Chapter 7: Shadow of the Past
After coming out of the shower, Claire wordlessly lay down on the couch and tried to get some rest, listening to the incessant clicking of Wesker typing at his computer. Sleep, however, didn't come easily. She tossed for a long time, filled questions she'd almost certainly rather not have answered, and her dreams were strange and fitful. When morning finally came, cold and grey, with the barest tint of yellow, Claire groggily opened her eyes to find Wesker still at his computer. She glanced at the clock and groaned inwardly at the hour. She liked to get up early as a rule, but not this early.
She shut her eyes and tired to get back to sleep, but the welcoming oblivion refused to come. And when Claire started to get a small headache, she realized there was no sense in lying here any longer. She sat up on the couch, grinding the knuckles of one hand into her eye. Wesker's fingers never paused on the keyboard. "Can't sleep, dear-heart?"
"Not really," said Claire sourly, moving to sit in the corner of the couch. "Why are you still here?"
"Well, it would look strange if people saw me working the labs at all hours, now wouldn't it? Most of the facility isn't even awake yet. I do have to keep up some semblance of normality."
"Huh." Claire grunted indecipherably. She usually found it quite easy to antagonize Wesker, but doing anything more than yawning seemed like a crass waste of energy right now. After spending a few minutes huddled under her blanket, her thoughts began to stray to the kitchen, wondering if Wesker would mind if she put a pot of coffee on. Eventually she decided that the promise of caffeine far outweighed any potential pitfalls.
Mourning the absence of her slippers, Claire padded into the kitchen and spent the next few minutes hunting for the coffee, snorting when she discovered that it was plain old Maxwell House. And here she'd been expecting some kind of exotic crap from Sumatra. Claire measured out the proper amount and set the coffee pot to perk, sitting at the table to wait. Her hair was still slightly damp from the shower, so she combed it out with her fingers. Weariness eventually won out again, however, and she folded her arms on the table, resting her forehead atop them. Wesker didn't look up from his computer and Claire found herself wondering what exactly he was doing over there. Most likely he was doing some kind of lab work, but the possibility of porn was not above suspicion.
And then Claire knew she was still half asleep, because she sniggered deliriously. This was so utterly messed up it really was laughable. "So, what's on your agenda today?" she asked Wesker, since she'd never gotten the chance to needle him this early before. "Getting ready whip up a new batch of Tyrants?"
Wesker smiled at her flippancy. "Perhaps. What about you, dear-heart?"
"Me? Oh, I guess I'll just pace around in here all day. I really do enjoy it," she retorted cynically.
"Would you like to go back to the greenhouse? If you do, you're going to have to ask me nicely."
Claire gaped at him, burning with indignation. Just who the hell did Wesker think he was, anyway? She wanted nothing more than to tell him to stick where the sun didn't shine and turn it sideways while he was at it, but the angry words tangled up in her throat. She hadn't even begun to explore the massive greenhouse, not to mention another opportunity to experience warm, glorious sunshine. Claire thought about spending her day shut up in Wesker's room again and inwardly cringed, certain that she'd die of boredom long before nightfall. Being a chronic workaholic, Wesker didn't watch TV and it wasn't like she was going to switch on his computer. Still, Claire's insides shriveled at the thought of actually having to ask Wesker for something.
Gritting her teeth, Claire stalked over the coffee pot and poured herself a cup. The sun was coming up in earnest now, sending beams of golden light knifing across the floor. Twenty minutes later, Wesker got up from his desk and went to the door, taking his pristine lab coat off a nearby hook. Claire furiously bit down the urge to call after him and so he left without a word, leaving her alone in her comfy little prison. Groaning aloud, Claire swallowed the rest of her coffee and tried not the hurl the mug against the wall, she was that frustrated.
The next day, however, she broke down and stiffly gave Wesker what he wanted. Ask me nicely, indeed. The blond tyrant smirked quietly to himself and nodded, stopping to wait for her by the door. Claire hastily got dressed, stomping along behind him as he led her down to greenhouse. Once there, she furiously plunged into the rows of greenery, searching for a viable escape route (because she was going to escape eventually, thank you very much). She came up empty-handed of course, and that left her with only one option, namely grabbing a chair and waiting by the door for Wesker to return, then bringing the whole thing down on his egotistical head.
Needless to say, however, she had a feeling it wouldn't be a very smart move. He'd already warned her against such endeavors and Claire wasn't in any hurry to experience another taste of just how angry Wesker could get. She couldn't help but feel a little afraid of him, just as she couldn't but question his motives, since the past few days had thrown an unwelcome shadow of doubt over Claire's perception of him. She looked everywhere for Sherry, hoping for the chance to apologize, but the girl was nowhere to be found and Claire felt a fresh spasm of guilt, certain that she'd damaged their tentative friendship beyond repair.
