Seventeen years, and Poppy Turner (née Higgins) was still walking the perimeter of the estate. The Lady had left her the property in trust when she had left in the event of her…disappearance. The document had been co-signed by Alexander Ashford back in 1976, and no lawyer Spencer hired seemed particularly enthused about breaching a trust that was backed up by surprisingly alert, armed farmers.

Umbrella had managed to slip onto the property once or twice. They'd sent people to quietly enquire in the village about the nature of the estate. None came away with any satisfactory answers, and several learned entirely too much about the bloodlines of their neighbour's sheep.

They found things that they seemed to be expecting. The ranges, bordering on public parkland, were left fallow, and allowed to be 'discovered'. Just enough to confirm their expectations. After a year or so, Umbrella had seemed to lose interest.

Those who had lived on the estate were built cottages along the main road. Luther took it upon himself to train up a few livestock guardian puppies from a nearby flock, and regularly take them around the moors. Teaching them the lay of the land. The growing animals quickly found that there was refuge in the old priory, though it was never home. They'd rousted more than a few schoolchildren looking for ghosts in that wild and lonely moor.

Years ago, Marigold had planted roses in the priory at Poppy's gentle prodding to get out of the house. She'd done so clumsily, a twenty-year-old heiress wilting under the weight of her own grief, cutting up her hands in the process. The Lady had not thought twice about it at the time; her cuts closed quickly, and the dirt washed away. The blood that had found their way into the roots though…

The roses had developed a strange life of their own. They seemed to lean toward those who had come under Lady Ashford's influence, but lash out when under threat. The thorns they bore were sharper and longer than those Luther had kept up at the house, despite their sharing the same source. And if an intruder came…

Well. There was a reason it was better to keep outsiders clear of the place than to deal with a body. Marigold had long taken an old-world view of her condition, and the damned garden seemed determined to follow suit.

Sometimes Poppy walked the paths alone, her rifle open and loaded over her crooked arm. Sometimes Luther accompanied her. As the years passed, their children began to accompany them, never quite understanding the weight of the secret, but tickled that their family had a Secret Garden of their own to protect.

In the early 1990s, Umbrella's interest had briefly flared once again. It seemed that Umbrella was treating the estate as an intelligence training exercise. The dogs, second-generation guardians, alerted them to the incursion, and Luther had taken a few potshots at a man creeping through the woods. That was the closest to real peril they had even got. Poppy had immediately got on the line to the youngest Lord Ashford, who had been finishing his studies in London back then. Afterward, no one else from the company had tried to break in.

Had they understood that the machinery of the Umbrella Corporation had grown to such an extent that they considered the matter of the Ashford estate a useless relic, they might have relaxed. As it stood, Poppy began to check in with Rockfort every few months - not to Lord Ashford directly, but with Harman, the old butler. Harman, who had attended the family back when it had been whole, and had departed with Alexander all those years ago.

Harman, who watched the garden grow from offshoots started in the priory, brought during Lady Ashford's final visit. Harman had other priorities, of course. But his loyalty was sealed to the family as much as hers was. He watched as she watched, and waited.

They lived their lives. Their children began to grow up. They waited.

Then…the roses began to wake up.

It had been a subtle thing, starting late that summer. They had seemed….restless, almost. The dogs had whined nervously and refused to enter the priory, even though they had established their own safe corner, and it had always been a safe place to devour any rabbits they caught. Poppy's blood ran cold at the sight.

She had called old Harman at Rockfort the next morning, off-schedule. Harman had been cagey, but he confirmed the same. Marigold had understood what she was doing more when she had planted the offshoot at the house, and it had bloomed under mindful care in a private garden.

Harman had seemed extremely nervous. Shaken. After more than a decade of watching Lord Ashford sink under the weight of the family legacy, something was happening.

That's when she knew.

Lady Ashford, Marigold, somehow, was back. Escaped from whatever prison they had concocted over in America. As the weeks dragged in with no official word, Poppy's daughter began to find news articles on the Internet about the strange murders that had been occurring in Raccoon City since the spring on the internet, and the disaster at Spencer Mansion.

Their concern only deepened. Something had gone terribly wrong, and Marigold had not -or could not - safely reach out on her own.

All they could do was wait.

6:12 a.m.

Down, down down. Into the maelstrom, Marigold sank.

