Chapter 8: Thorns and Roses
September 3
Mont St. Michel
So much has happened, I don't even know what to think anymore. Sherry came by the greenhouse the other day and we said we were sorry for what happened at dinner. After that, she took me to this little café down on the island. I learned that I'm off the cost of Normandy/ France, so that's a plus. It irks me to say it, but the island is incredible, especially the town and the main facility. It's like a little nation all to itself. Sherry and me had some coffee and we talked, and that's when things really got weird. She told me how she saw Wesker after he'd gotten stabbed by the Tyrant, raving on and on about someone called Alex. Sherry says he was crying, but I just can't see it.
I'm going to go out on a limb here and assume, just for a minute, that Sherry's telling the truth and "Alex" was somehow involved up at Arklay. Where does that leave me? Chris and Jill and Rebecca AND Barry saw Wesker betray and/or con and manipulate them. I'll take my brother's word over Sherry's any day… but I can't help but feel confused. It's not like everybody just made things up, and they all can't have been stoned or some crap like that. Am I supposed to believe that Wesker has some evil twin brother?
Yeah, right.
Birkin hinted that there was something about Wesker that I don't know, something pretty bad by the sound of it, and I'm almost 100% sure it ties into the STARS/Arklay fiasco. So far, I can only think about one possible way to explain things. What if "Alex" was someone who threatened Wesker? I don't really don't know anything the man, and neither does Chris for that matter, so I guess it's possible he could have family somewhere. Maybe a sister or a brother, or something. Hell, he could have been married at one time for all I freaking know. What if Spencer said he'd hurt them?
Over the course of the next week, Claire's journal entries reflected her increasingly confused, uncertain thoughts. She continued going down to the greenhouse, often cataloguing the day's events in her notebook, although sometimes she did nothing more productive other than trying to sketch the flowers. Three of her roses – Claire just couldn't help but to refer to the plants as hers – had wilted even further, their leaves turning yellow at the edges. The fourth one hadn't changed at all and the fifth had lost all of its blooms, though the black spots had faded ever so slightly.
Claire was bent double under the hydroponics trays, trying to wrestle the rubber hose free in order to give her plants a drink, and didn't look up when she heard the door open. She knew who it would be anyway. Wesker casually strolled in, grabbing a plastic chair on his way by and placing it backwards beside Claire. He straddled the chair with his legs as he sat down, his hands folded, watching her work. Claire ignored him and turned on the hose. The cutting-edge greenhouse had the unique ability to adjust the heat of the water, so she lowered the temperature to a chilly 15 degrees since her rose grew in mountains that were decidedly cold.
"I trust you've been keeping yourself occupied," said Wesker after a minute or two.
God, why can't he leave me to suffer in peace? Claire poked the hose through the thorny foliage, confident in her durable purple gloves. She wished Wesker would leave, as his presence caused a storm of unwanted emotions to rise up inside her. "I haven't been bored, if that's what you mean," she told him. "Are you waiting for me to thank you or something?"
Wesker smirked. "It would be the least you could do," he sneered.
"Fine. Thank you," said Claire. Being nice to jerks always confused the hell out them.
"No need to get all worked up, dear heart," said Wesker. "And you might want to consider letting go of the hose before you dislocate your fingers."
Claire realized that she was indeed clutching the rubber hose hard enough to turn her knuckles white. She forced her tense muscles to open, slowly turning to meet Wesker's gaze. "I hate you, do you know that?" she spat, although some distant part of her wondered if this was entirely true. Of late, she found herself hating him more for making her doubt the things he'd done rather than the things themselves.
Wesker's smirk never wavered. If anything, it just grew darker. "That's too bad, dear heart. I know you think of me as a two-faced traitor, but I don't blame you. You don't know how close to the truth you are in that assumption."
"Oh, the two-faced traitor is just the first part," said Claire. "You forgot ill-tempered and deceitful."
"Of course."
Claire wondered if there was a veiled threat hidden in there somewhere. She turned her back to Wesker anyway, just to prove that he didn't frighten her. A heavy silence stretched between them, until Wesker asked lazily, "Why is Chris your only family, dear heart?"
Claire grit her teeth. "You're telling me you don't know? You were supposed to be his Captain."
"So I noticed. Answer the question." Wesker's voice hardened noticeably, brushing her remark aside.
