"Where the fuck are we going?"

"Grayson, hush."

"Don't talk to me like I'm some little kid, Lex."

They turned another corner, passed a wall papered with yellowing fliers and posters he remembered seeing as a kid. The sub-levels of the facility had been shuttered since the 80s; Alfred had converted the facility into a transport terminal, and had fired most of the research staff, only keeping a handful of scientists that were, more or less, just there to take some of the research load off Umbrella's more lucrative labs.

Alexia stopped walking and looked at him. She had this way of conducting herself that left no movement wasted, as if every moment in her life was deliberate, part of some scene in a perfectionist's play. Behind her, a researcher with an 80s mullet smiled on faded laminate, Umbrella's motto printed in italicized Eurostile below him: Preserving the health of the people. Below that was printed: Benefits enrollment deadline Oct 05 – Oct 10. Contact HR ASAP.

One of Alexia's old internal letters was still tacked on the wall beside the mullet-researcher, though the paper was brittle and curling at the edges, and it read:

To All Employees:

Due to an unprecedented uptick in demand, work-loads will be increasing, and mandatory overtime will be required of all employees to ensure the influx of orders are fulfilled. All further request-offs will be denied until further notice. Umbrella apologizes for the inconvenience, and thanks all of its employees for your valuable hard work and your understanding.

Alexia Ashford

Director of Antarctic Operations

Chief Researcher of Antarctic Virology Labs

"What are you staring at?" Alexia asked, puzzled.

"The wall behind you," Grayson said, and shook his head. "Took me back, I guess." He'd found one of his father's old suits, and though the waistcoat was a bit tight around the chest, it fit him surprisingly well, cut an impressive figure that Alexia had made a point to comment on in several slobbery degrees of down, girl. Though Grayson couldn't help but think that he looked, in that suit, like a funeral director.

Alexia raised an eyebrow and looked behind her. "Really?" she said, and looked at him. "A bloody internal letter and some posters makes you nostalgic? You're funny, Grayson." She started to walk away, and he followed. "Nobody's been down in this part of the facility since I went into cryostasis," she told him, her high-heels clicking sharply against the glossy concrete floor. "I gave Alfred the express order to keep it shuttered, as I didn't want anyone happening across my cryotank. It was unlikely that anyone would, of course, but I consider and prepare for all variables." She shot him a smirk over her shoulder, adding, "Though nothing could have prepared me for how bloody well fit you've gotten."

"All for you," he said, and grinned. Then he asked, "So where are we going?"

"Patience, Grayson," she said, descending a concrete stairwell, the yellow latex paint on it faded and peeling. "You act as if I'm leading you to the gallows."

Sometimes, he thought, it certainly felt that way. "You ever get nostalgic?" he asked, staring at the back of her head. Her hair was so pale that it was almost white, and the fluorescent lights burned it into a platinum corona.

"I've never really been the overly sentimental type," she said. "No sense in dwelling in the past, Grayson. When one gets stuck in a quagmire, one works to get out of it, not to sink into it."Alexia looked over her shoulder. Her shoulders were broad and thin, the flesh, in those lights, the color of milk. "That's always been a problem for you, hasn't it? Moving on."

"Yeah," he admitted, nodding. Grayson gave her a sheepish smile, and said, "Wish I could be like you, Lex. Maybe it's a by-product of your intelligence? Everyone around you, I guess, has always moved at a snail's pace, while you've always moved at light-speed. So you don't know how to slow down, and when you can't slow down, you can't get stuck." He paused. "Sorry," he said, after a moment, "it sounded better in my head."

"I understood your meaning," she said, and smiled. Her smile was something that belonged in magazines. It dripped charisma and confidence. Little wonder, Grayson thought, why Alfred had chosen to become her, to embody that unfaltering personality, because it was a personality that got things done and never second-guessed itself. "You've been through a lot," she said.

"Yeah," he said.

"That girl," she said, and fell in step beside him, fixing him with her ice-blue eyes. "The one you'd mentioned before. Sherry?" Her expression was expectant.

"What about her?"

"I'm curious. Indulge me."

"Already told you about her," Grayson said, mostly because he didn't want to discuss Sherry. If he discussed Sherry, then he'd start thinking about her more, and if he started thinking about her more, he'd start thinking about Annette and how he'd broken his promise of always being there for Sherry. And that was a weight he didn't really need or want on his mind right now.

Alexia, however, was insistent. "You were close," she remarked, something edging on suspicion in her voice.

"Yeah, she was Clancy's little cousin. I saw her a lot."

Her eyes narrowed. "You speak of her as though she's your daughter, Grayson." Alexia stopped walking and stared at him, her expression unreadable.

"What are you getting at, Lex?"

"Was Sherry really William's daughter, Grayson? Or did Annette simply tell him that."

"Seriously?" he said, staring back at her. "I was nineteen when Sherry was born."

"Is that supposed to mean something?" Alexia asked. "Nineteen is old enough to father a child, Grayson, and people are foolish at that age."