Feeling dismal, she wandered to the far end of the compound and discovered that it was home to a large collection of rare and endangered plants. These were afforded special care and a few even had their own miniature habitats equipped with controlled irrigation and temperature. It was here that Claire came upon a short, thick-waisted woman with fuzzy white hair and Coke-bottle glasses. She looked up as Claire approached, her expression curious.
"Oh, hello there," she said, her voice colored by a recognizable Irish lilt. Claire offered the woman a polite smile and returned the greeting, not wanting to appear rude or suspicious.
"I've seen you here before," the woman commented, peering at Claire. "What's the matter, lass? Is there something I could help you find?"
"No, thank you. I'm just wandering, looking for something to do," said Claire.
"You work here?"
Crap. "No," said Claire hastily, overwhelmed by a sudden flash of panic. She knew it was only a matter of time before people started asking questions, but she had no idea how to answer them. How much had Wesker told these people, if anything? A slip-up here could be unpleasant. "I, uh… I've been pretty sick, so I came down here for some air," Claire told the woman, deciding that a half-truth would be better than an outright lie.
"I know exactly how you feel. Silly as it sounds, I find the place a wee bit enchanting, especially in the morning," The woman switched her clipboard from her right hand to her left. "I'm Dr. Connors, but you can call me Elise."
Claire politely shook hands. "I'm Claire," she said.
"Pleased to meet you. You said you wanted something to do?"
"I, uh… sure." Claire didn't know what else to say.
"Well, how would you like to help me pollinate these Moth orchids?" Dr. Connors moved to pick up a hefty white pot containing a large orchid with oddly shaped, dark purple blooms. "We're trying to breed a small population before the poor things go extinct."
Claire's hesitated. Accepting would open her up to more unwanted questions, but refusing would leave her with nothing to do. "Look, I really appreciate the offer, but I don't know the first thing about plants," she admitted at length. "I couldn't take care of one if my life depended on it."
Dr. Connors laughed. "It's really simple, lass. I can show you if you want." She offered Claire a motherly sort of smile. "But if you dannae want to, that's okay."
"Can I just watch, though?" Claire asked sheepishly.
"Oh, course. Please, hand me that jar and paintbrush, that's a good lass."
Claire turned, spotting the requesting items on a nearby table. She handed them to Dr. Connors and seated herself on the edge of the desk, watching as the woman gently inserted the paintbrush into the center of one of the flowers and rotated it between the tips of her fingers. "The pollen's usually rather deep, but you have to careful. Try to be a bonnie wee bee," said Dr. Connors, tapping the brush on the rim of the jar and releasing a delicate shower of yellow dust.
Claire smiled and watched curiously as Dr. Connors moved the paintbrush to another orchid plant, using it to dust the flower's delicate interior with pollen. Claire had never considered herself a science geek, but she certainly didn't object to the Discovery channel and National Geographic. When Dr. Connors had finished all the purple orchids, she moved to a tray of speckled orange ones and changed paintbrushes, beginning the same process all over again. This time, however, Claire noticed that the doctor was using pollen from two flowers instead of one.
"Why change? I thought different species, you know… wouldn't be compatible," she said.
"In most cases 'tis true, but the wee Sorcerer's Glory is dying out. Just isn't tough enough to survive the global upswing in temperature. But this one," Dr. Connors pointed to a large red orchid with similar markings, "is a hardy little bugger and we're hoping that by cross-pollinating the two we can save the Sorcerer from complete extinction."
Claire thought about this for a minute. "But it won't be the same anymore," she pointed out.
"Aye, but the new variety – providing that the pollination takes – will quite closely related to the Sorcerer, so if you've haven't got another option it's a better fate then letting them die out completely."
Claire supposed this was true, in a warped sort of way. She nodded and offered to move a few pots for Dr. Connors. As the day wore on, she grew more comfortable around the old woman and was soon helping her repot a collection of ferns from South America. By the time Wesker came to fetch her later that evening, Claire was unsuccessfully trying to wipe the dirt and fertilizer off her heavy clothing, which felt uncomfortably sticky since she'd been forced to sweat it out in the hot greenhouse. She grit her teeth when Wesker chuckled.
"If you'd like more suitable clothing, dear heart, you're going to have to provide me with your sizes," he pointed out, letting her into his room and locking the door behind her, his footsteps moving back down the hall. He clearly wasn't finished with whatever depraved experiment he was conducting in the lower levels. Claire immediately went into the bathroom to pick the dirt out from beneath her fingernails and take a shower. Later, she made herself go over to Wesker's desk and write out her sizes on a piece of paper, having little choice other than to take him up on his offer. Thankfully, it seemed harmless enough… for Wesker, anyway.
