Chapter 10: Wesker's Vulnerability

In a place far more sinister than the botanical gardens, Umbrella researchers were hard at work trying to crack the secrets of life itself. Lab 3, located on sub-basement level five, was surgically clean and precise, and everything – even the floor – was painted in a neutral hue of white. All of the furniture was stainless steel, glinting blindingly in the overhead fluorescents. That was one of the main reasons Wesker had taken to wearing sunglasses in the first place.

"It's amazing, isn't it, Will?" he murmured, peering intently into a powerful electron microscope.

"I'll say. I've never seen T-Veronica behave like that. That's why I thought you should see for yourself. I think we're looking at an entirely different strain." Wielding a pencil that look sharp enough to pierce Kevlar, Birkin made a tick mark on his clipboard. "What's the breeding of this rose again?"

"Austrian rose and Brazilian orchid."

"You're kidding me, right?"

"No," Wesker responded quietly, "I'm not. It's an entirely new species."

After running several tests – and then running them again to insure no errors had been made – Wesker was now certain that his initial hunch had been correct. The rose defied all known rules of botany, not to mention at least a dozen bylaws put forth by Mother Nature herself. The concept that the DNA of two entirely different species could intertwine to form an absolutely perfect, healthy composite of both was unheard of. It simply had never been done before, and Wesker knew the reason why in no uncertain terms.

The scratches on Redfield's hand were physical proof of what he'd discovered in the lab. Somehow, her blood had been absorbed into the mother rose, sparking a molecular chain reaction that was nothing short of extraordinary. Wesker had studied the effects of T-Veronica for years, coming to know exactly how the virus responded to organisms, fashioning a yardstick to gauge it's characteristic patterns of mutation. The original strain of T-Veronica had, among other things, been combined with plant DNA. Or, more specifically, the DNA of the Ndipaya flower itself, the vessel from which the Mother Virus was born. This made it especially easy for the virus to interact with vegetative organisms.

Of course, this didn't explain why the rose hadn't mutated beyond its current form. Cutting a tiny piece from one of the rose's leaves, Wesker transferred it to a Petri dish filled with a thin film of chemicals. He placed an electrode in shortly thereafter, watching through a microscope as the electric current began to separate the charged particles. "What do you make of this, Birkin?" he asked, beckoning the geneticist over.

Birkin crowded in front of the microscope and adjusted the focus. "Huh. Look at these T-Virus cells." He picked up a pointed wooden dowel and gestured to the Petri dish, affording Wesker a view on the overhead monitor. "They're bonded with nearby cells, but they're not spreading, and they're not—"

"Not showing any aggression," Wesker finished. "I noticed it, too."

The two men shared a glance. The reason for T-Virus's dangerous chemical and biological reactions was due primarily to its uncontrollability. Upon entering a host cell, it multiplied inside and then exploded outward into the body, destroying the original cell and spreading to another area. As the ruined cells began to mount, T-Virus's ability to reanimate dead cells finally kicked in and victim slowly succumbed to the buildup of fluids in the brain that destroyed the intricate cerebral pathways until only the most basest of instincts were left, and all of those included violence, hunger, and killing.

The ability to select certain characteristics of the T-Virus while bypassing its more dangerous elements was a goal Wesker had worked decades to attain, especially since he'd garnered control of Umbrella. Birkin wasn't surprised to see a red, feral glint enter his colleague's eyes.

"We're going to have to run more tests," said Wesker. "And I want to use living organisms."

Birkin sighed. "You know, every time you say that you're literally declaring a rodent genocide," he said. "Do you have any idea what kind of bill this island runs up buying mice? Pet shops in France must love us."

"Be happy I'm not Spencer and don't declare a human genocide," said Wesker icily.

"Relax, Al. I'm just kidding," said Birkin, shaking his head. Sometimes he was certain his long-time friend had an Intel processor for a brain. This belief had progressed into other parts of his anatomy as well, since the blond was currently sharing a room with a pretty woman and had yet to take notice. And on that note:

"It's amazing Redfield managed this all by herself," said Birkin. "What kind of degree in biogenetics does she have?"

Wesker smirked wryly. "None. She's a college major in creative writing and English, I believe."

