Grayson weaved in and out of sleep, in and out of dreams he could only remember shreds of: his father praying, Alexia smiling from behind a microscope, Annette sitting in his window, framed by summer twilight… It was as if his mind was trying solve a complex jigsaw puzzle, but couldn't quite fit the pieces together, and when he'd finally slept and dreamed of nothing, Grayson supposed his brain had finally given up altogether on the task.

He woke to Alfred in his Alexia-drag, leafing through the pages of a worn leather-bound book, the pages yellowing and crisp with age. "I'm sorry," he said, in his approximation of his sister's voice. "Alfred told me that he'd told you about the project. About your father."

"It's fine," he lied. Grayson looked at the book and asked, "What's that?"

"My diary," Alfred said.

Grayson stood up faster than he'd meant to. "May I see it?"

Alfred stared at him, then closed the book, which had one of those leather straps with a keyhole, and passed it to him. "Normally," he said, "I wouldn't dare share my private thoughts with anyone—even you—but in light of the circumstances, I think it would prove an enlightening read."

"Thanks," Grayson said, and meant it. The cover had Alexia's name on it, embossed in gold, and the book was about the size of his hand. Custom-made, he thought, just like everything else the twins' owned, and it was small enough for Alexia to carry in the pockets of her lab coats and sweaters. "Did you bring this from Antarctica?" he asked, and glanced at Alfred. He remembered seeing Alexia write in it, once, and when Grayson had asked her about it, she'd quickly hidden it as if he'd caught her with a porno mag and had told him it was none of his business.

"Yes," Alfred said, "I didn't want to leave it there."

"Mind if I read it alone?"

Alfred opened his lipsticked mouth, closed it, and nodded hesitantly. "All right," he said, and stood up. "But be quick about it, darling."

"I will," he said, and watched Alfred go.

He opened the diary, his hand trembling slightly. The first page was written on the day after Alexia's graduation, and read, in Alexia's rushed, spidery cursive:

May 17 th, 1980

I spoke with one of my professors, and he suggested it would be a good idea to get in the habit of writing a research diary. Initially, I planned to do just that, but as I mulled it over, I would prefer writing about my personal life instead. I've no other place to speak of it but in this diary, and I rather not leave a record of my research in such an unsecured place anyway. For my research, I'll record events on a voice-recorder…

Nothing particularly interesting, he decided. Grayson turned the page; the next entry was dated the 20th of May, 1980.

… Umbrella offered me the position of Chief Researcher at the Antarctica Facility, though I'm hardly surprised. Undoubtedly, Spencer wants to 'keep it in the family', I suppose, as nobody knows this place better than the Ashfords. Except for the Harmans, I imagine. Scott used to be a junior researcher here, years ago.

Grayson sat down in the chair Alfred had previously occupied, in the corner of the room, and turned another page. Alexia went into details about her thoughts on Umbrella as a company, on Spencer, on her own father and the tumbledown legacy he left for her to repair. None of them were particularly good opinions; she seemed to hold a lot of animosity toward Spencer and her father.

November 12 th, 1980

Spencer is wasting my talent on this T-Virus research. The Progenitor strain he'd sent me is unstable to say the least; it's little wonder grandfather died from it. But I digress, the purpose of this diary isn't to speak of my research; I have my voice-recorder for that.

Grayson is getting a bit stir-crazy , which hardly surprises me; this isn't the kind of life he deserves, being locked away in Antarctica with my brother and I. Though, as selfish as it sounds, I'd have it no other way. I like Grayson. I like being around him and listening to that funny New York accent of his. He says it's not a New York accent, but it sounds like one, like in The Godfather...

Grayson smiled. He'd often teased Alexia about her accent, and she'd always smiled and countered that he had an accent, too; it had been a sort of game between them, a running joke. He kept reading, skipping a few pages here and there, and sometimes whole chapters when there was nothing that really piqued his interest; he could read through the more mundane details later, he decided. Preferably with some scotch.

He frowned. That had been the first he'd thought about alcohol since he'd cold-turkeyed. Shaking his head, Grayson continued reading, swinging his legs up over the carved armrest of the chair. He heard Alfred thumping around downstairs, in another one of his moods.

February 17 h, 1983

My brother and I have finally managed to get inside father's laboratory. I knew my suspicions were warranted; we found his notes regarding the Code: Veronica project. I don't know how I should feel about it, only that I hate my father. He created me to fix his blunders. I've been nothing more to him than a genetically-engineered Pinocchio, a tool to repair the Ashford family's reputation. Not a daughter, but a means to an end. Even so, at least I was wanted, if only to be used. Not even Alfred can say that. I feel terribly for him; he was never meant to be, an unintended by-product of the experiment. I can already see that the news has affected him deeply; he won't speak to me, nor to Scott, and has shuttered himself away in his room. Even Grayson can't seem to jostle Alfred out of his mood with his ribald jokes and his infectious smiles.

I don't blame Alfred for being angry at father, at Scott. Scott helped father with this project, yes, but unlike father, I don't think Scott sees us as a successful experiment. He sees us as real children—his children—and for that, I am grateful...

Grayson kept going; the next entry that caught his attention was a long one, written hastily.

March 3, 1983

Father is gone, and Alfred seems in better spirits now. But he won't be for long, and neither will Grayson; I'm beginning to reach a critical juncture in my T-Veronica project, and it will require major changes. I would rather keep Grayson ignorant on the matter, as he's such a sensitive boy, but I can't, I think, entirely entrust my brother with the matter. Alfred is beginning to display a worrying downshift in personality and efficacy. I'll have to think on it.