Finishing the brief three-sentence list, Claire paused a minute, then scribbled Thank You in the margins of the note before sticking it to Wesker's keyboard. Then she crawled onto the couch and slept better then she'd had in a while. Exactly two days later, Claire awoke to find a large shopping bag left at the foot of the couch, and with a pang she couldn't help but think about her brother leaving Easter baskets on the table in the dead of night and vehemently denying he had anything to do with it.
She pushed the depressing thought aside and dug around in the bag. It contained several pairs of jeans (which, for some obscure reason, were heavily decorated with swirls and red sequined butterflies) a few blouses and some floaty designer shirts that revealed a little two much cleavage for her taste. She wondered if Wesker had deliberately picked the shirts for that reason.
Setting everything aside, Claire came across something white folded at the bottom of the bag. Grasping it, she shook it out to reveal a freshly starched lab coat, which she stared at for several minutes before actually realizing that it was for her. Unbelievable. After a quick shower, Claire dressed in her new clothes and, after some thought, decided to put the lab coat on, too.
"Great. Now I really look like I belong around here," she reflected in disgust, peering at herself in the bathroom mirror. She looked older, smarter, like a scientist, and the concept was an entirely unwelcome one. Feeling self-conscious and not at all pleased, she smoothed the front of the coat and felt something hard in the breast pocket. Fishing it out, she was shocked to find an ID card similar to Wesker's, except that it was marked with her photo and personal information. A folded piece of paper was clipped to the card.
It simply read You're Welcome, a mocking echo to Claire's earlier sentiment.
"That cunning, diabolical bastard," Claire muttered, holding the card as if expecting it to sprout teeth. It was tagged for Level 2 clearance, making it little more than a glorified Visitor's pass, but despite the new freedom she'd been given, Claire couldn't help but to expect a trap. It seemed to trusting of Wesker, too convenient. She glanced at the door, turning the card around in her fingers. After a minute she went over and swiped the card through the reader, deciding that it probably wasn't going to work anyway. A moment later, however, the door unlocked with a click.
Claire's jaw unhinged. "You've got to be kidding me."
Cautiously, Claire opened the door and peered out, half-expecting Wesker to jump out at her, but the hallway was deserted. It was completely open to her, and Claire abruptly realized that she was free to make her way down to the greenhouse without being escorted, since she had no doubt that was Wesker's intention. She might seriously have considered yelling Hallelujah and sprinting for freedom, except she got the feeling that she was most definitely NOT free, but merely had been given a longer leash. The reason for this was beyond her, however. Maybe Wesker was just tired of playing chaperone.
Claire glanced at the card again, a wave of unease passing through her gut. After expecting to be tortured with hypodermic needles and leather whips, she had no idea what to think of how Wesker treated her. He mocked her, he threatened her, he definitely frightened her to some extent, but overall he'd been nothing but a gentleman. Claire bit her lip, trying to remember that he was just toying with her, like a cat batting around a mouse.
Nevertheless, however, she decided it was a game she could risk playing, at least for now. She slipped the ID card into her back pocket, took a deep breath, and stepped out into the hallway. Taking her cue from Sherry and making sure the door was shut tightly behind her, Claire set off through the facility. She was shocked by how differently people reacted to her. Yesterday they'd stared at her as she'd passed, scrutinizing her highly unorthodox tracksuit. Today they gave her clipped, impersonal smiles and a few even stepped out of her way. Claire uneasily smoothed her lab coat again.
She didn't go to the greenhouse right away, deciding to take a chance and test her new boundaries. She came across numerous small offices and research labs, most of them viewable through panes of heavy-duty glass. Peering inside, Claire saw people bent over microscopes and Petri dishes, but what they were working on was a mystery to her. She moved on after a few minutes, not wanting to attract attention. Unsurprisingly, Claire soon reached the limit of her so-called freedom when she tried to access an elevator leading to the ground floor, so she made her way back to the greenhouse and let herself in, feeling strangely exuberant.
Working her way across the conservatory, she spotted Dr. Connors bent double over a bag of potting soil. The chubby woman turned to look at her as she came over, wiping a curl of white hair out of her eyes and leaving a dark smear. "Well, good morning, lass. You look like you're feeling better."
Claire smiled nervously, dodging the implied question. She chatted with the doctor for a while and the pair soon became involved in pruning one of the rosebushes. As she worked, however, Claire couldn't help but look further down the aisle, gazing sadly at that one wilted rose. It had lost nearly all its blooms and its leaves were speckled with black spots. Claire gestured at the miserable flower with her pruning sheers. "Why isn't anyone taking care of that one?" she asked.
Dr. Connors heaved a sigh. "It is being taken care of, lass, and more's the pity. I've been trying to keep that particular sort alive for years, but nothing I do seems to work. It just won't grow outside that one little spot in the mountains. In all my years, I've only ever had one other flower act so fussy, and it was some exotic thing that the chairman tried to bring up from Africa."