Birkin's eyebrows shot up into his hairline. "So she discovered this on dumb luck?"

"Not exactly. The presence of her blood was happenstance, but her choice of breeding stock was remarkably clever, as was her continued care of the plant. I believe it is one of the only DNA combinations that would prove compatible with T-Veronica, though further testing would be required to confirm that," said Wesker, feeling as though he could be generous.

Birkin's wintergreen eyes twinkled, but he said nothing. They divided the remaining samples into six vials, using droppers to fill the reservoirs with fluid. After placing each vial into an agitator tray and setting the computer, Birkin reminded Wesker that they were scheduled to do an autopsy in a neighboring lab. Wesker growled faintly, obviously displeased by the interruption, but he knew it was important.

They suited up in full biohazard gear and stepped into a sealed room that was paneled on three sides by indestructible glass. Overhead in the corner, a security camera panned up and down, zooming in its lens. Every single inch of the lower labs was constantly under the scrutiny of Red Queen, the neural core of the facility's security systems. Vitoria Tanner, an aloof former heart surgeon and a blond, clean-shaven man Wesker did not recognize were already in the lab and greeted him politely as he stepped through the decontamination shower. He nodded his acknowledgement, stepping over to the operating table and pulling on the plastic sheet. Underneath was a hulking, broad-shouldered figure about seven to eight feet high, with a shaven head and colored visor permanently bolted to its skull. The beast had been in cold storage for at least a day or more, judging by the frost and overall tone of its skin.

"Wow. I'd forgotten how big the T-103's are," said Birkin, adjusting the plastic sling containing his arm.

Wesker folded up the sheet and handed it over to the man, who briefly introduced himself as Shappert. The T-103 "Ivan" was the height of the Tyrant project, as their intelligence was far superior to the older models and they could be instructed to follow simple commands. At one time Sergei had utilized them as his personal bodyguards, something Wesker had been quick to disband after Krauser had been promoted to Captain of the Guard. Because they were far too valuable to destroy, however, he'd placed both Ivan models in stasis. The death of one of only two prototypes was unfortunate and worrisome.

Tapping the control pad on his wrist, Wesker started a new audio recording. The procedure had proved to be an annoyance more often than not, but he forced himself to adhere to it anyway.

"September 14, 2001. Albert Wesker. Begin autopsy log. Subject is a T-103 Tyrant, prototype Ivan. Death occurred," he glanced at the clipboard attached to the side of the table, "between 10:15 and 10:20am on September 13, 2001. Cause of death is currently unknown, but suspected to be related to the degeneration of cells."

"Yeah, it's called old age," Birkin put in helpfully. "These things only have a three or four-year shelf-life at the most."

Wesker ignored him, choosing not to comment on Birkin's oh-so-subtly placed gibe. Picking up a scalpel, he began the autopsy by cutting the traditional Y-shaped incision down the length of the Tyrant's body, starting at both shoulders and finishing deep in the beast's crotch. Vitoria reached inside and carefully began removing the lower organs, injecting them with grey liquid, placing them in plastic bags, and transporting them to the freezer. Wesker ordered large samples of blood to be taken and handed Shappert a syringe of anticoagulant. The younger man injected the chemical into the large blood vessel running the length of the Tyrant's arm, then stepped back to help Birkin while the thinner went to work.

Wesker was basically working on autopilot, his mind occupied with thoughts of Claire's rose. If he were to combine it with a raw sample of the T-Virus, what would happen then? Would it enhance the virus' natural mutative abilities or halt them altogether? Wesker briefly pondered what properties Nightwish essential oil would contain, and if it could be put to good use in any of the powerful drugs the facility still had in development.

He reached inside the Tyrant's chest cavity and sliced the primary aorta, freeing up the lungs, which was when his sharp eyes noticed something lodged in the chest cavity directly behind the heart. Pale, muscular tendrils snaked through the growing pool of bodily fluids. Wesker swung the overhead lamp around to afford himself a more direct source of light.

"Abnormal feeler-like growths encountered in chest cavity, possibly due to an unknown mutation," he said, recording the discovery. Shappert had taken a gleaming, wicked-looking injection gun – an Umbrella trademark for massive doses or tough, hard-to-penetrate skin – and had inserted it into the Tyrant's arm. Dark, curdled blood was draining into the helix-shaped reservoir.