Claire roughly snipped a cluster of dead leaves with her garden sheers, wondering what it would be like to snip Wesker's nose off. Or maybe an ear. " It was nine years ago," she began stiffly. "It was Christmastime, and our Mom and Dad had gone out to celebrate their anniversary, but when 10 o'clock rolled around and they still weren't home, we got scared. Chris took me out onto the porch and he kept me talking about music and stuff, trying to make me feel better. Around midnight, the cops pulled up the driveway and said our parents had been in a car crash. Dad was killed instantly and Mom died in the back of the ambulance before they could get her to the hospital."
Claire's eyes prickled with moisture. She wished she could see Wesker's expression, but she didn't dare turn around. "Chris thought it was his job to take care of me, so he joined the military as soon as he turned eighteen. It didn't last long, though. They discharged him after two years. Said he couldn't take orders if his life depended on it."
Wesker snorted quietly. Claire snipped some more leaves off the worst of her roses. "Anyway, he met Barry and enlisted in S.T.A.R.S. a couple months later," she finished, letting the statement speak for itself, but the mention of S.T.A.R.S. made her guts squirm with anxiety, remembering what Sherry had told her.
"…Why'd you do it?" she asked suddenly, unable to contain herself any longer. "Wasn't your rank in the police force and all the trust and respect you got good enough for you? Why would you throw it all away?"
She heard Wesker shift in his chair, but didn't realize he'd gotten up until his mouth was at her ear, his breath like a furnace against her skin. "Idiocy must be a gene passed down in the Redfield family," he growled. "Just how long do you think you can continue to provoke me?"
"I'm not trying to provoke you," said Claire, determined not to let him see how afraid she was. "I just want an answer."
"And what answer would you like?" Wesker asked. "I'm like this because I choose to be. Compared to the rest of my life, it's been a novel experience."
Claire wasn't lost on the fact that Wesker had purposefully dodged the original question… but why? She tried to move away from him, but he caught her arm, preventing her from leaving. Claire's nerves twitched, torn between anger and a sudden spike of fear. She could see the faint red glow behind his glasses and realized that forcing the S.T.A.R.S. issue was going to get her nowhere, so she decided to push the envelope in another way, searching for a chink in his armor.
"Well, I'd probably be more empathetic about your so-called choices if I knew what they were. You never did tell me why your eyes do that," she said bravely, trying not to wince at the pressure around her arm. She was certain the man's fingers were going to leave bruises.
"And you think I'm going to because…?" Wesker left the question dangling.
"I answered your question," Claire pointed out. "Now it's your turn."
Wesker studied her a moment longer, than released her arm. "Are you familiar with the Progenitor Virus?"
"I guess. It's what they used to the make the T-Virus," Claire answered, rubbing her arm.
"Correct. It's sometimes referred to as the Mother Virus. Without it, nothing would be possible. I was… I still am," Wesker corrected, "part of an Umbrella-sanctioned effort to explore the traits of the virus when used in its undiluted form."
"So, what? It made you stronger?"
"And faster, as I'm sure you've noticed, not to mention augmented healing abilities and superior senses. In many ways, it's the perfect virus, since there is only one outward sign of the mutation and it is easily concealed." He smirked at her, the Devil's salesmen listing all the reasons to purchase his fiendish product. "I am the pinnacle of human evolution, dear heart."
Claire's eyes glinted with anger. "No," she returned scathingly. "You're just another asshole."
"Is that so?" Wesker asked, his voice dangerously smooth. "The virus is harvested from an extremely rare flower that grows only in one region of Africa. In the local Ndipaya tongue, it is referred to Ngazi kwenye Jua Kali, or the Stairway to the Sun. Do have any idea what the tribe once used it for?"
"Wooing their girlfriends?" Claire suggested sarcastically.
Wesker's nasty smirk deepened. "They used it to choose their kings."
Claire stared at him for a beat, trying to figure out what he meant. He was leading up to something big, she could tell, and she had a bad feeling it was going to swing things in his favor very quickly. "Yeah? And how did they do that?" she asked.
"The flower – or rather the virus contained within it – is highly volatile. Since the virus restructures the DNA of its host, 98% of those exposed to it undergo rapid mutation, which eventually leads to death. Ndipaya legend holds that the man who could consume the plant and live would be granted incredible powers, and rule over the tribe for hundreds of years, ushering in strength and prosperity."
Wesker smiled at her, his eyes gleaming. "Those men were more than just kings, dear heart. They were considered gods."
Disgust churned inside Claire's stomach, but the worst part was the accompanying spike of awe, no matter how tiny it was. "What, you think that makes you great?" she demanded. "The mighty Albert Wesker, god of the New World? You've got your head so far up your ass you can't even smell the coffee."