Claire glanced at the sick rose, unable to explain why she felt so bad for it. "What's with the black spots?"
"Tis' a disease. Most roses are strong enough to resist it, but not this one. Poor wee thing."
At that moment, Claire was seized by a sudden idea. "Why not do the same thing you did with the orchids?" she asked. "You said that sometimes helps with diseases."
Dr. Connors smiled ruefully at her. "Aye, it's a lovely thought," she said, "but there's no other rose that'll do. They have to be related to each other in some way, the closer the better, and we've already tried the only one that comes close to being a match."
Claire's expression fell. "So… what, then? You're just going to throw them out?"
"Eventually. Looks like they have another week or so left in them, and I'm a silly, sentimental old woman. Maybe I'll try another fertilizer, or increase their water." Dr. Connors shrugged, looking as though she didn't have much faith in either solution. She and Claire resumed their work. After the pruning was finished they installed a trellis for two climbing roses since they'd all but outgrown the old one. Around 11 o'clock, however, Dr. Connors finally put her tools aside.
"I must be going, lass. Tis' lunchtime, and I have some plans tonight on the mainland. It's my hubby's birthday this weekend and I've been wanting to get him something nice," she said cheerfully.
Claire grinned, unable to stop herself from picturing Dr. Connors' husband as old man with traces of red hair and a tweed cap. "Sounds like fun," she replied. "Any ideas?"
"A few. He's so very fond of soccer. I was thinking of a pair of tickets, or something of that ilk."
"Well, I hope you find something good. See you later," Claire's smiled widened slightly. "And thanks."
"Oh? Whatever for?"
"For making my time down here fun. I appreciate it."
Dr. Connors laughed, her eyes crinkling into little half-moons. "Oh, think nothing of it! I was young once, too, you know. You're a good lass, Claire."
Claire flushed and smiled. Whistling casually, Dr. Connors left the greenhouse, pausing by the door to knock the dirt off her shoes. Claire finished winding the roses around their new trellis, gave them some water, and then looked around for something else to do. Dr. Connors had mentioned that a nearby tray of begonias needed repotted. That shouldn't be too hard. Claire started over, looking around for a trowel and some fresh potting soil, but her eyes fell on the dying rose again. Sherry had called it Black Magic. Who knew, maybe some kind of ritual needed to be done.
Claire began to turn, but something suddenly occurred to her. Maybe using black magic wasn't as crazy as it sounded. Dr. Connors said that she'd already tried to cross-pollinate it with another rose, but it hadn't worked. What if… what if I did the same thing with something else? Something other than a rose…
The idea was half-baked and stupid, and Claire felt a flush climb up her face for even thinking she could do better than a team of experienced botanists. Even so, however, the crazy notion appealed to her somehow. It was something to do, and what harm could come from trying? It wasn't like she was going to get in trouble for killing the roses since they were already on their way to the compost heap. After a moment's indecision, Claire went over to a nearby workstation and pulled out her ID card. She'd long since discovered that all of Umbrella's computers needed an employee ID number in order to open a browsing session. More safeguards and power plays a' la Wesker. Glancing at her ID, Claire typed in that vital seven-digit number and hit ENTER.
Nothing happened.
Just when Claire was starting to think she should have known better than to except anything, the omnipotent Umbrella logo flashed up with the words: Identity Confirmed. Welcome to Umbrella. Claire grinned in triumph. The cursor blinked on and off, expectant, and she started off by looking for exactly what kind of disease was affecting the dying rose. After she'd worked that out, she then told the computer to search for every kind of plant that was resistant to said disease, if any. The monitor exploded in a riot of motion as a dozen windows popped up on the screen. Thankfully, some lonely nerd had categorized the flowers into hierarchal order based on resistance level, so Claire had no trouble singling out the top five. The menu also displayed a picture of each flower, including their tray number and location in the greenhouse.
Picking up a handful of paintbrushes and little glass jars, Claire set off in search of three roses, one Chinese violet, and one Brazilian orchid. One by one, and with some uncertainty on where exactly the flowers kept their pollen, she carefully harvested the precious yellow dust. Feeling both embarrassed and strangely excited, she took everything back to the sick rose and began applying the pollen to its wilted flowers. Passersby probably thought she knew what she was doing, but Claire had to laugh at them, knowing that she was just mimicking what she'd seen Dr. Connors do. Despite the lab coat, a goldfish had a better chance of acting scientific.
Either way, however, Claire managed to finish four separate rose bushes, using a different type of pollen for each one. On the fifth and final one, she was reaching deep inside the bush, clumsily trying to get inside its last flower, when one of its thick, woody thorns pierced the mound of her palm hard enough to draw a tiny drop of blood. Hissing in surprise, Claire hastily withdrew her hand, scratching two more shallow cuts along the inside of her wrist.