"They appear to have attached themselves to the spinal column, as well as the heart and neighboring organs," Wesker continued, picking up a scalpel. "Due to the appearance of purulent tissue, the damage may be recent, possibly occurring a day or two before the subject's death. The circumstances warrant a closer investigation, and I suspect malpractice or incompetence on the behalf of facility personnel."

Vitoria and Birkin shared an uneasy glance. Such an accusation did not bode well, especially coming from the chairman, but they continued their work without saying anything. Vitoria placed the left lung in a large plastic bag, zip-tied the top, and used a Sharpie to mark the contents, as well as the date and time of removal. Shappert turned with the injection gun, preparing to put it in cold storage.

Using a gloved finger Wesker pushed the Tyrant's heart aside, finding that the feelers were tied to an unrecognizable lump behind the sternum, nestled between where the lungs should have been. "There seems to be a foreign body present in the chest cavity. I'm going to attempt its removal."

Using the scalpel and a small pair of forceps, he prodded the growth…

…And all hell broke loose. The Tyrant jerked, its limbs convulsing. Birkin sprang back and Wesker swore sharply, seizing the Tyrant's arm in an instinctive attempt to force it down. The lamp unit clattered to the floor and broke. Shappert let out a high-pitched yell of surprise and whirled, mindless of the injection gun still clutched in one hand. Before anybody could cry a warning, the four-inch needle stabbed into Wesker's arm, piercing his thick rubber suit with a stiff pop.

In seconds, the pressure-loaded syringe forcibly began to drain.

Wesker convulsed violently as the contaminated blood flooded his system and he reeled back, eyes wide. Birkin watched in horror as the muscular spasms actually flung him face down on the linoleum floor. "Albert!"

Birkin dropped to his knees, cursing his crippled arm as he tried to drag his superior into a sitting position. Was he dead? Or was he just dying, a wayward bubble from the syringe sending him into a massive seizure? Shappert stood frozen, the wicked instrument still clutched in one hand, as Birkin tried to see Wesker's face through their cumbersome helmets.

"Albert!" he cried, shaking him while Vitoria ran to the intercom. "Albert, are you alright?"

Wesker's face was ashen. One hand convulsively gripped Birkin's arm. "Stop shouting, you ignorant cretin!" he rasped, grimacing. "The intercom's still on!"

Birkin mentally kicked himself, realizing he'd forgotten about the headsets they were wearing. He lowered his voice at once. "Sorry," he gasped. "No, don't try to get up! Stay down."

"I will not," Wesker growled, forcing his arm beneath him. "Either help me up or get out of my way, Birkin!"

Birkin winced at his tone. Wesker used his last name only when he gave an order he expected to be followed immediately. He levered the man to his feet and was certain he'd fall, but Wesker's indomitable self-control held like cold, braided steel. Panting slightly, the man composed himself and straightened. The Tyrant's heavy arm had toppled off the table and hung dangling, the limb of a gruesome ragdoll. The beast itself was still, with only a few muscular twitches running through its lower limbs. The lab went deathly quiet as Wesker leveled a truly murderous glare upon Shappert, almost as if he could kill him with the force of gaze alone.

The younger man gulped, his freckles standing out like the plague. "Sir, I… I'm sorry! It was an accident! I swear to God!"

A pair of doctors and an armed security guard appeared outside the lab, peering in with wide eyes. The woman in the group hit the intercom and bent close. "Sir, is everything alright? Do you need any help? We're ready to send in medical teams."

"That won't be necessary," said Wesker tightly. He resisted the urge to clutch at his burning arm. Looking back at the Tyrant, he frowned at the lump inside its chest. Whatever it was, prodding it had caused a significant muscular spasm, so it stood to reason that the growth was somehow attached to the beast's nervous system. He very much wanted to investigate further, but he needed to remove himself from the lab, a victim of his own security procedures. He gestured to Vitoria. "I want a biopsy performed on that abnormal growth," he said. "Put the subject in restraints, or use chemical inhibitors. There will be no more incidents, is that clear?"