She'd been right. This was no place for serenity. The force that was rapidly consuming William Birkin was made of territorial rage. He, it, would have swatted her away with a vast sea of violence, costing her precious time to recenter and try again when his guard was up.

Oh, she was so very, very glad she was up here, and Birkin was securely locked behind steel and stone down there while she attempted this. There was no way she'd survive a direct encounter.

The experiences in the forest were nothing in comparison. Running into Marcus had been a confusing, fragmented, oily mess of a mind, one that she had just barely managed to ward off in her shocked state.

Wesker had initially maintained his distance, although that had been partially out of caution. Now, she could hardly trust that norm would be maintained, what with his increasing boldness. The scent of the T-virus had been getting stronger on him as well, now that she thought of it. Whether that was her influence, her increasing sensitivity, or simply the virus itself embedding itself deeper was both a question and a consequence she'd have to examine later.

Annette's words, payment for a chance to maintain a dead zone within the NEST, rang out in her memory. You may wish you'd never woken up before long. I can't imagine a more dangerous person alive holding your leash. The words had been bitter, but the sentiment was sincere.

This was like Sonnetroppe…were Sonnetroppe built on a foundation of steroids and cocaine. That high, piercing sensation heightened unbearably until she slammed into the gibbering remnants of William's mind. All of the roiling, pent-up emotions of the last twenty years of his career were feeding into the virus. All he cared about was hunting down those who had wronged him…except that now included any human that he came across.

And what he was doing to them…nausea rose in Marigold. She swallowed hard, and slammed into him again.

Annette had better be ready for this, Marigold thought to herself. At the monster, she focused her will into a cold spike. That's right, you little pissant. The real threat is in your head, not out there. Too bad for you that they didn't let you play with the specimen, isn't it? What was left of William roared in pain, and Marigold snarled back at him, focusing that current of stay the hell down anew.

In the office, Ada had lingered at the doorway when the still form of Marigold snarled quietly in her chair, and began to issue a quiet stream of somewhat archaic yet utterly filthy threats. Or Welsh. Possibly both. Her head had fallen forward. In the amber light of the streetlamps outside, Ada could spy the top of a blackening bruise peeking out the back of the woman's collar. Was that a….

Ada blinked, then turned on her heel, muttering "nope," under her breath, over and over again. She still had more than enough time on the clock to retrieve the plans from the library. Whatever bioweapon fuckery was happening in there was something that didn't need her input for a good…eighteen minutes more.

If Ada got out of the city alive, she'd have to corner the other woman for a good, long talk.

Marigold's mind continued to strike down against the mutating creature like an open fist, slamming down with all of the pain and rage she had been siphoning off over the last several weeks as she had gone into survival mode. All of the uncertainty, all of the sense of being made prey to entitled bastards with too much time on their hands. Annette's words to her, not half an hour earlier, rang out in her memory.

The strength behind the G-Virus was obscene. It was taking all of her focus and energy just to contain it, even as it began to quiet and cower under blows it could not source. The mind bucked and lashed wildly at her like a bull, threatening to break her grip over and over again. But it was newborn. Inexperienced.

Marigold, on the other hand, had been teaching herself to temper her strength for decades. Now that she was going to the wall, it felt like she had been wearing lead weights all her life, and they had just been lifted.

The minutes passed. The alarm on Marigold's wrist beeped, just once. Her lip curled, just a little, and she went in for the kill.

Below, the remnants of William Birkin cowered against the wall, temporarily visited by an emotion that should have been obliterated by now: pure, reptilian fear. Some little predator (PLACIDIA), striking at him from within his own mind. They had refused to let her return to her own territory, and now she was striking at him from what he had claimed in absolute sovereignty as his. Little floating creature, sleeping creature, now made of nightmares and hate and ambushing PAIN.

Without a solid enemy to fight, William's will began to falter, and it crept into a nearby lab where he had already implanted several nearby scientists. Their bodies lay strewn about him, ignored as he searched desperately for shelter.

That entity, the nightmare, reared back once more and drove a spike of PAIN through William's skull. You like tests, don't you William? The voice cooed at him. Let's run one.

'William' screamed, then passed out.

Devon, England (six hours ahead)

Poppy stumbled in the middle of the path during her midday walk, eyes going wide with shock. Luther, bless him, caught her arm. If it weren't for the walking stick in her other hand, they both would have tumbled on the well-concealed moorland path.