"Bitch," Claire exclaimed and placed the injury to her mouth, more out of habit than anything else, since it wasn't bleeding all that bad. It did, however, sting unusually hard. Almost like fire. She was sucking the tiny scratch when movement behind the trays caused her to turn. Claire felt a thrill of surprise to see Sherry slowly making her way up the aisle, her head hung low. Today she was dressed in a blue jumper over a crisp white blouse, a matching headband tucked in her hair. "Hi, Claire," she whispered, not quite meeting the older woman's gaze.
"Hi," said Claire, setting her pollen brush aside and trying not to squirm at the sudden, guilty tension. She had no idea why Sherry was down here, or if the girl wanted to talk, but she thought it best to get things off her shoulders regardless. "Look, Sherry, I… I'm sorry, okay?" she said. "Whatever I said, can we just forget about it?"
Sherry shook her head. "Don't say that. I'm the one who acted like the idiot. I didn't have to be like that, so I'm the one who should be sorry. That's why I came down here, to tell you that," she said, searching Claire's face for some kind of acceptance, all while making sure her words were said as politely and as sincerely as possible. "I'm sorry."
Claire let out a sigh and moved to hug Sherry, relieved that nothing had been ruined between them. After a moment, Sherry offered her a watery smile, reaching out to pluck Claire's white coat. "Looks good on you," she remarked shyly.
"Whatever. It's better than getting my clothes dirty," said Claire, wishing people would stop commenting on the garment. For some reason it felt like an insignia, a way of saying "I belong here". Or rather, "I belong to Umbrella." Sherry glanced at the paintbrushes and little jars Claire had scattered about.
"What are you doing, anyway?"
"Pretending I'm a mad scientist," said Claire, a teasing note in her voice, but she was glad that Sherry didn't ask her to elaborate. The girl shifted her feet. "…Are you done?" she asked quietly. "I'll go if you're still busy."
"No, stay. I'm finished. Look what happened!" Claire showed Sherry the scratches on her hand.
"You want some ointment? There's a med-kit by the door."
"Naw. They're not that bad."
"You sure? Maybe you should wear gloves next time," said Sherry. "So, uh… would you like to go get some lunch? I know I kind of ruined dinner last time and I want to make it up to you."
Claire smiled. "Why not? You're going to have to lead the way, though. I've never been to the cafeteria."
Sherry's face broke into a wide grin; clearly she'd been expecting Claire to refuse. "Forget the cafeteria," she said, taking Claire's hand. "I want to show you this nice little coffee shop down on the island. They make the best tuna sandwiches!"
They started towards the door, but then Sherry paused, a dismayed expression crossing her face. "Oh, but visitors aren't allowed on the island without a pass," she said. "Did Uncle Albert give you one? Please say he did!"
Claire pulled out her ID card. "This do?"
"Yep. Claire, I, uh… I don't want to be bossy or anything, but if you've got one you really need to wear it where people can see." Sherry tapped the similar ID she had clipped to her belt. "Mr. Krauser caught me without mine once, and he's not somebody you want to cross."
"And I've been wandering around all morning with it stuffed in my pocket," Claire muttered, cringing. She awkwardly clipped the ID to the front pocket of her coat. "How's that?"
"Great. Come on."
They left the greenhouse, going down the passageway and turning left at a narrow set of flagstone steps curving down to the lower levels. Claire had noticed them before, but hadn't bothered to go exploring, as she didn't think her poor leg muscles could handle the unusually steep descent. Thankfully, however, Sherry didn't seem to be in a hurry and Claire found that placing one hand on the wall helped support some of her weight. She'd been getting stronger every day, but she was in no hurry to push it.
Sherry led her through the facility, occasionally smiling at people she knew, until they came to a large set of oak doors. They were propped open, flooding the hall with sunlight. Outside was a cobbled lane bordered on both sides by rows of brightly colored flowers and tall, shapely poplars that shivered and danced in the breeze, showing the silvery undersides of their leaves. As they walked, Claire found that the island strongly reminded her of pictures of Venice Italy, or some other old world city. The roads and the houses that lined it had been softened by years of wind and sun. Small groups of people were walking the road, chatting pleasantly with one another, and Claire even spotted one woman on a bicycle. She wondered if the island was akin to the Vatican, a tiny nation unto itself, governed by it's own laws and jurisdiction. Knowing Wesker, it wouldn't surprise her.