Wesker chuckled at her crude assessment of him. "Say what you will, but the facts remain unchanged. I am no longer human. Not entirely. The virus will bond with only 2% of the population, and this is due primarily to a unique and rather rare genetic sequence. Namely mine. Regardless of your personal feelings, or even mine for that matter, I am nothing if not exceptional."
Claire scowled at him. She didn't know how this new information affected her opinion of Wesker, only that she didn't like it. "So is that what Umbrella is? Your great and mighty kingdom, everybody under your boot so you can play god?" she sneered. "You let me know how that goes."
Wesker stepped forward and Claire took an answering step back, dismayed to feel the edge of the table bump against her legs. The blond tyrant had her cornered. "You say that like it's a bad thing," he said, "when in fact it's so much more. The only thing that can defeat power is more power, dear heart. I'm not destroying the world. I'm saving it."
"Save it," Claire spat, fuming. "I don't want to hear it."
"Which is precisely why I'm going to make sure that you do," said Wesker, his hand rising to brush her ponytail. "Umbrella is a corporate entity free to do what it wishes, unbound by any laws of government or state. Who—"
"Then why don't you paint your ugly mug on a flag, raise it above the island, and secede from France?" Claire seethed.
Wesker glared at her, the corner of his mouth twitching suspiciously. "As I was saying, dear heart," he purred, "who do you think was first on scene to any of the recent humanitarian disasters in the world? Whose wealth do you think has preserved thousands of acres of rainforest, or funds institutions like St. Jude's so parents don't have to worry about monetary problems on top of whatever tragedy they've already been forced to endue with their children?"
After not saying anything for nearly a minute, Claire realized that she'd almost let Wesker lull her into believing him. She reminded herself not to fall for it. "Yeah, and I'm sure Spencer had the same noble intentions," she said coolly.
"While my goals are, in some ways, similar to his, I can assure you that my motives are quite different," said Wesker, pulling away from her. Claire continued to scowl at him as he walked away. His movements reminded her of a panther, stealthy and muscular, every inch a dangerous predator, and she couldn't repress a shiver.
As the door closed behind Wesker with a soft hiss, Claire glanced at her rose and realized that a torrent of dark, muddy water was starting to overspill the rim of the planter. Calling a multitude of painful curses down upon Wesker's head, she hastily removed the hose and turned it off, splattering herself with wet dirt. Looking at the swamp now threatening to drown all her hard work, she grabbed a nearby plastic cup and bailed some of the water out, which was when she noticed something that she'd missed during her earlier inspection of the rose.
It was a single flower bud, its pale green leaves folded tightly around a dark core.
The sight was a small victory in itself, a sign that she hadn't yet butchered the plant with her over-pruning, over fertilizing, and now over-watering. Claire grinned broadly. If only she could get it to bloom. That would be worth every single minute. She bailed the water out more quickly and tamped some fresh dirt into the planter to make up for what she'd allowed to wash away. By the time she was done, the afternoon sun was climbing high over the greenhouse. The air was thick with the smell of plants and a light sheen of sweat popped out on Claire's brow. Wiping her face with her sleeve, she decided to go back to Wesker's room, wash up, and take a little nap. It'd been nearly a week since she'd had to sleep during the day in order to keep going, but today the idea seemed like a good one. Putting her tools aside and making sure the hose was off, she left the greenhouse, absently picking dirt out from beneath her fingernails.
Reaching the corridor, she looked up to see a tall man in a long grey coat getting into the elevator. Claire slowed down, content to wait, but the man had already seen her coming. He casually put his hand on the doors, keeping them open for her. The gesture was a universal one and Claire slipped into the elevator with an uncertain smile. "Thanks," she said.
"Of course," the man rumbled, his voice thick with a pronounced Russian accent. "Where are you going?"
"Seventh floor," said Claire, eyeing him. If ever there was a sadist, with that thin gash of a mouth and puckered facial scar, the result of an injury that had apparently robbed him of his eye, this man was it. The elevator started upwards, and an unpleasant crawling sensation went up Claire's spine as the Russian shifted his attention back to her. "I don't think we've been introduced, Doctor…" he glanced at her nametag, "Redfield, is it?"
"Yeah, that's right. And just who are you?" Claire demanded suspiciously.
The Russian didn't seem offending by this snub, however. He reached out for Claire and gently snagged her wrist. "Forgive me, my dear," he rumbled, kissing the back of her hand. "Colonel Sergei Vladimir, at your service."