"Yes, sir. Perfectly clear."

"As for you," Wesker returned his glare to Shappert. "You are suspended from this lab until further notice. I suggest you request a more competent assistant, Ms. Tanner."

Shappert gulped, sweat gleaming on his sickly pale face. Birkin had a feeling that the young man was fresh out of med-school and had gained a post in the lower labs due solely to his academic standing, but it was clear that he'd never been around creatures like this before. An incident like this could ruin his career and for a minute Birkin almost felt sorry for the kid, but there were procedures, little handbooks that had to be followed. It was Wesker's prerogative on how harshly he enforced them. The blond Tyrant stormed from the lab and Birkin followed him closely, feeling a little nauseous. In the decontamination shower, Wesker roughly thrust both arms out and let the mist pour over his body.

A minute later, he was stripping out of his biohazard suit and reaching into an overhead locker for the first aid kit. Birkin pulled his helmet off with a hiss of escaping oxygen. "You're going to need more than that," he exclaimed. "That blood was a level 5 contamination at least! The antidote—"

"Is unnecessary. My virus will counteract the infection in a few hours," said Wesker, keeping his voice low. His upper arm was red and swollen at the injection site. Birkin watched anxiously as the blond poured iodine over the puncture without flinching, allowing oxidized brown rivulets to run down his arm and drip on the floor. God, the man was inhuman. There was no telling how much that stung.

"Albert, listen to me," said Birkin, urgently trying to get through to him. "You're taking a big risk. There's no telling how the virus will react with your system. You need to take the antidote, and I'm telling you this as a friend."

"And I'm telling you to drop it," Wesker snapped. He unwrapped a pad of gauze and placed it over the injury, using his teeth to tear off a strip of medical tape. "You're correct in assuming the virus might react with my system, but I fail to see the wisdom in adding yet another chemical cocktail to my bloodstream on top of the ones I already have."

"Al—"

"Drop it," Wesker growled, and his eyes flashed crimson.

This time his tone left no room for argument and Birkin was smart enough to realize it. He knew from experience that pushing the matter would get him nowhere and quite possibly drive Wesker to a dangerous tipping point. Churning with helplessness and a certain feeling of dread, Birkin said nothing more to Wesker as he dressed himself and stalked out. Due to the viral augmentation in his body, he never got sick, healed from broken bones in mere days, and was in no danger of succumbing to the strain of T-Virus running rampant through his system…

…But Wesker had a bad feeling his night was going to be a living hell.

Claire's rose was doing well. Several large flowers had opened up, each one displaying the dark, distinctive, and vaguely iridescent qualities of the first. The greenhouse staff had moved the surrounding roses away not only to give the hybrid flower room to breathe, but also because to prevent any and all possible cross contamination. Claire was almost scared to go near it anymore, afraid that she might accidently undue all her work by giving it the wrong fertilizer or something equally inept. Sherry was sitting on the edge of the workstation, grinning at Claire as she worked. Except for the young girl, the mob of admirers had finally cleared out.

"You know you're amazing, right?" Sherry asked.

Claire groaned inwardly. "Thanks, but just so you know, I'm stabbing the next person that says that to me," she grumbled, wielding her trowel like a deadly weapon. "It was just an accident! What part of that don't you get?"

Sherry smirked at her, knowing that Claire only partially meant it. "Yes, well, did you know that a guy once tried to make a notepad that you could affix to anything and it wouldn't come off? Problem was, he couldn't find the right glue. It wouldn't stick for good, but he saw that you could put 'em up anywhere and still take them down. Know what they're called today?"

Sherry flashed her a cheeky smile. "Post-It Notes," she finished with relish. "They were an accident, too."

Claire laughed and shook her head. The sun was starting to sink in the west, illuminating the greenhouse in shades of orange and deep gold. Shadows lay across everything, the plants nodding in the breeze pouring in from outside. Claire liked the breeze and since nobody had ever complained or told her otherwise, she frequently opened the doors to the courtyard. A flock of gulls swooped by, calling out as if to challenge the sea far below. Claire pointed at them with her trowel.

"Fun Fact: my brother calls them beach chickens."

