Chapter Three
Intelligence Quotient
Claire opened her eyes and promptly closed them again. She had a splitting headache, her right arm hurt, and the second light touched her eyes, they began to water. But that wasn't why she closed them.
She'd been hoping it was all a dream. Maybe it was. Maybe she was still asleep, and if she stayed very, very still, she would open her eyes in her bedroom at Chris' house, and she could start this whole stupid day all over again... If only it could be a dream.
"There's no point feigning sleep, Miss Redfield."
Or a nightmare.
She opened her eyes, blinking at the light, quickly realizing that the reason her arm hurt was that her wrist had been cuffed to a railing slightly above the level of her shoulder. She dragged herself to a sitting position, taking in the large room, the upper level dominated by computer equipment, the lower level three stairs down containing a bed, a table, a desk. Rudimentary living quarters.
She took it all in, from the appalling yellow and gray colour scheme to the concrete floors to the lack of windows, until at last she had no choice but to let her gaze settle on the man dominating it all.
Albert Wesker leaned against one of the consoles, arms folded across his chest, patiently waiting for her to acknowledge his presence. She refused to be the first to speak, although she did haul herself to her feet. "Careful," he remarked as she staggered. "You've been unconscious for quite some time."
She glared at him to cover her fear. A million questions sprang to mind -- What's going on? Why have you brought me here? What are you going to do to me? -- but she was afraid she already knew the answers.
Wesker continued to watch her, not moving, his expression unreadable behind the omnipresent dark glasses. Claire clutched the rail separating her from the lower level, thankful that her recent unconsciousness provided an excuse for her weak knees. Even before she'd met him, Wesker had been larger than life to her. Sometimes it seemed like she'd spent her whole life hearing this man's name spoken in a tone bordering on reverence. Chris, she knew, had worshiped his captain; from what she could gather, they all had.
Until he'd betrayed them.
He laughed softly at her expression. "Really, Miss Redfield, I did anticipate some sort of entertainment. Don't you want to rail at me? Insult me, berate me, that sort of thing?" He flashed her a humourless smile. "I assure you, it won't offend me in the least."
"I wouldn't give you the satisfaction," she snapped, relieved to find her voice as steady as could be expected.
"No?" Wesker unfolded himself from the console and crossed toward her. WIthout meaning to, Claire backed against the wall, hating the smug satisfaction written across his face. He stopped when barely an inch separated them. She could see the glint of red behind his glasses, hear her own heart thudding. "You disappoint me, dear heart."
"Get used to it."
He reached out and she flinched. But he only brushed his finger down the side of her cheek before turning and descending the three steps to the lower level. Ignoring her completely, he took a thick book from a shelf, settled himself at the table with his back to her, and began to read.
Slowly, Claire sank back to the floor, every muscle trembling. Wesker. Wesker. She would have preferred a thousand zombies creeping through the night, a hundred Tyrants outside her door. What did he have planned this time? What was in store for her?
And more to the point, what was in store for her brother?
---
"I'll kill him I'll kill him I'll kill him. Dead. Dead dead dead. Kill him dead. That son of a bitch. I'll kill him."
Jill was beginning to worry. Chris had been pacing the jet for the better part of an hour now, and he had yet to cease ranting. Barry had started casting concerned glances over his shoulder from the pilot's chair. This also worried Jill, because Barry wasn't much of a pilot to begin with. Chris was best, but he was in no state to fly; anyone was better than Jill. She was more comfortable with a Beretta in her hand than a freaking jet.
"Kill kill kill... that son of a bitch. That bastard. I will kill him dead. Dead. Dead.Dead dead dead dead dead!"
Jill closed her eyes and massaged her temples. She remembered her last mission with STARS before the disastrous mansion incident. Ironically enough, Chris had been almost this upset then; she couldn't remember over what. It had been Wesker who reprimanded him. "As soon as you lose your cool, you give someone else the upper hand," he'd stated blandly. "Don't waste your energy, Chris. Use it to think and plan."
Somehow, she didn't think he'd take it too kindly if she reminded him of this now. "Chris," she said instead, "why don't you sit down?"
"I'LL KILL HIM."
"Yes, I know," she replied patiently. "I'll help. Now come over here and we'll figure out how to do it."
He hesitated a moment longer before slouching in a seat across the aisle from her. "Sorry," he grunted. "I just... Claire. Damn it, that son of a bitch has my sister!"
"I know," she repeated hurriedly before he could return to his diatribe. "We'll get her back, Chris."
"Anyone considered how?" Barry called from up front. "I mean, I'm just asking. From what Chris said, Wesker's gone and pumped himself full of monster steroids since last time we saw him. And he wasn't exactly a pushover to begin with."
"Not to mention that we don't know where he is."
Chris laughed hollowly. "Don't worry about that. He'll find us. Monitor the channels, and you'll find him soon enough. He's not trying for secrecy." He stared out the window, his jawline taut and angry. "Just get us home, Barry. We're going to need all the help we can get on this one."