"Isn't it wonderful, Claire?" Sherry asked, continuing to lead her down the island's concentric rings, and Claire had to admit that yes, Mont St. Michel was an incredible place. She was just starting to get out of breath when Sherry pulled her onto the patio of a small café, the name of which was French and beyond pronunciation. She Claire how she liked her coffee and what she wanted to eat, to which Claire replied that she'd have whatever the younger girl picked.
Sherry went into the café, leaving Claire to find a seat at one of the small wrought iron tables. For a minute, everything felt right with the world. No Wesker, no infection. Just sunshine. Sighing, Claire leaned back in her chair, her gaze drawn up the mound of the island to the main facility perched at the top. From this angle she could see how impressive it really was, a massive citadel surmounted by a cathedral and its glittering spire. At the very top, gleaming silver in the hot white sunlight, Claire thought she could make out something that looked very much like an angel.
Looking up at the citadel, Claire knew she should have felt disgusted by Wesker's sheer arrogance, but at the same time she couldn't help but feel as though the facility and its angel were positioned in such a way as to look as though it was watching over the island, simultaneously presenting itself as ruler, conqueror, and protector. Our Business is Life Itself.
The scrape of a chair brought Claire out of her reverie. Blinking, she brought her eyes back down to see that Sherry had taken a seat opposite her. The smell of coffee wafted around Claire's nose as the younger girl pushed a porcelain mug in her direction. Looking at the tottering mound of whipping cream and chocolate shavings perched atop what was undoubtedly a very fine cappuccino, Claire all but drooled on the table. She picked up the cup and took a tentative sip. Mmm. Heavenly.
"Oh, that's good," she sighed, grinning.
Sherry grinned back and took a sip of her own coffee. They chatted for a while, swapping bits of trivia from movies they liked and which guys were the hottest, and laughing when their opinions on this matter happened to clash. By the time the waitress appeared with their sandwiches, Claire had gotten into a mock-serious argument on the matter of Prince Nuada. Claire thought he was vaguely creepy and the villain besides. Sherry strongly disagreed around a mouthful of her tuna sandwich, which Claire had discovered was very sweet and yummy, and served on what looked like toasted sourdough. She was glad Sherry had ordered them both the same thing. It felt like she and the young girl had known each other for a very long time, and it made Claire happy just to be able to sit here and be normal.
Eventually, talk of movies waned and she asked Sherry about the island. The young girl was more than happy to launch into an extended and well-informed history lesson, explaining that the island had once been home to a collection of Benedictine monks. "It was built to protect the coast of Normandy from barbarian invades," said Sherry knowingly.
Claire had a small ah hah moment, although to be honest she'd already guessed as much. Castles like this weren't built off the coast of Madagascar. She listened attentively as Sherry continued, right down to the part of how Wesker had purchased the island from the French government. Claire secretly had to marvel at that kind of money, since the amount had almost certainly bordered on obscene, and she wasn't sure whether to feel appalled or impressed. The breeze picked up, sharp with the scent of the ocean, and tinkled the abundance of wind chimes hanging from the awning of the café. Flashes of light danced on Claire's arms. Sherry fell silent, looking at her strangely, until at last she blurted, "Why do you hate Uncle Albert so much?"
Sickness rose within Claire. "Sherry, please. I thought we agree not to talk about this anymore," she moaned.
"We did, but… please, just tell me. I want to know, and I promise that no matter what you say I won't get mad or stomp off, or anything!"
"Sherry…"
"Please?" Sherry's eyes were wide, literally begging her.
Her good mood gone, Claire leaned back in her chair to rub her eyes, wishing she could just evaporate. What was wrong with Sherry? Seriously, she couldn't imagine why the girl would be so vehement about this. If she'd had an uncle she adored this much, she wouldn't have wanted to hear anything bad about him, especially not the specifics. The very mention of Wesker ticked Claire off and brought up a whole host of emotions she'd rather do away with. For a brief minute she honestly considered just laying everything on Sherry as thick as she could, hoping maybe that would close the topic once and for all, but then she remembered her promise to Birkin. Be gentle.
Claire sighed and tried to find the right words. "Wesker was the captain of a search and rescue unit," she began stiffly, but very plainly, working to summarize the horrid details in just a few short sentences. "He killed a lot of people for Umbrella and that's about as short and sweet as I can make it. And to make matters worse, those people trusted him, thought he was there to watch their backs. My brother was one of those people."
Sherry's eyes went wide and Claire felt sure that the girl had gone a shade paler. A shocked silence fell between them, broken only by the tinkling wind chimes. Claire swallowed, certain that she'd gone too far as Sherry's eyes suddenly turned away from her to stare across the road. To the casual observer, the girl looked like she was intent on counting every leaf on the nearby tree, but Claire saw the deep furrow between Sherry's eyebrows, the glazed look that signified the frantic turning of cogs. After what seemed like forever, Sherry broke the tense silence.
"Is your brother still alive?"