"Nice to meet you." Claire pulled her fingers out of his grasp.
"The pleasure's all mine."
Claire was uncomfortably aware of how the Russian filled at least half the elevator, cutting into her personal space. It was a very awkward feeling, but Sergei just gave her a charming smile and asked, "So, Dr. Redfield, may I ask vot you're doing today?"
"I just came from the greenhouse," said Claire. She'd gotten pretty good at giving people half-truths and white lies about her true purpose on the island. "I've been working there."
"I see," Sergei rumbled.
"How about you?"
"I'm in command of Umbrella's private little army. Or at least I vas." Sounding resentful, he flipped through the thick red folder he was carrying under one arm. "After the Motherland fell, we all had to look for other jobs, now didn't vi?"
Claire looked the Russian up and down. He was still in pretty good shape for a man encroaching on 50-some years. If not for the scar, his smooth face and gleaming silver hair would probably have made him rather good-looking. Despite her misgivings, Claire thought she could see a suggestion of this if he turned his face the other way. "You were in the Russian army?" she asked.
"The KGB," Sergei corrected. "And it vas still the Soviet Union back then. Spencer gave me a position that I couldn't refuse, a position that the great Albert Wesker," he spat the name like a curse, "saw fit to hand out to someone else, scurrying about like a little black cockroach and lording over a great legacy that vas never his."
His voice was furious and bitter, and Claire felt the skyrocketing tension reaching out to smother her. The elevator stopped, but Sergei made no move to get out of her way. "I'm guessing you two don't get along," said Claire nervously.
Sergei's laugh reminded Claire of brittle ice snapping. "He has always gone out of his vay to oppose my authority, even when he vas nothing more than an arrogant runt at the Training Facility. And Spencer let him do vot he vished! Wesker vas always Umbrella's golden child, the so-called pinnacle of the Project. It vas a rank he never deserved." Sergei's voice dropped slightly, and Claire watched as he ran his thumb along the edge of his folder. She wanted nothing except to get out of the elevator.
"What are you doing?" she asked hesitantly.
Sergei didn't answer, didn't need to answer. What he was doing – giving himself a deep paper cut – was perfectly obvious. "Someday, he vill pay for what he has stolen… someday soon," said Sergei, putting the injury to his mouth and painting his lips with blood. "I vould advice you against getting too close to him, my dear."
Claire backed up a fraction, her stomach churning. "What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded.
"Vat, you are not staying in his bed? The whole island knows where you return to every night," Sergei leered. "Someday vhen he has you truly alone, you may see another side of him. He thinks he is in control, but someday he vill slip. I have seen it before, and for your sake I hope you are not there vhen he forgets to take his medication."
Chills raced up and down Claire's arms and she was exceedingly glad when the Russian excused himself. Something in his voice, that cruel, taunting edge, made her feel as though Sergei was most certainly not concerned over whatever he thought Wesker might do to her. In fact, Claire got the terrible feeling the Russian would pull up a chair and grab a bowl of popcorn. Feeling ill, Claire hurried to Wesker's room and shut herself in, but the illusion of safety this provided was a thin veneer at best.
Claire showered quickly, but the nap she'd wanted would no longer come. Tired but too wound-up to sleep, she sat on the couch and wrote in her journal, documenting everything Sergei had said, but it didn't help her in reasoning out what he'd meant. The Russian knew Wesker was taking injections and it added a worrisome layer to the mystery. What did everybody around here know that she didn't? Later, with a headache budding in her temples, Claire fixed herself a baked potato. She was just taking it out of the oven when Wesker came into the room.
"You're very pale, dear heart. Is everything alright?" he asked, moving towards his desk.
Claire swallowed. "Yeah, everything's great, especially the creeps you've got working for you around here."
Wesker tilted his head at her. "Oh? Are you referring to someone in particular?" he asked.
"Big dude, white hair, likes cutting himself and licking his own blood. Ring any bells?" Claire demanded, piercing her potato with a fork and cutting it lengthwise.
"That would be Sergei," said Wesker distastefully. "I would keep your distance if I were you."
"Yeah, I kinda figured that out for myself. I get the feeling he doesn't like you very much."
Wesker snorted. "Now there's an understatement," he said darkly.
"Then why keep him around? He's obviously got it out for you," said Claire, taking a stick of butter from the fridge.
