickened by my situation until I realized what I was. I was more than a robot, after all; dogs have their own expertise in interpreting their master's mood and intentions, and I was as obedient as any dog Wesker could ever own.
Finally, one evening, Wesker came into my penthouse suite and parked himself in a chair.
"Just stopping by to check in on you, Jill. I trust you have everything you need here?"
"Yes, I do," I answered. Technically, I did, so there was no alternative.
"Good. Well, I just wanted to let you know how impressed I am with your progress. In fact, I believe you are ready for actual experience in the field. Tomorrow, you will accompany me on a rather important mission so that I can evaluate your effectiveness. Please report to my office at oh-eight-hundred hours."
"Yes, sir" I helplessly replied.
"Now, is there anything you would like to say to me?"
"Yes, there is."
"Please, then, feel free to speak your mind."
I won't repeat what I said to him as I am not proud of it. It was a long list of invectives and expletives, along with a number of detailed and graphic descriptions of all the ways I wanted to kill him.
Finally, he held up a hand and I stopped.
He smiled. "There now, doesn't it feel good to get it all out? It's just not healthy to keep those negative emotions bottled up inside." Satisfied, he got up to leave.
"Oh-eight-hundred hours, Jill. I will see you then."
I'd had no trouble sleeping for a while. I'd gotten used to the hum of the Jewel and I'd found a way to bear the horror of my every waking moment, the memories of the pain and of the killing of Mosi, without slipping into insanity. But I couldn't sleep well that night. I was being smothered by a feeling that I had come to know very well under Wesker: the feeling that I just didn't understand how bad things could get, but I was about to find out.
Morning washed over me with sickening dread. As I went about my preparations for the day, all I could see were the things that could end this before it started, tantalizingly within my reach.
Bread knife. I could do some serious damage to myself.
Light bulb. I could smash it and jam my fingers in the socket. Would hurt like hell, but it might even fry the Jewel.
Kitchen cleanser. Just down the whole bottle. Would hurt even worse.
None of these things were possible, though. I had someplace to be and I had standing orders to keep myself in top physical condition. Self-mutilation didn't factor in, so it didn't even register in that part of my brain that was running the show.
I reported to Wesker as ordered. I stood before his desk passively, awaiting instructions like a good little robot.
He took me in, a thoughtful expression on his stony face, then pushed a large manuscript towards me. The instruction to look at the tome was implicit, so I complied.
The manuscript appeared to be very old, medieval European if I had to guess. Next to the old English that I could not read was an etched image of a cloaked man with a wide brimmed hat, wearing an odd bird-like mask with a long beak.
Wesker launched into a history lesson. "In the middle ages, during the period of the Black Death, doctors would visit patients suffering from the bubonic plague. These doctors would wear oddly shaped, bird-like masks. The mask was intended as protection against the illness; the beak was stuffed with various herbs, probably ineffectual.
"Of course, we now know about disease vectors and contagions, and we realize that no one was doing more to spread the plague than the doctors visiting all the patients without any real protection, without notions of sterilization, of cleanliness. Much less any idea about how disease actually works."
On the other side of the desk was a wooden box, which Wesker pushed towards me. Again I followed the implicit order and opened the box. Inside was a long hooded robe with a camouflage pattern. I took the robe out, held it by the shoulders and shook it out to straighten it.
"A pale, blond white woman in a skin-tight battle suit running around the plains of Africa would attract rather more attention than I would like. So you will wear a disguise and stick to the shadows."
I put on the robe. Wesker opened a drawer, took out something shiny and handed it to me. It was a polished metal mask with a bird-like appearance and watery, irridescent red lenses for the eyes.
"As you will be the primary transmission vector for Uroboros, I thought the motif rather fitting. And should you be spotted, there would only be stories of a cloaked figure with a strange mask coming from a people perceived to backwards and superstitious. They would speak of you, and no one would believe them."
The mask had no bands to secure it, just black, rubbery-looking pads on the inside. I pressed it to my face. It held well. The pads had some sort of dry adhesive force that didn't require glue or tape. I pulled the hood up over my head, then stood still, waiting for his next instructions.
Wesker stood and looked me up and down. "Perfection," he said at last.
I knew he'd been turning me into a monster, and now the monster was complete, with a form that implied my function and a name that implied my purpose.
I was The Plague Doctor.