And we'll still probably die, Jill added, but silently. She wasn't stupid enough to say it out loud. Reaching across the narrow aisle, she covered one of Chris' hands with her own. He stacked his other hand on top and squeezed, trying to give her a smile. Jill unfastened her seatbelt and slid into his lap, letting him hold her.
If they had to die, at least they'd do it together.
---
How long had it been? Claire felt like she'd crouched there for hours, every muscle screaming in protest. But she was afraid to move. Wesker remained seemingly engrossed in his book. She didn't dare shift, make a sound, in case it drew his attention to her.
Her stomach twisted as she stared at the back of his blonde head, the gloved hands turning pages, the muscled arms covered, as always, in black. She'd met him twice before, and the main thing she remembered was the helplessness. Even against the most vicious monster, she could run. She could fight. She could hide. She could try to defend herself, and if all else failed, she could die fighting.
But Wesker... The first time they'd met on the island base, he'd handled her like a rag doll, tossing her aside and nearly crushing her before deciding she wasn't worth his while. The second time -- that had been worse, because she'd known he was planning to use her to get to Chris. Again, he'd shoved her around, treated her like a minor annoyance, and her best attempts at resisting him had met with nothing but a disdainful sneer.
She could handle dying. If she'd died on the island, during any one of a thousand chances, she'd have died satisfied, knowing she'd gone down with a fight, that she'd cost her assailant some pain and effort.
Wesker, on the other hand, could kill her without breaking a sweat -- probably without looking up from his book.
But still she'd gone for him when he mentioned Steve. If Chris hadn't held her back...
You can't be so stupid this time, she told herself furiously. He's after Chris. He's not going to kill you until he has your brother. Keep that in mind.
Her hands still shook. She clenched them into fists and forced herself to breathe normally. Come on, Claire, buck up. You wanted to find Wesker; well, here he is. You wanted to find Steve; well, he knows where Steve is. Really, this is almost going according to plan. After all, what's the worst he can do to you?
A cold hand seized her heart, and she quickly stopped herself from answering that question.
Forcing herself to exhibit a calm she didn't feel, she drew herself to a standing position.
Wesker twisted in his chair to glance at her. "Something I can do for you, Miss Redfield?"
She had to show him she wasn't afraid, that she saw him as nothing more than human. "Isn't it hard to read in the dark like that? Especially with those glasses."
"Ah." He rose to his feet and ascended the stairs with slow, measured steps. This time, she forced herself to stand her ground. When he was right in front of her, he reached up and revealed flaming red eyes. They bore into her, making her heart beat faster. "You prefer this, then?"
"It was just a question," she managed.
"Indeed? Why the curiosity?" He arched an eyebrow as he replaced his glasses. "You don't really want to ask me about my eyes now, do you?"
Her eyes narrowed, her breath coming in sharp gasps. "Where is Steve?"
He seemed genuinely taken aback. "Steve? Ah, yes, the young man from the island." He waved his hand. "Steve is dead, dear heart. I suggest you forget about him."
"He isn't dead!" she shouted, surprising both of them. "And you damn well know it, since you're the one who took him!"
She didn't see him move. All of a sudden his hand was around her throat and she was pinned to the wall, her own weight driving her flesh into his knuckles as she struggled to breathe. "You may want to watch your tone of voice, Miss Redfield. I don't particularly appreciate insolence." She clawed frantically at his hands, the world swimming before her eyes. He slammed her hard against the wall, but his voice remained as calm as though they were discussing the weather. "Do you understand?"
She nodded, trying to rasp out the word yes. She must have succeeded, because he released her, letting her crumple to a gasping heap at his feet. Hatred and humiliation burned within her, washing away her fear. She embraced them. Steve wasn't dead; he couldn't be dead. She wouldn't believe it. This was Wesker; he was lying. It was what he did.
He turned and walked away, bending once more over the console. "I think it's about time we contacted your dear brother, don't you? I'm sure he's frantic with worry -- if he's realized you're missing, that is."
She closed her eyes. He'd have realized, all right. And before long he'd be charging in here with some stupid, reckless plan that was bound to get him and probably a few others killed. Wesker didn't care about her. She was nothing more than a lure, but he'd kill her on principal once he'd disposed of Chris. She prayed her brother realized that. Come on Chris, she thought desperately, trying to stop the tears that threatened to spill over her cheeks. Use your head. Don't take the bait. If he had half a brain, he'd stay far away -- or, if he couldn't do that, at least refuse to play Wesker's game, ignore his calls and come after her on his own terms.
A repetitive chime warned her that Wesker had placed his page, that he was seeking her brother right now. Don't answer it, Chris, she pleaded. Surely he could tell it was a trap? He wouldn't be stupid enough to pick up, would he?
A crackle of static displaced the tone. Even from behind, she could tell a genuine smile had spread across Wesker's face. "Chris," he said. "So lovely to see you."
"Wesker," Chris growled, and Claire swore she could hear his IQ drop another few points.