"I can't believe she's alive," his father said, in the passenger seat of the Rolls-Royce Alexia had insisted, repeatedly, on buying. His hair was finally starting to grow back, and there was a bit more life in his face. "I almost didn't believe it was her voice on the phone. I thought it was Alfred."
Grayson still hadn't told his dad about Alfred, or how Alexia had experimented on herself and gone into cryostasis for fifteen years. Would his dad even believe him? The whole Antarctica story, in hindsight, was so off-the-wall that even the cheesiest episode of X-Files sounded more believable in comparison. "Yeah," Grayson said, watching the cars in front of him. "I was surprised, too."
"It just doesn't make sense," his dad said. "She was dead, Grayson."
"Did you ever see a body, dad?"
"No," his dad said, after a moment. "They'd removed her body and closed off her lab. Didn't want to risk a bio-hazard."
If only his dad knew.
Grayson took the Cargill Interchange into Arklay, then drove through the Abney Tunnel, into the business district. Another protest was in full-swing outside the Umbrella headquarters; the crowds, to Grayson, seemed to be getting bigger. Thousands of people waving around their Justice for Raccoon signs, and variations of that, shouting through megaphones, scuffling with the police and the USS. The cops had tear-gassed the protesters the other day, and a few days before that, the USS had fired rubber bullets into the crowd. One protester had died, trampled by the others in their panic, and a cop had been injured, and was, as far as Grayson knew, still in critical condition down at Arklay General.
"Wait until the riots hit," his dad said, staring out his window. "Never in my days did I think I'd see Umbrella in this predicament. I thought Spencer was more careful than that." He looked at Grayson, and asked, "They haven't come to your house, have they?"
"We've been lucky so far," Grayson said, turning right, driving past busy shops and restaurants, and the biggest movie theater in Arklay City. "I keep telling Alexia that moving into the city was a bad idea. I think she's finally coming around to the idea of relocating, especially with how bad these protests are getting—but you know how she is. Stubborn as hell."
"The English, in general, are stubborn as hell. Should've seen Edward," his dad said, chuckling.
They arrived at the mansion, and his dad said Murray Hill reminded him of Park Avenue, which Grayson replied it pretty much was Park Avenue, and that, if it had been his choice, he wouldn't have moved here at all. He went around the car and popped the trunk, and took out his father's wheelchair, unfolding it and wheeling it around to the passenger door.
"No, no," his dad said, waving away the chair. His father climbed out of the car, leaning heavily on his cane, puffing. "I can walk myself through the damn front door." He grimaced, took a few slow, stiff steps forward. "Humiliating enough I had to ride in that thing through the airport."
"Dad, come on," Grayson pleaded, coming up behind him with the chair. "Just sit down. I gotta ramp for you in the garage."
"No," his dad shot back, and he started up the stairs to the front door, his knees popping and cracking. He gripped the handrail with his free hand, his other wrapped around the silver handle of his cane, and limped inside. "Alexia," he called out, in the foyer. "Alexia, princess, are you here? Alfred?"
Alexia appeared at the top of the stairwell, dressed in a dark purple blouse and black slacks, her ruby glittering like a fat bead of blood on her pale collarbone. When she saw Scott, she rushed down the steps and hugged him. "Scott!" she exclaimed, her coldness melting away, revealing underneath the girl who had loved her butler like a father. "You don't know how happy I am that you're here."
Scott laughed, hugged her tight around the waist, and kissed the top of her head, then both cheeks. He touched the swell of her stomach, and raised his eyebrows at her. "You're pregnant?" he said, incredulously.
Alexia chuckled. "So glad you noticed." She cocked her head onto one side, stared at him. "I can't tell if you're horrified by the news, or happy."
"Maybe a bit of both," Scott admitted, and he let Alexia help him into the living-room, down onto the couch. "Edward wanted you and Grayson to have children. The goal of Project Darwin was always propagation, but then Umbrella was formed, and Spencer shut the project down. Handed off our findings to Dr. Wesker. Not Albert, but the original Dr. Wesker."
"The Wesker Project," Grayson said, coming into the living-room, still pushing the wheelchair in the vain hope his father would take the hint.
"Yeah," his dad said, and looked at him. "Take off your sunglasses, kiddo."
