Stage Four: Maturation


Somewhere where hope is lost...


Such a pretty little thing. She dangled, like a painted canvas looking for the right master to put his brush to her and create…immortality. A legacy, she wielded the name he'd hated for so long in a way her brother had been missing. Redfield. The name rang like twin bells of rage and madness in his skull. And yet, yet, yet…it was so poetic. Because she was red.

Red.

Red.

Hanging there covered in blood and trembling for him.

She was watching him with something akin to horror in those familiar eyes.

The eyes were all Chris Redfield. They were long-lashed and lovely in a softer, sweeter, rounder face. She looked at him with that Redfield strength and his soul thrummed with the desire to watch her scream and bleed and break. He would love to have her brother chained to the wall opposite to watch but Redfield was too insulated. In the bosom of his organization, he was untouchable.

But his sister?

She was unprotected. She was unnoticed. She was the Redfield NO ONE was watching. He'd found her, stolen her, and kept her with little interest from anyone. She was lost here with him. She was lost in nightmares and there was no end for her. He could call out for the brother. The idiot, the self-sacrificing fool…Redfield would come. He'd offer himself. He could have them both.

But it wasn't Redfield he wanted. Not yet.

The new world demanded he find the answers. The new world needed creation. It needed seven days of his rebirth. It needed him to finish the prototype and bring the revival of mankind upon the unwitting masses. The world needed him to finish.

And he needed Claire Redfield to find the answers.

He was going to enjoy breaking her.

And he rarely enjoyed anything anymore.

Since his ascension, he was so bored by the human condition. Little interested him. He didn't care about money or sex or power. Not like he had when trapped inside his mortal coil. He didn't care about anything but revamping and reshaping the world in his image. He wanted nothing more but to create an immortal kingdom fit for his ruling.

A god complex? Megalomania? Perhaps. But he'd earned them both.

There as nothing and no one on earth like him.

He was the last of a line of creations by a mortal fool with a dream. When Wesker had found that old fool, he would release him from the shadow of his own delusions. He would remind him that he hadn't ever been a god…but he'd created one.

Spencer. The genius. His vision had been limited by human emotion.

Albert Wesker was limited by nothing.

And he was going to show that to the sister of, perhaps, if not his most mortal enemy…then his longest standing one. Chris Redfield had chased him from one end of the world to the other. He'd been a thorn in his side since refusing to die in the Spencer Estate. He'd stood above him while the tyrant had bled him and done nothing.

He'd stood there while Albert's mortal body had died and done nothing.

In a way, he was to be thanked for that. He'd given Wesker the keys to his own ascension. He was, in one hand, a god because of Chris Redfield. Grateful for it, he'd left Redfield alive all these years. He'd studied him, fascinated by the will of a mortal man to achieve revenge and to seek redemption. It was the catalyst that pushed men beyond their boundaries. What would Redfield become with the shackles of his human soul removed?

Would he become a god?

Or a devil?

It was such a delicious conundrum. The answer was coming. But it started with Claire Redfield. And ended with Uroboros.

Even the name was victorious.

Wesker said, softly, "How are you feeling….Claire?"

She said nothing, watching him like a mouse watches the cat who intends to devour it.

Wesker moved toward her, pacing her like a scientist studying his creation. He watched her like she was his Frankenstein's monster. And she was, in a way. He was testing the first of a series of cocktails he'd created for mind control. The first dosage he'd created had turned his original subject into a blithering idiot. It was too powerful for humans to withstand.

The second had been better but still flawed. The girl he'd tried it on had never stopped being under his control. And she'd followed him like a pathetic puppy. He'd finally given her to his most trusted companion to dispose of her.

She was currently a flagrant, horrifying, beautiful human artwork in his castle. His most trusted companion was excellent at art work. Excellent. He was a Picasso, a Pollack…unappreciated for the scope of his abstract vision. But brilliant. Wesker had found him as a sweet little sidewalk killer in a back alley in Italy. He'd been wrist deep in a chest cavity. Their eyes had connected over the mangled remains of a prostitute and Wesker had known then, and always after, that this Jack the Ripper of modern times was meant to sit at his right hand in the new world.

He couldn't wait to share the joy of it with Claire. Perhaps giving her to Alesio would make her squeal like a pig. But there was little fun in that. And the only thing that elicited any real emotion anymore was the fun of control.

He wanted to control her.

And it started here in this room.

Wesker moved toward her and, in a single move, unshackled her hands.

She dropped to the floor and cowered, crab walking backward away from him. He let her go. She couldn't run far. And she'd never outrun him.