"Yeah, but what the heck does that matter?"
"Because it does," said Sherry. "If he's still alive then why—"
"Sherry, don't go there," Claire warned, trying not to grind her teeth. Sherry was infuriating, like trying to convince an indoctrinated zealot that her region was seriously screwed up. "What Wesker did wrecked my brother and his partner for a long time. Period."
Sherry frowned, clearly thinking hard. Claire watched her for any signs of anger and saw none. After a long moment, however, something dawned on Sherry's face. "The search and rescue unit… it was S.T.A.R.S, wasn't it?" she asked nervously.
Claire blinked, taken aback. "How do you know that?" she demanded.
"I lived in Raccoon City, too, remember? Uncle Albert used to talk about them a lot." Sherry shrugged noncommittally. "Besides," she added, "he carries a gun with the S.T.A.R.S emblem on it."
Claire said nothing, choosing not to state the obvious. Sherry was quiet, too, but her silence was deeper and tinged with something akin to dread. "Claire, if I tell you something… something bad… will you promise to listen?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes searched Claire's face, boring into her.
Claire suddenly felt cold. "Of course," she said earnestly. "Anything."
"I always knew something terrible happened to S.T.A.R.S, but, Claire… I don't think Uncle Albert did it."
"Oh, come on!" Claire snapped. "Seriously, I know you mean well, but don't go making stuff up just to—"
"I am not making things up!" Sherry exclaimed hotly. "You said you would listen!"
Claire was half-tempted to reach out and shake Sherry until her nose bled. She reluctantly kept her peace, however, and waited. A promise was a promise, and the sooner this was over with the better. Sherry glared at her suspiciously, eyes glinting as though she was going refuse to tell Claire anything just out of spite, but her misguided sense of duty won out. "Anyway… it was just before Raccoon City," she said. "It was Saturday morning, so we were all sitting together eating breakfast, just mom, dad and me. We hardly ever got to do that, so it was special.
Sherry smiled, a sad, faraway expression to be sure. "I was telling mom about the science project I had to do and she was helping me out, using her fancy pen to write stuff on a napkin. Somebody knocked on the door, so daddy got up and went to get it." Sherry swallowed, her wistful look vanishing. "You could see the front door from our kitchen," she explained uneasily, "so when daddy opened the door, I could see Uncle Albert standing there covered in so much blood I thought for sure he was dead."
The Tyrant, Claire thought, letting the timeline click together in her head. She nodded for Sherry to continue, a morbid sort of interest kindling inside her.
"He was hurt bad," Sherry whispered. "Daddy had to catch him or he would've hit the floor, I'm sure of it. Mom jumped up and ran to help, yelling at me to go to my room. They were so freaked out, I went up the stairs as fast as could, but I didn't stay there. I should have, but I didn't. I was so worried about Uncle Albert! So I… I snuck back down and hid in the laundry room," Sherry admitted this guiltily, as if she was still afraid of getting in trouble for it.
"There was always this crack in the wall where the boards didn't quite come together, and I always made sure the wallpaper had a hole in it so I could see the living room. Mom and Dad had a little office there, and I used to pretend I was spying on them, like James Bond, you know? Daddy made Uncle Albert lie down on the couch and told mom to get the first aid kit from the bathroom. Oh, Claire, there was so much blood!" Sherry cried, wringing her hands. "Uncle Albert was screaming so bad all I wanted him to do was stop!"
Claire winced, not for Wesker, but for Sherry. She reached across the table to touch the girl's shoulder. "Hey, it's okay. I don't really want to know. Seriously, I don't. So you don't have to tell me," she insisted, but Sherry fervently shook her head. "No," she retorted, brushing Claire's hand away. "I want you to know, okay?"
Claire reluctantly sat back in her chair.
"After a while daddy sat down beside the couch and asked Uncle Albert what happened," said Sherry. "I remember him hiding his face in his hands, yelling at daddy to leave him alone. I didn't want to listen anymore, but they'd seen me if I'd moved. Daddy kept asking, trying to get Uncle Albert to tell him, but all he kept saying was: Alex did it."
Sherry hugged herself, shivering despite the warm sunlight. "It was horrible," she whispered. "When daddy heard about Alex, he ran into his office and tried to get Uncle Albert to take some pills, but he knocked them on the ground. Claire, he… he started crying! He said that S.T.A.R.S. was gone because he wasn't strong enough to stop Alex. The next day, some men came to the door and told daddy that he had to go to the Hive under Raccoon City because Arklay had been blown up."
Tears shone in Sherry's eyes as she leaned across the table, her hands balled into shaking fists. "Don't you get it, Claire?" she demanded, almost shouting at her. "Something bad happened up there! I know Uncle Albert's not a nice person, but he's always been there when daddy and me needed him, so don't you dare say that he betrayed anybody!"