Sherry giggled, watching as Claire started to remove her gloves. "What me to show you how to take them off if you're working with viruses and stuff?" she asked suddenly.

Claire took a deep breath. "They make you do that in school?" she asked.

"Yeah, but daddy showed me first," said Sherry, getting off the table. She took Claire's gloves from her and put them on. "First, you pinch the cuff of one hand like this and you pull it off inside-out. Then you ball it up in your other hand and turn the other glove inside out around it. See?" Moving briskly, Sherry held up the neatly rolled-up gloves for Claire's inspection. "That way you don't get any germs on your hands."

Claire eyed the gloves. "You know, that's pretty cool," she said, to her own amazement. Sherry made the motion look so fluid, as if it came second nature to her. Unbidden, an image of Wesker doing the same thing sprang into Claire's mind and she couldn't help the rush of heat that wracked her from head to toe. She swallowed. What was wrong with her?

"Let me try," she said to Sherry.

She put the gloves on and botched the technique only once before getting it right, much to Sherry's enjoyment. "That's it, Claire! You know… if you ever want to learn some other stuff, just ask and I'll be happy to show you," she said, beaming shyly from beneath her bangs.

Claire's smile gathered strength. "Really?"

"Sure!"

"Well…" Claire wasn't unintelligent, but Umbrella's microscopes were somewhat more complicated than the ones she'd used in high school. Before Raccoon City had turned her world upside down and taught her to fear things that went bump in the night, she'd liked chemistry, and even some biology so long as it stayed away from the dead frogs. Her teacher had once given her a little blue microscope and she'd spent hours wandering the backyard for specimens, cataloging what she saw in a Bugs Bunny notepad. To Claire's mingled fear and delight, old interests were kindling inside her. "…Can you show me how to use a microscope?"

A radiant grin lit Sherry's face. "Of course! Come on, grab a leaf and we'll get started."

Claire picked a leaf from a nearby plant and Sherry showed her how to put it on a slide, warning her to be careful of its keen edges. She showed her how to adjust the focus and light, and how to change the UV spectrum in order to look for certain things. Claire never knew there were so many things on a microscope. It was exciting.

"If you think that's neat, you should see the ones they have in the real labs," said Sherry enthusiastically.

Claire would have liked to stay later, but after receiving a lesson on the proper use of a Petri dish, as well as a quick run-through on the various chemicals used to stain the sample being used, most of the greenhouse staff had cleared out for the evening. Besides, Sherry had homework since diplomas like hers didn't come cheaply. The girls parted with a hug, with Sherry promising to come back tomorrow, and Claire left the greenhouse in an exceptionally good mood.

She unlocked Wesker's door with the growing ease of practice and stepped inside. His room was alarmingly dark, the lights off, the curtains tightly drawn. Claire froze in the doorway. She always opened the curtains before she left in the morning, mostly because it annoyed the hell out of Wesker, since the vampiric bastard was clearly allergic to Vitamin D. Claire nervously scanned the room with her eyes, but Wesker was not at his computer. Except for what was pouring out of the hallway behind her, the only light in the room was coming from the bathroom. The door was shut, but not all the way. A thin beam of light sliced across the floor.

Claire didn't know what it was, but something felt wrong.

She approached the bathroom, her ears picking up on the low rush of water. Claire's stomach tied itself into squirming knots, but she bravely reached up and pushed the door open another inch or so, terrified by what she might find on the other side. Nude to the waist, Wesker was bent over the sink, his shirt discarded on the floor. The tap was on, splashing in the basin. Blood and sick stained the pristine white porcelain, swirling around the drain as Wesker groaned, a strangled noise of pure agony, and hunched further over the sink.

Claire's eyes went wide, staring at the sweaty, heaving planes of his back. "Oh, my God… Wesker?"

He turned on her, his eyes flaming, and Claire's heart slammed against her ribs. Wesker's face was ashen and strands of blond hair clung to his forehead. "…Leave." Wesker's voice broke. "Now."

"But…" Claire tried to breathe, but her chest felt tight. "What's wrong?"

