Chapter Six

Capitulation

Leon Kennedy lounged in a chair and tried to look like he belonged there. The three STARS huddled around the computer, arguing quietly and pointing to various locations on the map before them.

He supposed he shouldn't have punched Chris. He hadn't been planning on it. Sure, he'd been angry, wished the guy would occassionally spare a thought for his sister before chasing after every zombie rumor on the planet. But the final straw had been the derisive look Chris gave him, as though Leon wasn't worth his time -- when Leon had spent the last twenty four hours frantically exhausting every resource to find and get to Chris Redfield, to help him find his sister.

So he'd punched him. And Chris, of course, had hit back.

Aside from a swollen jaw (Chris), a black eye (Leon), and a shattered chair, nothing remained of the battle. It had been short and sweet, Barry having hauled them apart almost immediately. They'd even shaken hands afterwards.

And then the STARS had promptly forgotten Leon even existed.

He hated working with Jill Valentine, almost as much as he hated working with Chris Redfield. Barry he had less of a problem with -- they'd worked together before; Barry sometimes did some freelance consulting for the government, and he'd been called in on one of Leon's assignments. But the other two...

It wasn't that he hated the STARS. He respected them, even liked them in a general sort of way. But they always managed to make him feel like an outsider. Especially now, when Claire Redfield was involved. Chris had gone to great lengths to make it clear to Leon that he didn't approve of him. In fact, he'd actually called him up one day and politely explained what he would do to Leon if he caught him with his sister. Leon wasn't particularly concerned -- he had no doubt he and the other man were, at least, evenly matched; besides, Chris was something of a blowhard. All Leon had to do was threaten to tell Claire about that phone call and Chris folded like a hand of poker. But he didn't like the idea of driving a wedge between Claire and her brother.

And then there was Ada, and that was a whole other kettle of fish.Well, not fish, he reflected wryly. If you were dealing with Ada Wong, you were probably facing a kettle of mutated toads or electric eels or something.

All at once he became conscious of the other three staring at him. Quickly, he swung his feet to the floor. "Sorry," he muttered. "What was that?"

Chris rolled his eyes. "I asked if you could use a sniper rifle worth a damn."

"Yeah, but it's not going to do a lick of good against Wesker." Chris bristled, but Leon pushed on. "We have pretty thorough files on him, you know. He can't be killed by bullets. I'm not sure he can be killed at all."

"We're not trying to kill him. We're trying to take him out of commission long enough to get my sister and get the hell out!"

Jill rolled her eyes behind Chris' back, and Leon had to bite his lip to keep from smiling. He shrugged instead. "Whatever you say. It's your plan; I'm just along for the ride. If you give me a rifle, I'll put a bullet in him."

Chris nodded his acknowledgement. "We'll have to do the best we can. Barry, what time did Wesker say?"

They'd been over it a hundred times, but Chris wanted the confirmation. He wanted to do something, anything, to feel like he was helping his sister. Knowing that, Barry replied, "Eight tomorrow night."

"Eight tomorrow. What do we do until then?"

Jill gaped at him in disbelief. "Are you nuts? We round up a small arsenal, try to sleep, and pray that a small meteor strikes Wesker and somehow misses Claire."

Leon shook his head and eased to his feet. "Give me a list of what you need for weaponry. I'll track it down."

"Thanks." Barry grabbed a piece of paper and began jotting a list in his indecipherable scrawl.

A weight seemed to have lifted from Chris' shoulders. Men of action, Leon mused, were all the same -- even he felt better now that he had something to do. But Chris more than most nearly developed dual personalities -- the harsh, nervous, angry man melding into the cheerful soldier once he had a battle plan.

Case in point, Leon thought, watching Chris snake his arm around Jill's waist with a grin and a wink. "Well, Detective Valentine? Should we do some of that... praying you mentioned?"

Jill shoved him aside, trying to be angry but unable to stop the smile playing on her lips. "Keep your thoughts on your sister."

"Oh, they are," he assured her, leaning in to steal a kiss. "Mostly, anyway. But if we're going to die tomorrow, you know, it would be a shame not to..."

"Chris!" Jill shrieked as he bit her earlobe. She blushed furiously and shoved him away.

Leon and Barry glanced at one another, rolled their eyes, and as one, left the room without another word.

-----

There was no help for it. It took all of her energy to raise her head, and force her lips to curve around the word. "Wesker."

Slowly, he crossed the room and crouched in front of her. "Yes, dear heart?"

"I'm sorry," she rasped, closing her eyes against the humiliation.

But he had to make her suffer. "For what?"

She moaned inwardly, but she didn't dare provoke him again. "For what I said. For mentioning my brother." He caught her under the chin, forcing her to meet his eyes, and remained silent. Claire trembled against his hand. "Please," she whispered. "Please give me the water."

Smug triumph suffused his features, but she didn't care about anything except the fact that his free hand was slowly reaching for the glass of water. She forced herself not to react. Probably he meant to torment her further, and she knew she couldn't take it, knew she was about to break.

But to her surprise, he brought the glass to her lips and let her sip. Her throat clenched reflexively, and she couldn't stifle a sound of protest when he pulled it away. "Easy," he soothed, bringing the glass back to her lips. "You'll make yourself ill."

She didn't have the will to argue. Slowly, he fed her the entire glass of water, the welcome liquid rush soothing her dry throat, her cramping stomach.

But as the thirst eased her humiliation increased, and she realized that even if she escaped this madman, even if she lived to be a hundred and five, she would never forget this moment. He'd left a mark on her, a mark she'd bear to her dying day whether he killed her brother or not.

He'd accomplished his goal.

Wesker strode away, leaving her in an agony of barely fulfilled thirst. He returned almost immediately with a bottle of water and a protein bar, both of which he dropped in her lap. Hesitantly, every moment expecting him to snatch them away, she twisted the cap free and gulped half the water in a single swallow before tearing into the food.

Wesker reached across her, ignoring her flinch, and released the cuff around her wrist. Startled, she looked up. He paused, his face inches from hers, their eyes locked. "You're free to move around," he told her softly, his breath trailing across her skin. "But please remember, Miss Redfield, that this is a privilege and can easily be revoked. Don't do anything stupid."

She could only nod. He moved away, letting her finish her meager meal in peace. Why, she wondered, had he released her? Had he grown bored of his game?

Or did he think her so cowed she wouldn't dare try anything?

Slowly she leaned forward, stretching her cramped legs. She prayed it was the latter. She needed him to distracted; she needed him to think she'd totally succumbed.

Because that was the only way he'd let his guard down long enough for her to escape.