She hit the door of the room and found it locked. Panicking, she turned back to face him.

And then she did what a Redfield would do: she lifted her hands into fists as if to fight him.

Amused, Wesker studied her. "What will you do with those hands, little girl? Will you hit me? I will let you try. Come at me then."

She did. Bless her. She raced right at him. The balls she had clearly came with the name. Chris had always been a lot of things but he'd never been a coward. Claire threw a perfectly executed punch at his face.

He shifted his head to the left, minutely, at the last moment. And he didn't hit her back. He grabbed her wrist, he twisted her arm a little and made her gasp, and he put her against the wall on her face. Panting, she spat at him, "PIG!"

"I feel that's an unfair remark, Claire. I have never been anything but courteous this evening. I haven't even been rude. And I can be….rather rude when it suits me."

"I hate how you say my name! You bastard!"

"Do you?" Wesker considered and tested the limits of the drug. He slid his hand over her hip. She gasped, jerking against him. Toward him? It was impossible to tell.

He said, "Do you hate me, Claire? I don't think you do."

"….I'm going to kill you."

"Will you? Time will tell. And you bore me. You sound like your brother. And his threats and generic. You won't kill me. But you will tell me what I want to know. I offer you this last chance to do so now."

Claire lifted her free hand…and gave him the finger.

Wesker laughed. He laughed. Amused. He would always be amused by the stupidity of the human condition. Bravery; what a dumb emotion.

"Very well. I did warn you." The hand that slid around her hip moved farther down.

Claire, figuring out too late what he intended, cried, "No! Don't!"

But, of course, he did. He shifted those gloved fingers down her groin and put them inside her. He wasn't even gentle about it. He wasn't even pretending to be. He pushed her against the wall, she smelled the blood and mold there, and he drove his fingers into her body like he'd rip her open with it.

Claire bucked her body against him, shouting now. "No!"

But the no was confusing. It was confusing. Because she was bucking, yes, but she wasn't bucking away. Entirely. Not entirely. Her body pushed against that invading hand and invited it harder into her.

It was the moment he knew that the drug worked. It worked. Perfectly. It would need a higher compound dose on the Progenitor virus to potentially make it perfect. Progenitor would likely offer the ability to have COMPLETE control of the subject. But for now? It was simply a beautiful, beautiful, powerful experiment.

Wesker laughed, watching the arch of her pale back as she simultaneously resisted and reacted. She shuddered, pressing herself against the wall. Her hips angled back toward him. Testing, he pulled her into his body.

And she went, making a sound in her throat.

He let go of her arms.

She didn't turn to embrace him. But she didn't hit him either. She seemed to be frozen, gasping. Her arms were above her head. They stayed there, fists clenched.

Wesker pumped his fingers into her body, harder, faster; testing the limits of what she wanted. Of what she'd do. He commanded her, low now, "Claire, tell me what you know." A whisper of it against her ear.

Claire struggled now. She struggled. She tried to escape that fucking hand. That hand of his that fucked her while she struggled. She turned her body to hit him and he pinned her arms above her head to hold her down. That hand…that hand…it kept pushing into the wet heat of her. He did it smoothly, swiftly, effortlessly. He worked her body like a madman, like a professional. He worked her like she'd paid him to it.

She kept saying, "Stop. Stop. Stop." And she kept humping his hand like a wild thing.

But she didn't tell him where Sherry Birkin was.

His thumb found the apex of her body. The gruff feeling of leather from those gloves abraded her even as they abused her. He sensed the tightening of her body as she raced toward…what? Horror? Orgasm? Both. Neither. BOTH.

She shook her head, fighting. She bucked forward, back. "Please!"

Please, what?

She didn't know anymore. She was so scared. Scared. Of what? That he'd break her? No. But that she'd come for him? Oh yeah. That terrified her. The disgust in her blood for him was painful. It was awful. It made her feel sick to her stomach.

She was desperately afraid if he made her come; she'd vomit.

And his invading fingers pulled free of her body with a nearly audible wet pop of sound. She gasped in relief and struggled now, just struggled, trying to get away from him. But he hadn't removed his hand to help her.

No.

He'd removed his hand to bite the tip of one finger on those gloves. He pulled it off and it dropped to the floor.

She whispered, "Don't. No. Please don't."

"Where is Sherry...Claire?" He hissed it against the delicate shell of her ear.

"…fuck…you." So soft. So angry. So filled with rage.

It fired his blood.

He shoved his bare fingers inside of her slick, wet, waiting body. She was so, so, so ready for him. Her body welcomed him back like a sucking thing. And the bare, raw, naked contact of him inside of her was incredible.

