Chapter Six

Deja Vu

She stirred slightly, wincing at the pain the movement sent down the side of her head. Slowly, she brought a hand to her temple. It came away sticky with blood. Jerking awake, Claire sat straight up and probed the wound, her momentary alarm fading as she realized the injury wasn't as severe as it felt. The blood had already clotted, and just the fact that she was conscious (yes, but after how long?) showed she was in no danger of slipping into a concussion.

That dealt with, she took in her surroundings. She was lying on a cot draped in an indifferent gray blanket. The room was small and cold. The moon gleamed through the bars of a single window high above, leaving stripes of light on the dark cement floor. In spite of the shadows, she could see the entire perimeter of the room: a small square cell consisting of the cot, a sink, a toilet, and a heavy metal door.

What happened? She remembered the diner and... and oh God, Wesker. He'd taken her gun. A chill rushed through her. She'd pictured a hundred ways that fight might end, some with her victorious, most with her not. But in every single scenario she'd at least managed to draw the damn gun. Wesker had taken it from her as though she was a naughty child. Her heart pounding, she flexed her right wrist, relaxing as she felt the comforting weight of the hunting knife. He hadn't searched her too thoroughly, then, and thank God for that. But she couldn't rely on luck. She slid the knife free of its sheath, unlaced the mechanism, and slid the whole thing under the mattress.

Now what?

Well, the door. Presumably it was locked, but she had to try all the same.

She staggered to her feet, leaning against the wall in an attempt to steady herself. A cold breeze drifted through the window; upon closer inspection, she realized the glass had been broken, although she didn't find any on the floor. Either it had been carefully cleaned up or the window had been broken from inside.

She returned to her quest, making her way slowly and carefully across the dark room. Her hand had just brushed the doorknob when the lock clicked and it swung open. Before she had time to react, she was staring at Wesker himself. "I thought you'd be awake by now," he remarked, leaning against the wall and folding his arms. "How do you feel?"

She retreated involuntarily, backing against the other wall. "I'm fine."

"There's a lesson to be learned, dear heart. I wouldn't have hurt you if you hadn't resisted."

"Yeah, right."

He shrugged. "Remember, I didn't raise a hand to you until you raised one to me."

"This time," she agreed bitterly, hating the ironic smile twisting his lips. She had to go on the offensive. He was just too intimidating, and if she didn't stand up to him now, she never would. "So what's the plan? Same as before? Because that worked out really well for you."

"No, I thought we'd try something a little different." He advanced, and Claire's throat clenched. Instinctively she wanted to retreat, but she'd already backed herself against the wall; she couldn't escape any further.

He stopped when they were almost toe to toe, staring down at her. Slowly and deliberately, he removed his glasses, and Claire's stomach heaved as those gleaming eyes pierced her own. "You have something that belongs to me, Miss Redfield."

"What?" she whispered, unable to tear her eyes from his.

"Do you really want to play games? I'm quite willing, I assure you. I have the time, you see. But you may want to consider your own rather precarious situation before you initiate any sort of challenge."

She shook her head, breaking the spell he'd seemed to cast over her. "I'm not playing games. I don't know what you're talking about."

He sighed, stepping away from her and shaking his head as though disappointed. "Sit down, please."

He was pointing towards the bed. She should have been relieved; her weapon would be in reach. But instead a dark terror spread through her, different from any she'd felt before, even during those sleepless nights right after her escape. Her knees went weak, and she had to clutch the wall for support.

Wesker turned like a wolf scenting fear in its prey. Something like amusement glimmered in his expression. "I have no intentions of raping you, dear heart, now or in the future. I simply want you to sit before you pass out."

An exhalation of relief escaped her, leaving her shamed and on the verge of tears. God, what was wrong with her? This was what she'd wanted, wasn't it? To confront him? To force the issue?

But in her mind, things had played differently. In her mind, she'd killed or been killed.

Still, if she could take him at his word -- and, when she thought about it, he'd given her no indication she couldn't...

It took everything she had to walk to the bed, but she'd be damned if she'd accept his help. Her head spun by the time she'd seated herself on the cot, her hands clenched tightly in the rough woolen blanket. Wesker continued to lean against the wall, staring at her. "Last time I took you for your brother's sake. This time, I'm afraid, it's you I want. You took something from me, Miss Redfield. Something infinitely more important than revenge."