I've been reading more into father's research, and have found some disturbing details regarding Grayson, but details that explain so much. Code: Veronica was, essentially, inspired by my grandfather's eugenics experiments in the early sixties. Scott had been involved in a project bankrolled by my grandfather called Project Darwin, which later became The Wesker Project, under Martin Wesker. Or, rather, Project Darwin inspired Project Wesker… Scott had been working on an early Progenitor strain he'd called Origin, and Grayson was its first—and only—recipient… Scott had attempted to inject himself with this Progenitor derivative, but from what I understand, nothing came of it. I suspect further details can be found in Scott's research diary, but I don't know where he keeps it, and he won't answer my questions. He simply tells me that it's something he regrets and that he doesn't want to talk about it.

I did, however, learn something that has left me quite shaken. Apparently, my father made some sort of deal with Scott, or perhaps my father simply planned to carry it out himself behind Scott's back. Father wanted to involve me in Project Darwin, use me as some sort of Mitochondrial Eve, once I was, as his notes say, 'old enough'… His notes suggest that Code: Veronica was simply a continuation and re-branding of Scott's work. My father couldn't even be original in his research either, it seems! Once again, he used someone else for his own ends. I'm not sad that he's gone… I'll have to keep digging. But I sometimes worry I'll wake a Balrog...

The door banged open, and Steve stepped into the room. Slowly, Grayson rose from the chair and secured Alexia's diary, staring at him, at the gun pointed at his head.

"Where's Alfred?" Steve demanded, staring coldly at him down the sights of the gun.

"So that was all the thumping around I heard," Grayson said, stowing the diary inside his blazer. "He's not in here."

"Steve!" Claire appeared in the doorway, blood dripping from her nose, lip split in the middle. She looked at Grayson, bewildered. "Grayson?"

"What happened to your face?" he asked.

"The stock of Alexia's rifle," Claire said, and she spat blood on the carpet, wiping some it from her mouth on the back of her hand. "Caught me by surprise when I came through the door." She looked at him. "I thought she was dead."

"First we get Alfred, then we worry about his crazy fuckin' sister," Steve said, approaching Grayson and, emboldened by the fact he'd caught him off-guard, pushing the muzzle of the gun against his head. "My dad's dead, asshole," he said, icily. "Because of Alfred, your buddy."

Grayson put his hands up, palms turned out. A bead of sweat slid down the side of his face. "I didn't have anything to do with that," he said, with a calmness that surprised him.

"But you let him do it!" Steve snapped, and struck him with the pistol. "You let Alfred kill my dad, fucker," he said, and hit him again, harder, drawing blood.

"Steve, stop!" Claire shouted.

Grayson's head swam, vision fuzzing around the edges, and then Steve was beating him, repeatedly pistol-whipping his head until he couldn't stand anymore, legs buckling underneath him as though his torso was made of lead. Warm blood oozed down the side of his face. Claire was struggling to wrestle Steve away from him, her arms wrapped around the teenager's waist, pulling, her feet sliding on the hardwood and the carpet.

There was a relief in the wall opposite him, of a woman in a himation, and behind that relief was a secret door which connected the twins' rooms. It opened, then, and Alfred, still convinced that he was Alexia, appeared. There was some sort of dialog, but Grayson couldn't hear what was said over the blood throbbing in his ears, and then an exchange of gunfire. Alfred retreated through the passageway, and Steve and Claire chased after him.

Pushing himself to his feet, Grayson wobbled toward the relief and shouldered through it, the stone turning like a revolving door, and then he was standing in Alexia's room, among the lobotomized stares of her porcelain dolls, and her opulent rococo treasures. The smell of perfume and wood congealed in the air. His head ached, white-hot pain searing the cortexes of his brain, crystallizing in front of his eyes and bursting.

Alfred had discarded Alexia's wig and dress. Himself again, he ambushed Claire and Steve, but Steve side-stepped and shoved Alfred face-first into an antique Cheval mirror. The glass shattered, and when Alfred glimpsed his reflection in the remains of the mirror, he wailed as if waking from a nightmare and rushed from the room, not even sparing Grayson a glance.

Steve swung his gun on him. Claire stepped between them and said, "No."

"Alfred got away," Steve hissed. "So at least I can get the fuckin' butler."

"Grayson isn't a bad guy, Steve," Claire said, gesturing for him to lower the gun.

Grayson leaned against the wall and prodded, experimentally, at his skull. Several deep gashes, where the gun had split his scalp, but the skin was already beginning to knit back together. The blood down the side of his face had jellied, sticking unpleasantly to his skin like epoxy glue. "I wouldn't say I'm a good guy either," he said, grimacing. "I need to go after Alfred."

"Grayson, forget him," Claire said, looking at him. "The guy's fucking insane. Come with us. Sherry's waiting for you." She glanced at Steve, who had put his gun away, and then she turned to him and said, "We've got a plane already, Grayson. Rodrigo, that guard? He's already aboard it, waiting for us." She grinned; the cracks between her teeth were red. "Even better? We have dirt on Umbrella."

"Dirt?"

Claire nodded. "Steve's dad, remember? That data he stole. We're gonna give it over to Jill and my brother."

He knew she'd brought up Jill to entice him to come along; but that was in the past, and Jill hated his guts anyway. Not that Grayson blamed her for that; he'd hurt her bad, when she'd done nothing to deserve it. "I can't," he said. "My loyalty's to the Ashfords. I'm sorry, Claire."

Her expression collapsed, a question in her eyes. "Why?" she said, finally. "Doesn't Sherry mean anything to you anymore? It was Annette's dying wish, Grayson. Her fucking last wish. She wanted you to take care of Sherry."

Sherry meant everything to him, but so did Alfred. "I'm sorry," was all he managed to say.

Claire shook her head in disbelief. "I can't believe you."

"I can. Forget him," Steve said. "We need to find Alfred."

"If you go after Alfred," Grayson said, staring at Steve, "then I don't have a choice but to stop you, kid."