Claire snapped her thighs together, trying to dislodge him. Her hips humped his hand, trying to pull him deeper. His knee came up and thrust between her legs, opening them wider. His fingers brushed, brushed, rushed and thrust into her body without any suggestion of stopping.

She jerked in his hold, screaming, screaming. As the orgasm ran red around the edges of her vision. It was so close. So utterly close. No, she thought desperately, you can NOT come screaming for Albert Wesker. Even the idea of it was ridiculous. It was insane.

Who came screaming for a psycho!?

His thumb flicked the apex of her want. It flicked once, twice, three times and she did. She DID. She yelled, "Oh my god!"

And her body curled into the wall. Her body curled into his hand. Her body curled into itself with horror and shame and fear….and need. And she gushed. She gushed and rushed and burst. She burst in his thrusting hand like she'd been dying to do it. It made sense. It made sense. Because giving him this was going to kill her.

One fat tear squeezed down her cheek while she burst, dying, flying, crying softly against the wall. He let go of her hands. He let go of her hands to grab her hip and angle her body back against that plunging hand. She grabbed the wall and her body…her body rode his bare fingers through her release.

She made a sound of self-loathing and fear. She made a sound of loss.

His hand jerked out of her body, so hard, scary hard. Painfully hard. And he laughed.

He grabbed her hair and dragged her back to the wall. He pinned her arms above her head.

He put his slick hand against her lips and traced her mouth. Claire shivered, shivered, and spit in his face. It slid down his cheek.

Amused, he grabbed her breast and tugged. She gasped, grunted, and arched into his touch. Even as she cursed at him, "PIG!"

It seemed he would always be a pig to her.

He grabbed her face and held it, studying her.

REDFIELD.

The name alone was enough to make him enjoy this. Enjoy it. It was a shame she wouldn't last long enough to matter. He was going to break her soon enough.

The drug? It worked BEAUTIFULLY.

"That was just my hand…Claire. Imagine…what happens next. Tell me what you know."

Claire felt another fat tear plop down her cheek. She would NOT cry. He wouldn't get that from her. Now. EVER. EVER.

"Kiss..my…ass."

Admittedly…a poor choice of words. But she wasn't at her best when she was still having aftershocks from a forced orgasm.

He held her face…and licked the taste of her off his fingers while she watched.

Claire shuddered, disgusted. Disgusted. Disgusted...and, yet, her mouth opened for the taste of it when he dropped his head and put his tongue into her mouth to share.

It was the moment she knew, knew, knew…she was damned.

And the drug had started to wear off. The horror of it washed through her body. And she rolled her face to the side to gag. Gag. Dry heave and gag.

She was desperately afraid she was going to die here. Die here...dining on the taste of her enemies tongue.


Three days in, he took her down from the hook. Generously, he even allowed her to bathe and eat. She huddled in the shower, shaking. She didn't weep. She refused to weep. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of it.

He dressed her like a doll - in pretty gowns and jewels. He escorted her to dinner like gentlemen. He included her in conversation with his guests. His "guests" in this house of horrors where she was imprisoned. He made it seem she was his willing companion there.

The first dinner - she handled poorly. She tossed her wine in his face. She spit on the food. She was rude and disrespectful to the guests.

He ignored her like an errant child. He excused her behavior with a calm smile. Him and his fucking dark tinted glasses - she spit in his face when he escorted her to the drawing room for drinks after dinner.

She hissed, low and angry, "I will kill you when I get the chance. I will enjoy it."

A shift of his hand and she'd jerked, gasping, shaking. Injected. He'd injected her. The rage boiled in her and she blinked, feeling the tremble of those hated tears on her lashes. "...bastard. That's the only way you'll ever have me."

A hissed promise. A harshly spat vow.

He pressed a kiss to her mouth and she snarled, even as her fucking body humped toward him. She grunted with anger, even as she opened her mouth to his tongue. He kissed her in the doorway of the drawing room, so pale and proud. He kept his hand at the small of her back - a polite suitor with his tongue in her throat.

Liar. Fraud. Fake. Bastard.

And a quiet promise from her to her, "Behave, Claire. Or I will hike up your dress and fuck you in front of all these people. I will drag you to the square in the village tomorrow and do the same. You will scream and come and beg for more. Or you will play the dinner date. You will do that, and I will leave you untouched tonight."

He didn't say forever. He said tonight. I will leave you untouched...tonight.

She was living one night at a time.

She had to escape- instead...she took his arm and followed him into the room like a princess on a perfect date.