A tremor ran through Wesker's body. He gripped the edge of the sink so hard the porcelain cracked. "That's none of your concern," he gritted. "Now get out! OUT!" His voice rose sharply, cutting across Claire like an icy whiplash. She backed up, frightened, but didn't leave the bathroom. There were no mind games, no manipulation. Just Wesker in a lot of pain, and despite all the mental anguish he'd caused her, Claire just didn't feel right about leaving him. She swallowed the rock lodged in her throat.

"…Do… do you want me to get you something?" she asked.

"Goddammit, woman, I said GET OUT!" Wesker bellowed, and his eyes blazed so fiercely they left glowing trails in the air when he moved, lunging towards her. It was if as mask had slipped off his face, leaving his expression feral and malevolent. His arm was already cocked back, his hand pointed, almost as if he intended to drive it through her chest and tear out her beating heart. Raw instinct took over and Claire's legs jerked, tangling together and sending her sprawling backward onto the floor. Her vision narrowed to Wesker's eyes, the cruel half-smirk twisting his lips, and acid filled her throat. She scrabbled back with a cry.

And then, suddenly, Wesker froze in mid-step. The expression of rage slid off his face and turned to horror. "No," he gasped, clutching his head between his hands. "No, no, NO!"

Claire watched, terror-stricken, as Wesker lurched past her. Reaching his nightstand, he ripped the drawer open, scattering the contents across the floor, and grabbed the black attaché case. He took out one of the syringes, but his hands shook and he fumbled the needle, driving it into his arm so hard it almost snapped. Claire cried out softly as he forced the plunger down, draining the serum.

Then as if he'd abruptly reached the limit of his strength, Wesker collapsed into the corner between the nightstand and the bed, panting like a wounded animal. The empty syringe slipped from his fingers and hit the ground with a plastic chink.

Filled with a kind of abject horror, Claire forced herself into a sitting position, dismayed to realize her arms were shaking and not very willing to support her weight. There was a long moment of silence, broken only by Wesker's harsh breathing. Claire had no idea what had just happened and lingering fear made her sick. She coughed and sour fire burned her throat. Every time she blinked she could see him towering above her, his face twisted with utter malice. Stumbling to her feet, Claire made for the door. She wasn't going to spend another minute in this room!

She heard movement and was certain Wesker was coming after her, but a sharp gagging noise made her stop and turn around despite her best instincts. Doubled over on his hands and knees, Wesker had been stricken by another bout of vomiting, convulsing from whatever illness he was suffering from. From where she was standing, Claire could see blood. She drew in a sucking breath. It felt as if the bottom of her stomach had suddenly dropped out. Wesker was hurt and sick, and the thought of leaving him unexpectedly made her insides cramp with shame. It wasn't right. She had to help, or at least try.

And if he attacked her again…

Clenching her jaw, Claire cautiously approached the bed, bending down in front of Wesker. He opened his eyes to look at her, their firegold depths glazed with pain. Claire reached out and grabbed his arm, shocked by how hot his skin felt. "Come on, get up. Get on the bed," she urged fearfully.

Grunting and straining, Claire somehow managed to hoist Wesker's nearly unresponsive form onto the bed. What on earth could have made him so sick? Thinking about that this man did for a living, visions of Ebola and smallpox flashed through Claire's head and cold shivers racked her body. He could very well die. Hell, she could die if she got whatever it was that was making him sick.

"I… I'm going get Birkin," she said suddenly, renewed terror surging through her.

She made to get up, but Wesker abruptly seized her wrist, making her gasp. His grip was weakened, but still stronger than any normal man. Claire felt the tendons in her arm begin to pop. "No," he growled, forcing the word through clenched teeth.

"Let me go," Claire gasped, frightened. "You need help."

Wesker's grip tightened until Claire whimpered in pain, but he didn't seem to care. He pulled her forward a fraction, his slitted eyes glowing dangerously. "I don't need anyone's help," he snarled, panting. "This illness is a passing annoyance, nothing more, and you—" he convulsed, struggled to keep talking, "—will not involve anyone from this facility, is that clear?"

Claire gaped at him.

"Is that clear?" Wesker repeated, and Claire felt certain her wrist was going to crack.

