Notes for new readers:

This story is Part 2 of the Calendula Chronicles. Part 1 can be found in Flowers and Ash, which spans 1968-1982, then jumps to the 1998 main RE storyline. Paper Tigers is also attached to this series as an anthology spanning 1969 to about 1981, and takes more time on the catalysts of that time period, and to address how Marigold's outlook on Oswell Spencer and Umbrella evolves.

Drop a comment if you like! The Calendula Chronicles is also available on AO3 ( midori_laboratories) under the same series name.

Marigold Ashford also appears in The Antarctica Incident by , with permission. Their character, Grayson Harmon will appear in future installments but makes brief cameos both in this story and Part 1. Ashford Cinematic Universe!

The world jolted, and Marigold Ashford was back in the world again.

But only just. Her eyes fluttered open. They felt heavy. Her limbs felt heavy. There seemed to be only the faintest connection to her body, a small frayed line of command, and it was being used to keep her eyes open.

A moment passed. The connection strengthened, little by little. Finally, she found the strength to raise her head just a little, to look up.

The sun had only just set. She was seated, belted into what seemed to be a large van. Her wrists had been cuffed together, secured to bonds around her thighs. She'd wager that her feet were similarly bound, but couldn't quite connect to them at the moment.

She had been sent to wait at the motel for pickup. Exhausted and overwhelmed, she had drank a solid liter of vodka in an effort to forestall her nightmares. It hadn't worked.

And then, something had awoken her. Gleaming red eyes in the din. And darkness again.

And now, this.

The driver wasn't visible to her, but the radio was cheerily informing her that it was 11:37 in the evening, and the traffic for the hour was just -

"That was faster than expected," A man's voice came from her left. She might have yelped, but all she could manage was a sharp intake of breath. Her tongue felt twice as large as it should, like trying to gather a weighted blanket the size of an eight-person tent.

I know that voice.

Of course she did. Very slowly, she let her head tip to look in that direction. Somehow, it didn't feel like a good idea to feign sleep.

Albert Wesker, the man who had entrapped her under the Spencer mansion all those years ago, had been calmly observing her struggle back to consciousness over the last several minutes. Despite the light almost being gone, he was wearing sunglasses. It struck her as funny, although all she managed was a lip twitch.

The van continued in silence for a few more moments. Wesker seemed quite comfortable for someone who had been impaled through the chest - something she had gone out of her way to confirm with a witness before leaving Raccoon City in the first place. She moved her jaw experimentally. The world was getting just a bit clearer.

"Spry for a corpse," she managed to rasp out. Her mouth was so dry. Marigold closed her eyes, panting from the effort of treating to speak. That feeling from the forest had been him. Had he been tracking her all day, through Raccoon City? Had Ada been in on it, or was this an interception?

Marigold opened her eyes again, struggling to focus. She was panting, and she realized belatedly why. The van was an enclosed space, and Wesker's scent had changed in a sharp way that she'd come to realize over the course of less than two days was her own attunement to the virus. The story Rebecca had told her had seemed like a suicide charge. Ridiculous...unless the point was to believably and unquestionably be seen to die.

Wesker had infected himself with the virus, and there hadn't been a damned thing she could do to fight him off.

"Air…can't breathe in here." It was dark in the van, but her night vision had steadily improved since her exposure thirty years prior. Marigold knew that she likely had a dull green eyeshine; the gardener used to wonder aloud whose sheep had gotten loose on the grounds, an assumption made after she had been out running in the evenings. It had only really developed over the last year or so before capture; it was still noticeable. It was likely stronger now, given the time gap.

A click, and somewhere, a fan came on. It was marginally better. She was still panting. "Don't suppose you...have my medication? I...had it on me."

"Not on hand, I'm afraid. You'll have to work through it. Water is a possibility."

She flinched at the thought, even as her throat screamed for relief. Every time he touched her, bad things happened. That was the thought that lodged in her mind, screaming and clattering around the cage her body had become. "No tank," She said, sharp. She tried to push, but she was still foggy, unfocused.

Wesker paused. "No," he said, voice low. He slipped the sunglasses from his face, and his eyes briefly pulsed red*.* "I think we can manage other accommodations this time around." He reached down to a bag tucked into the van's door pocket (no window crank?) extracting an injector. "For now, it'll be simpler if you sleep for a while longer." She didn't catch the movement, not until she felt the firm grip under her jaw, his thumb pushing it up and out of the way until the pinch of the injector came. It held her down until the darkness flowed back over her once more.

(for reference: the only direct, two-way interaction these two have previously had was in Ashes in the Fall; otherwise, it's either been cat-and-mouse, actively stalking, or within a lab setting.)