"What are you talking about? I..." Her voice trailed off as she realized exactly what he meant.

He saw it in her face. "Ah, at last it sinks in. Where is the blood sample you so cleverly picked from my pocket?"

Did she dare tell him the truth? If he'd really come after her only to retrieve the sample, her life would become meaningless once he realized she'd destroyed it. "I won't tell you," she snapped, drawing her head up high. "Not unless I get something in return."

"You get your life."

"You won't kill me," she replied positively. "Not without knowing where the sample is."

He smiled slightly, acknowledging the truth of her statement. "Perhaps not. But I can do many things to you without killing you." She didn't even blink. Suddenly he was standing in front of her, clutching her chin tightly in one gloved hand. She gasped at the pain in her jaw, instinctively wrenching against his hold. "You can't tell me where the sample is if I kill you," he continued in that same calm, impassive voice. As he spoke, a knife (my God my God he found it, he found the knife) appeared in his hand -- not, as she'd initially thought, her knife, but one very like it. He ran its sharp edge down her cheek, leaving the barest scratch in its wake. A warm trickle of blood caressed her skin. "But you can still speak without an eye, without fingers. You can still speak with broken bones. You can still speak without food and water." All at once he released her. Claire jerked back, head held high, very grateful she had neither pleaded nor wept during his performance.

Wesker backed away, inclining his head in a mockery of politeness. "Think about it, Miss Redfield. Think carefully."

And then he was gone, the door slamming behind him.

Claire fell back on the bed, shivering with cold and fear. After a moment she crawled beneath the heavy blanket, grateful for its warmth -- although she supposed she'd better not get too used to it. Wesker's threats had the desired effect, and she was numb with terror. She had no doubt he'd follow through. And what could she tell him? The truth would only enrage him further. Her only hope was that Chris would find her, that he would ignore her note -- which, she realized, she'd known he would all along -- and come after her.

But how would he find her? "Oh, Chris, I'm sorry," she whispered out loud. "Leon, I'm sorry."

She'd been a fool, and she was paying the price. Well, she'd made her choice, and she'd face the consequences. She was no coward, after all. She'd been hurt before, and she could take pain. Eventually she'd probably have to tell him the truth, and then she supposed he would kill her.

So the time at which to speak, Claire old girl, is when death becomes preferable to whatever he's doing to you.

Which lead her to his earlier statement. I have no intentions of raping you... She'd been numb with relief. At least she didn't have to fear that.

But why didn't she? On the surface it seemed the perfect solution. It would devastate her and her brother with one blow, the worst possible torture he could inflict.

Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, cautioned her inner voice, but Claire brushed it aside. She wanted to know why, and she had no intentions of asking Wesker to find out. She had no intentions of bringing it up ever again.

Three possibilities, she decided. One, something chemical had changed when Wesker infected himself, and he was incapable of raping her. That was the most likely explanation.

Two, part of him remained human and still had some scruples, no matter how deep they were buried. That was the most attractive explanation.

And three, he simply found her repellent. Unlikely, she knew, but still the thought made her bristle.

She had to smile at herself. Here she was, trapped in a freezing prison cell by a man who planned to torture her for information that would lead him to kill her, and her biggest concern was whether or not he found her attractive?

But all the same, she very much wanted to know which possibility was right. Because if it was the second, it meant he still had something human left inside.

And while Wesker the mutant freak might be a cold, emotionless monster, Wesker the man could be manipulated.

Maybe.

She hoped.

If she was right.

And maybe she was. Even if he didn't plan to rape her, he hadn't had to reassure her on the point. He could have left her wondering, left her in mounting fear; instead, he had assuaged her doubts on that point.

"Oh, Chris," she groaned, rolling hear head on the pillow, trying to ease the stiffness in her neck. "Thank you so much for getting me into this situation. Thank you so much for whatever you did to make this man hate you like he does. Thank you too for chasing after Jill and leaving me alone."

Not fair, she knew. She'd gotten herself into this situation, and she'd told Chris many times she didn't want to be babysat.

She sighed, swinging to a half seated position and groping for the knife. Well, if she wanted to be treated like an adult, she'd better start acting like one. And adults didn't lie around waiting for someone to rescue them.

They took action to save themselves.

She tested the blade with her thumb and smiled, not out of happiness, but in a mixture of fear, loneliness, and a strange sort of regret.

Now all she had to do was await his return -- just as she'd done for the past two months.