"Yes," she gasped, little tears of pain threatening to spill from her eyes. Wesker's grip on her loosened immediately, almost as if he barely had the strength to keep it up anyway. Pinching his eyes shut, he doubled over on himself, biting back a groan. Claire felt sick and indignant and angry all at once, but she could help but feel sorry for her tormentor. He was desperately ill, but too arrogant to admit he needed help. Or maybe he was just afraid of people finding out what he was. Rubbing her aching wrist, Claire decided to do as she'd been told, but she promised herself that if Wesker's skin started falling off or he began hemorrhaging from the eyes, she was going for somebody whether he liked it or not.

Looking down at him in the dim light, the obvious pain he was experiencing dissolved some of her fury. He looked different without his glasses. He looked naked, vulnerable, and Claire didn't like it. She was very much like her brother in that she hated seeing people sick and Wesker was no exception, even if he was an evil bastard. Going to the kitchen, Claire knotted several ice cubes into a damp dishtowel, making an improvised compress. She placed it against Wesker's forehead, where she could see his veins standing out. She jumped when he twitched, however, his eyes flying open.

"It's just ice," she told him nervously. "Relax. I'm trying to help you. Or are you going to tell me you don't need that, either?"

Swallowing, Wesker shut his eyes again without saying anything. Now whether he was giving her permission to continue or simply didn't have the energy to protest, Claire didn't know, but she decided it didn't matter. She dabbed his burning forehead with more care than she thought herself capable of showing towards him, getting another cold towel and lifting his head to put it behind his neck. Despite being hot and oily with sweat, Wesker's hair was surprisingly soft, not crusty as Claire thought it would be.

Why am I doing this? Why do I even care?

Wesker shivered slightly, this time more from cold than pain, so Claire pulled the sheet up around him. He was still burning with fever, so she didn't dare cover him with anything heavier. The room grew unnaturally quiet. No cars in the distance, no hum of an air conditioner, just Wesker's shallow breathing. Claire got up to get more ice for her towel, and when she returned Wesker had begun to mumble deliriously under his breath. "Red… Redfield, please…"

Claire froze, her heart hammering. A moment later, however, she realized that Wesker wasn't talking to her. He was talking to her brother. As Wesker continued to plead with some invisible enemy, Claire caught the phrase S.T.A.R.S. several times, as well as something that made her blood run cold.

Alex.

Claire covered her mouth with her hand, a terrible chill settling in her chest. So Alex wasn't just someone Sherry had made up. He had been at Arklay, and the knowledge burned in Claire's mind like a poison. What if Wesker wasn't a traitor or a murderer, but a victim just like everybody else that night? He twitched feverishly, beads of sweat rolling down his face, and Claire anxiously returned the ice to his forehead.

Time seemed to drag out forever, and the wee hours of the morning came and went. Claire had made Wesker drink a little water, wishing that she'd been able to find some Gatorade, but any kind of fluid was better than nothing. Wesker had insisted on trying to handle the glass himself on both occasions, and only after it'd slipped from his hand did he finally let Claire assist him.

At last, just before the grey light of dawn, Wesker fell asleep and Claire was pretty sure his temperature was finally coming down. Gritty-eyed from stress and lack of sleep, she collapsed on the bed, as far away from Wesker as she could get. With a cold, sodden dishtowel wadded up in one hand, Claire shut her eyes and crashed into the welcoming oblivion of sleep.

A/N: Whew. I've been looking forward to writing that scene for a while now, and I have to say that I'm pleased with how it turned out. Hurt/comfort scenes are always rather juicy, no? And there'll be plenty more where that came from later in the story. Also featured in this chapter: my first time writing from Wesker's POV. How'd you guys like all that medical jargon? I have a degree in that field, you know. It came from the prestigious University of Wikipedia. ;)

Anyway, I'm a little behind in my writing (probably due to obsessing over those illustrations instead of typing) so I'm afraid I'll have to go AWOL for another week. T_T *Flees from a rabid horde of disappointed fans and hides behind the sofa* Just like last time, however, I will most certainly return the weekend after next. I want to thank everybody for being so patient and understanding. I've never stuck to any one story for this long, but you guys have kept me going with your wonderful reviews and encouragement. THANK YOU! ^_^