Poppy

She knew that voice, would always know it. Poppy made a noise between a gasp and a cry. Luther stilled, like he had heard a faraway voice on the wind.

The voice sounded distraught. Strained. Lady Marigold was a woman of iron will by necessity. The last time she had been so clearly distraught was…

The time she had come home from Romania. When something terrible - she'd never told any of them the details - had been set in her path by Lord Spencer, and the Lady's heart had been closed to that family friend forever.

Poppy, I got out, but they followed me he followed me

The Lady had indeed been freed from her imprisonment and was genuinely in distress. There was a strange sharp energy **backing **the words. It reminded her of a radio, like someone breaking into a modern heavy metal piece with a news report, but using the shrill music to buoy its own signal.

I think he's coming for them Poppy they're alive I don't understand but

Luther met Poppy's eye, and she shook her head. She wanted to deny the words. The anguish in them narrowed the subjects to only two people. If this were true…she wanted to deny it.

But Marigold had been missing for almost two decades, and this felt like a stolen moment, this little, horrified message. Marigold was always prone to dramatics, absolutely, but she never lied outright. Even when she withheld information - and that was a regular occurrence- she'd been honest with her that she was doing it. Poppy had no idea that Marigold could even send this far - she could barely manage to do it across the property before.

"She doesn't have her medication," She said, numb, reaching for the first thing that made sense, as if any of this could ever in this damned Shakespearean diorama. If Luther produced a skull from his pocket right now and started addressing it as the missing Lady, she'd very well lose her mind -

Teig O'Kane

And just like that, her mind cleared, the moment ended. The pair remained frozen for a long moment before Poppy levered herself back up to full height. They stared at eachother.

"Teig O'Kane?" Poppy echoed in a baffled voice. "Where have I heard that?"

Luther groaned. "It's an old Irish fairy tale. A boy's forced by the good folk to carry a corpse on his back until he can find a churchyard to bury it under. The old family loved their riddles." He tucked Poppy's hand under his elbow. "Come on," he grumbled. "I've got to get a shovel from the cottage shed, and maybe a few of the lads." He started walking again, towing Poppy gently along. "Whatever she's pointed you at is buried under the flagstones of the damned priory, and somebody's got to calm the bloody flowers for long enough to get the stones up."

Marigold snapped back to her surroundings, just in time to catch a book being lobbed at her face in one hand.

Ada stood in the doorway, looking bemused…and not a little wary. "Twenty minutes," She reminded.

Marigold grinned, partly out of adrenaline-fuelled relief and partly in triumph. "Twenty minutes." The look on her face must have been manic, as the balance of Ada's expression shifted hard towards wary.

"Do I even want to know?" Ada asked.

Marigold actually snorted - something her instructors had worked hard to groom out of her in her youth - but her face relaxed as her heartbeat began to finally slow. "You have to report something, don't you?" She tried to push herself to her feet, then wobbled as her legs refused to hold her. "I think I need a minute. That…cost."

"What did?" Ada's curiosity was getting the better of her.

Beating the absolute shit out of William Birkin, she thought, keeping the thought small and tight, aimed at Ada alone. Was this what it felt like to be drunk? It had been so long, but it might have been.

Aloud, she said, "There's an outbreak below. The whole area around the station is radiating with it. If I get into the details right now, we'll lose too much time. I needed to see if I could contain…the worst one." A term finally came to her. "I think I'm a little punch-drunk." She covered the giggle chasing those words with a hand.

Ada continued to stare. Finally, she spoke. "An outbreak. Beneath us."

Marigold rapidly lost her sense of mirth. "Yes. There's been one building in the city anyhow, but this is gasoline on a campfire."

Ada glanced back, then down. "Fucking Birkins."

"If it makes you feel better, I think I just kicked the absolute shite out of what's left of him," Marigold offered. "I owed him that much. I…pay my debts." She held Ada's eye on that last part, then tried to stand again, managing to keep her feet this time. "I'd appreciate not being named a vindictive bitch in your report, but it wouldn't be inaccurate. That's hardly even news."

Ada stared at her, then allowed a slow smile. "If I get out of here alive, I think we should be friends."

Marigold, now weary and riding the last of her adrenaline, smiled back.