"I'm aware of that. However, he's privy to many of Umbrella's darkest secrets and inner workings, and that makes his experience valuable to me, not to mention he would present a large security risk if he were to find employment with another company. That is why I "keep him around", as you put it. Besides," Wesker's voice dropped slightly, "I have long suspected him of being involved in things that concern me personally. It is easier for me to keep tabs on him while he's close, and I have made certain that his power within Umbrella has been drastically reduced."
"Yeah? How so?" Claire asked.
"Sergei was the Captain of the Guard during Spencer's day," said Wesker, a grim smirk on his face. "I have since given that position to Krauser. His intelligence is subpar compared to his predecessor, but he is loyal and efficient, and therefore ideal for the job."
Claire thought of this for a minute, as at least one facet of Sergei's monologue suddenly made sense. So she wasn't the only one subject to Wesker's mind games. Only he'd be confident enough – or arrogant enough, Claire wasn't sure which – to utilize the services of an enemy knowing full well they had a knife concealed behind their back. She looked at him for a minute longer, trying to decide if his domineering personality was something to be admired or despised. Either way, it made him dangerous and Claire went back to her potato, trying not to think about what Sergei had said.
"You're back a little early, aren't you?" she remarked, clearing her throat. "Chemistry set not working today?"
Wesker chuckled to himself and opened the desk drawer. "Of course not, dear heart. I merely need to retrieve my notes." He flipped through the large stack of journals, selected one near the back, and shut the desk, coming around to pass by the kitchen. He eyed the potato in front of Claire and smirked. "Well, it's nice to see you're eating."
His tone was light, but mocking nonetheless. Claire flashed him a look. "And it's nice to know you've taken such an interest in my diet," she returned dryly, picking up her plate. "Would you like one before you go?"
Wesker raised an eyebrow. Claire couldn't imagine what had possessed her to say that, but it was too late to take it back now. She stopped in front of Wesker, waiting until that telltale smirk crept across the blonds' face. "Well, since you asked so nicely, dear heart, I don't think another five minutes will effect my schedule," he said, sitting down at the table.
Claire's nerves jangled – not by how easily he'd accepted, per se – but how easily she'd offered. Without saying anything, she pulled another potato out of the oven, cut it in half, and loaded it with toppings: sour cream, bacon bits, chives, cheese, pretty much everything that went on a potato. After a minute, she pushed it towards Wesker and uneasily sat down.
Wesker's eyebrow lifted again. "What exactly is on this Thing?" he asked, pronouncing the word "thing" in a way that made Claire imagine it with a capital letter. She allowed herself a smirk. "Everything," she replied sweetly, before she thought better of it.
Wesker forked up a chunk, eying it like something that had recently eloped from his labs. Claire ate her own potato in silence, not saying anything to Wesker, but acutely aware of his presence. One minute she was arguing with him, the next she was eating lunch at the same table. It was a surreal moment and Claire couldn't help but wonder at this small change in her attitude towards Wesker. More troubling still, why she was allowing it to change, even in the slightest?
Two days later, with this question still preying on her mind, Claire entered the greenhouse to find a large grey seagull perched on the Plexiglas dome, busily trying to crack a mollusk on the hard metal girders. She stopped to watch for a few minutes and eventually the bird was successful, prying the shell apart with its feet and rooting around inside for the delicious meat. It was early morning, so the sprinklers were sending jets of water arcing all over the greenhouse, pattering the flowers and dripping on the hard floor.
Claire methodically sidestepped the puddles, singing softly under her breath and moving towards her table of roses. Upon reaching them, however, she stopped short. "Oh!"
The rose had bloomed, a single large flower nodding near the top of the bush, but it was unlike anything Claire had ever seen before. The appearance of the blossoms had changed dramatically, the petals seeming to boast several colors at once depending on the angle on the sunlight. At first glance it appeared a deep, rich garnet, then Claire shifted and the petals turned black, shimmering with the barest hint of deep purple. Her heart pounding, she touched the rose with her finger, feeling its unusually thick, velvety petals. Its strange new fragrance was deep and spicy, and filled her head with fog. Giddy heat spread though Claire's body as she realized the unimaginable.
Somehow or other, and against all logic, her experiment with the roses had worked.
A/N: And thus Claire tends to her carefully crafted and oh-so-subtle collection of plot devices. Oh, the drama. How's Wesker going to react when he catches wind of this? I think he stated it best in Code Veronica: "Ah, little fishy, come to my hook." ;)
Oh, and I've done an illustration for Chapter 2! It's nothing special, but if you've got the time, please check out my DeviantArt profile and let me know what you think! Are there any other scenes you'd like to see brought to life? ^_^