Grayson hesitated. Then he showed his eyes.
"Origin," his father said, and nodded. "It worked."
"But not for you," Grayson said, and frowned. He put on his sunglasses.
"No," he agreed, and nodded, "not for me." He looked at Grayson, then said, "Your mother had a rare genetic disorder, though I didn't find that out until later. Origin spared you that."
"And spared you, I guess, the shame of having a kid with special needs."
"Grayson," Alexia hissed, looking at him.
"No, he's right, princess," his dad said bluntly. "I didn't want that. For him, or for me. I was wrong to think that, plain and simple."
"Albert said he was infected with Origin, too," Grayson said.
"Birkin got access to my research somehow," his dad said, folding both hands atop his cane. Even in the throes of cancer, his hands still looked strong, capable. "Tried to recreate the virus, but never succeeded beyond the prototype. My guess? He intended to make Albert his guinea pig. Albert was one of only two surviving candidates of the Wesker Project, so he was a prime recipient for the virus. But then Birkin's attention shifted to the G-Virus, and that was the end of that." He frowned, ran a hand back through his thin, dark gray hair, and said to Alexia, "That's why I'm scared, princess. A lot of people are going to be interested in my granddaughter, including Umbrella." He furrowed his brow, looked around as if searching for someone in particular. "Where's Alfred?" his dad asked. "Thought he'd at least take a moment from polishing his gun collection to say hello."
"He's still on Rockfort," Grayson lied, automatically. "You know how it is, dad."
"I wish he'd leave that rock," Scott said, and heaved a sigh. "But maybe he's not acting so crazy these days, what with Alexia being back."
The front door opened, then closed. Sherry halted in the doorway of the living-room and stared at Scott as if he were a burglar. She was dressed in her Chapman School uniform. Grayson and Alexia had wanted Sherry to be privately tutored at home, but Sherry had insisted that she wanted to go to an actual school with actual kids, and Chapman was the best school in Arklay County, which had been enough to persuade Alexia to say yes and shell out the eighty thousand dollars for tuition.
Scott looked over at Sherry, puzzled. "You have another one?" he asked. "How?" He looked at Grayson. "Was there another woman I wasn't aware of?"
"You have no idea," Alexia muttered under her breath, and folded her arms across her chest.
"Dad, this is Sherry Birkin," Grayson said, and steered Sherry into the room. "Her mother asked me to take care of her."
His dad nodded gravely. "I'm sorry about your parents," he said to Sherry. "My name is Scott Harman, Grayson's father. I was the Ashford's butler for many, many years." He extended his hand and smiled amenably. "How old are you, Sherry?"
"Thirteen. My birthday was last week," she said, and she shook his hand.
"Has Alexia been nice to you?" Scott stage-whispered.
Sherry giggled. "Dr. Ashford's kinda mean," she stage-whispered back, glancing impishly at Alexia.
"Alexia's always been a sourpuss," Scott teased, looking at Alexia. "Isn't that right, princess?"
"I can be," Alexia agreed.
"I like Dr. Ashford," Sherry said. "I think my dad exaggerated her a bit."
"William Birkin despised my baby girl, this is true," Scott said, and he chuckled. Then the chuckle sputtered into an unpleasant, wet cough, and his father looked exhausted by the end of it, as if the coughing fit had taken the life out of him. He looked frail and gray, almost shriveled, there on the couch. "If you don't mind," Scott said, dabbing his lips with a clean handkerchief, "I'd like to rest."
"Of course, Scott," Alexia said. His father allowed Alexia to help him into the wheelchair. She handed him his cane, which his father put across his lap. "We set you up in a room on the ground floor," she told him, as she pushed him away. "I've also secured you a spot in a clinical trial..."
Grayson idly wondered how his dad would react when he found out his research was gone, that Alfred was dead, that Rockfort and the Antarctica facility had been obliterated… He tried not to think about it, and looked at Sherry. "This place is turning into Full House," he said.
"Sure, if Robert Smith directed it," Sherry replied, her candidness catching him off-guard. She looked at him. "Your dad's really sick."
Grayson frowned. "Yeah." Then he looked at her and said, "And stop listening to Alexia's Cure albums. Shit's depressing."