"How would you even know?" he asked, a little angrier than he'd meant to. "You were never nineteen, Lex. You were still in the fucking tank."

She frowned, and suddenly the charisma and the confidence evaporated from her. "Is Sherry your biological daughter, Grayson?" she asked bluntly.

"No!" Grayson said, exasperated. He felt like he was being cross-examined by a prosecutor who was desperate for a conviction. "Don't be stupid, Lex," he continued, rubbing the space between his eyes. "She's William's kid. If you saw her, you'd know it. She looks like him around the face."

Alexia sighed. "Good," she said, and nodded slowly. "I was worried you'd—but you didn't, so it doesn't matter." She paused, stared at him like a cat. "You didn't, did you?"

"Did what?"

"Have children. You're twenty-nine, Grayson. Old enough to have a child who's already in the bloody double-digits."

"What's this sudden goddamn fixation with kids, Lex?"

"Nothing, I'm simply curious."

"No," he said, and shook his head. "I don't have any kids."

Alexia nodded, and she almost looked relieved, and something else: nervous. "Good." She went quiet for a moment, seemingly absorbed by her thoughts. Then, "Would you ever consider children, I wonder?" She looked at him, waiting.

"Are you—you asking me what I think you're asking?"

"No," she said, pointedly. "I'm relatively sure the T-Veronica rendered me sterile. I simply want to know if that will be an issue between us, down the road."

"You don't sound so sure about the sterility thing."

Alexia ignored him. "Grayson, is it going to be a problem or not?"

He thought about that for a few moments. "Yeah," he said, finally, "it might be. But we'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

She nodded, and didn't say anything else.

Eventually, they came to a part of the facility that used to be BOW storage; but the BOWs had been moved five years ago to the NESTs, and to Umbrella Europe's facilities. Now it was just unused space, a bunch of cooler rooms with nothing in them. Alexia punched her override code into the electronic lock on a gray-painted steel door, and the door beeped its confirmation, the magnetic locks thudding out of place. She opened the door, a burst of frigid air hitting him like an icy fist, and then she stepped inside.

Steve was inside, huddled in his arctic gear between empty bio-hazard crates crusted with ice. "Grayson?" he said, scowling. He looked even more banged up than before; his right eye was swollen, and bruises and cuts mottled his face. "I'm not even fuckin' surprised you're with this crazy bitch." The palms of his hands were skinned, his fingers raw and bloody. "I told Claire you couldn't be trusted, asshole. I told her."

"What the hell did you do to him, Lex?"

"A giant fuckin' tentacle came outta nowhere and dragged me and Claire through the snow," Steve said through the bloody, chipped ruin of his teeth. "Next thing I know, I'm in this fuckin' place, and this bitch," and he pointed at Alexia, "is tellin' me she's got plans for me." He stood up and yelled, spittle flying, "Where's Claire, you psycho bitch? What did you do to her?"

"Don't worry about Claire," Alexia said, deliberately cutting her hand on the sharp corner of a steel shelf. "I'm still not done with you, boy." She grabbed Steve's throat and squeezed, and his face started turning purple. "You killed my brother," Alexia said icily, the smell of burnt flesh filling the room. "Shot him like a bloody animal, you wretched little fuck."

Without thinking, Grayson grabbed Alexia's arm and yanked her away from Steve, who stumbled back with a gasp, a charred handprint around his neck. "You're better than this," he said. Her hand glistened with blood, and it smelled of sulfur and butane. "He's just a kid, Alexia."

"A kid who murdered my brother," she spat.

"I know."

She looked at Steve and hissed, "I'm not finished with you." Then Alexia looked at him and said, "I'm disappointed, Grayson. Utterly disappointed." She stormed off, and forgot to close the door, or perhaps had just assumed that he would close it for her.

Steve looked at him, confused. "Look," Grayson said, once he was sure Alexia was gone, "you need to run, kid. Find Claire, and get the fuck outta here. If Alexia catches you again, you're dead."

"Why are you helpin' me?" Steve asked. "I killed Alfred."

"I haven't forgotten, but Alfred, much as I loved him, made his bed and wound up having to sleep in it. Permanently. Karma's a bitch. I would know." Grayson frowned. "Look," he said, "I'm not gonna be able to help you again. So make it count, kid. Get outta here. I'll do my best to keep Alexia occupied."

"She's gonna murder you," Steve said. "Alexia finds out you'd helped me, you're dead, man." He shook his head, then admitted, "Claire was right about you." He looked at him. "You should come with us, Grayson. You're only gonna be alive for as long as Alexia thinks you're entertaining. She's psycho, dude."

"Alexia won't kill me," Grayson said. "Put me in the doghouse, sure, but never kill me. Trust me, between Alfred and her, she's the reasonable one."

"That's… really not sayin' much, man."

Grayson shrugged.

"You're fuckin' nuts," Steve said. "So whatever, you wanna chance it with the crazy bitch, that's on you. Me? I'm gonna find Claire and get the fuck outta here. And, uh, thanks." He hurried away.