Claire grasped Sherry's hands, feeling sick and nauseous herself. "Hey, come on. I'm sorry. Don't cry," she begged.
"No, you're not," Sherry gulped. "Whoever Alex is, Uncle Albert tried to fight him! Why can't you see that? He used to talk about S.T.A.R.S. when he would come over for dinner. Said they drove him crazy, but he was proud of them, Claire! He'd never do anything bad! Why can't you hate Alex instead?"
Claire felt as though the entire world had done a 180 wobble on its axis. Her first logical reaction told her not to buy it, that Sherry was lying through her teeth and squeezing out big crocodile tears just like she'd been taught to do. But as Sherry continued to bite her lip, trying to keep it from wobbling, Claire couldn't help but feel a deep, sour pang inside her chest. Even the horrors of Raccoon City hadn't pushed Sherry over this particular brink.
"I know you think I'm lying," Sherry croaked. "But I'm not, I swear. You think I don't know about what daddy and Uncle Albert do down in the lower levels? Well, I do, so telling me isn't going to scare me. They do that stuff for a good reason and I know it isn't particularly nice or safe, considering what happened with Raccoon City, but that was an accident. Nobody meant for it to happen, I understand that now, so that's why I don't let it bother me anymore. Please, can't you just give Uncle Albert one tiny chance? He's really not a bad person."
The pang in Claire's chest deepened, growing tighter and more painful as Wesker's angry words came back to haunt her. If I was so intent on eliminating the members of Alpha team, why did I go out of my way to aid them in escaping the Mansion? But Chris never told you that, did he? I doubt he even remembers because my actions were so insignificant, but at the time they were all I had the power to achieve.
Claire felt as though a cold ball of lead had sunk into her stomach. She desperately wanted to continue believing that Wesker was still holding up some grand act, but the evidence was stacking up at an alarming rate. Despite all warnings to the contrary, she didn't feel as though Sherry was lying, and it wasn't as if Wesker and Birkin had orchestrated the entire act just to fool a twelve-year-old girl hiding behind the washing machine. What if he really didn't have anything to do with Arklay? It would explain why he got so pissed off at me when I called him a traitor. Oh, dear God have mercy.
The implications of this were staggering. Sherry pulled back, squarely meeting Claire's gaze. "One chance, Claire? Please? For me?" she pleaded.
Claire's insides twisted and went numb, and she found that she had nothing at all to say.
Later that evening, she found that she couldn't meet Wesker's gaze, her guts shriveling with the thought that she'd falsely accused this man of a terrible crime, but there was no denying that Chris and Jill had seen him at the Mansion, watched him murder their comrades without blinking an eye. There was no way they could have mistaken him and Claire's brain was spinning itself into a frenzy trying to find a logical way to explain these glaring holes. What had really gone on up there?
Lying on the couch, Claire huddled under her blanket as if to protect herself from the whirlwind of confusion. She slept fitfully, her dreams punctuated by horrible replays of Sherry's tale and Wesker's own angry admission that something had gone wrong up at Arklay. Then, in the wee hours of the morning, Claire was awakened by a stealthy noise. Groggily peeling her eyes open, she squinted against the light. The door to the bathroom was slightly ajar. Wesker was standing in front of the mirror rolling up his sleeve, his expression totally blank and unreadable. He shifted enough for Claire to see the slim black attaché case perched on the rim of the sink. Reaching inside, Wesker picked out a long syringe and uncapped it, flicking the reservoir with his finger. Claire held her breath as he thrust the needle into his arm and depressed the plunger, his features tightening with discomfort.
Claire's stomach cramped. Why would Wesker need to take injections? Were they the reason for those hellish eyes and why he moved so fast? Claire shut her eyes, frantically willing herself to got back to sleep. Packing up the attaché case, Wesker exited the bathroom, pausing to look Claire over. She kept perfectly still, almost forgetting to breathe normally. Her sham must have worked, however, because Wesker moved on and she heard him stowing the case in his nightstand. Lying in the darkness, Claire remembered – and not for the first time – that Birkin had tried to tell her that there were things about the blond tyrant that she didn't know.
She was starting to realize that this had been an understatement.
A/N: Work's been a really hectic place these past few days, and the coming week isn't looking much better. I don't think I'm going to have much time to write this week, so I probably won't make my next self-imposed Sunday deadline. :( That's why I uploaded a special extra long chapter this week.
However, I will definitely return the Sunday after next (July 3rd)! Until then, I just wanted you to know that I appreciate all your wonderful comments and reviews, and I'll make every effort to answer them! We shall return to our regularly scheduled program in just a short while, so don't touch that dial. I mean it. Don't touch it, or I'll send Wesker after you and we'll gladly use you for next chapter's plot device. :P