Wes Brot ich ess, des Lied ich sing. (Whose bread I eat, his song I sing) - German idiom

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I didn't hear you leave

I wonder how am I still here

And I don't want to move a thing

It might change my memory

Oh I am what I am

I do what I want

But I can't hide - Dido - Hear With Me

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The P30 is working. The small injection of 'morphine' I gave her has reacted extremely well. As a test, I asked her to touch her nose in her sleep, the response was immediate. There are side-effects, however, it wears off extremely fast. I'll have to somehow think of a way to constantly feed the chemical into her.

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A jolt awakens me from my slumber.

Where am I?

I drag my eyes up, and all I can see is darkness. An odd, grey darkness.

My throat stings. I realize now that I'm no longer in Wesker's room.

A coarse moan escapes my lips as my horribly bruised arm falls to my side.

Where am I?

My vision is brought into sharp focus as my eyes adjust to the darkness. High ceiling, metal interior, Tricell logo on the side wal--wait, Tricell? I shake my head, I have more important things to be worrying about more than Wesker's affiliates.

First of all, am I alright?

I sit up, with what little energy I have, and inspect myself. Well, I'm naked, again. I lift the sheet covering myself and look to my broken arm. The sling is gone. Finger shaped bruises are imprinted on my arm, I'm hardly surprised; he was holding me so tight I thought he'd snap it clean off. I look down and inspect my gamy stomach and legs. I'm filthy, absolutely filthy. I can't believe as to how dirty I am.

I gasp.

How could I have not seen it before? I look back to my broken arm and shudder, there's a bump-which is clearly my bone-which is grotesquely purple and green.

I slump back against the metal table and sigh.

Why am I not dead? What could Wesker possibly want with me? Definitely not his whorish little fuck-toy who would travel across the globe with him. I give a sour chuckle at the thought.

I can hear the sound of a door opening. I suck in my breath and close my eyes.

Wait, do I hear a woman's voice?

'...no doubt she's asleep.'

Is she talking to herself? I don't recognize the voice, it's accented, Italian perhaps? I hear the sound of her heels clicking against the metal floor.

Pencil scrapes across paper as the telltale sound of a clip-board clanks against a table-top. She starts to hum. The audible sound is some-what soothing, is it a lullaby? I turn my head slightly to inspect her figure. From what little light there is, I can make out business attire. A large chignon rests on the top of her head. That's all I can see in this light.

She strides over to my side, and then I realize her blouse shows ample amounts of cleavage, granted, it looks like she's not wearing a bra. She smells like my grandmother-Chanel No. 5-as I catch a wiff of her arm reaching over me to grab a strip of leather.

Oh...god.

She grasps my broken arm and snaps it into place. I can see what the leather was for.

'Jill.' She says my name. It sounds odd, the way it trills in her foreign tongue. She repeats my name.

I don't say anything.

She lets out an irate huff and instructs me to sit up. I do, but as I'm rising up, she puts her arm out in front of me.

'No sheet.' She says. Even in the darkness, I shoot her a worried glance. She chuckles, 'you have everything I've already seen, now drop it.' The sheet falls to the floor, and she asks me to stand. I oblige and slide down onto uneasy feet. My legs feel like jelly.

I still cover myself when she flicks on a light.

I can see how beautiful she is now. Curvy, broad shoulders, green eyes, and here I am standing naked with knotted hair and a layer of dirt caked onto my skin. She looks me up and a down, nods, and walks back to her clip board. I'm deathly afraid of what she's writing down. Is she going to pull out a pair of scissors, cut off my hair and gas me? I feel like a quivering prisoner waiting for my death in a concentration camp. I don't know why I'm so terrified. Perhaps it's her silence; she's like a steely Kommandant, all she needs now is a riding crop and uniform.

'Come over here.' She instructs. My cold feet pad across the even colder floor to stand by her side.

She clicks her tongue and non-chalantly flips through a few pages of her clip board. The wait is agonizing, and it's painfully cold in here.

'Follow me.' She finally says.

'Wait! You can't expect me to walk a--'

Before I can finish my sentence she throws me a lab coat. I mumble my thanks and hug the fabric around my frame.

A door slides shut behind us as we walk into a dimly lit hallway. 'Sub Level-04.' Great, we're even deeper under-ground, no doubt if we go even deeper we'll find a laboratory and a few B.O.W's. I shudder at the thought. We keep walking for what seems like hours until she stops in front of a door. I watch intently as she takes an I.D. card from her wrist and slides it through a card reader. I can make out the letters 'E' and 'X' written on the side, the rest is covered by her hand.

The door opens up, revealing ten sets of bunk-beads and lockers. I realize now that this must have been a military base long abandoned from World War Two. The woman walks through the barracks and leads me to a large shower stall.

'You have ten minutes.' She exclaims. I nod.

The water only rises to luke-warm, but that's good enough for me. I try to keep my arm out of the water; it stings. Every soap dispenser is empty, but after some poking around I find a dusty bottle of castile soap. I can't believe how much dirt runs down the drain as I wash myself.

I can't find any shampoo, but I shrug and use the soap, it's better than nothing.

The woman knocks on the door and tells me my time is up. She throws me a towel, which is more like a hand-towel, and instructs me to wait for her outside. Once I'm dry and back in the lab-coat, I exit the stall and see the enigmatic woman inspecting her nails. She looks me over.

Was that my imagination, or did she just get a facial tick?

She leads me down the hallway we came from previously, but we don't re-enter the room I found myself in. I can feel my heart-rate rising.

Get a hold of yourself, Jill.

I swallow down my anxiety and follow her to what appears to be an elevator door.

I guess my mystery woman doesn't like taking the stairs.

'It's a service elevator,' she says cooly, 'i would find it...cruel, to make you walk up ten flights of stairs in your-' she pauses briefly '-condition.'

I glower at her mocking tone and follow her into the large elevator. I look to the panel and realize as to how big this facility is. Twenty-six floors in all. I'm guessing the most recent 'additions' were added on-top of the base. No doubt Ozwell had something to do with it.

It's then that my eyes scan the top of the panel; it displays what the level is used for.

Barracks, Medical Bay, Chemical Lab.....

The list went on as we ascended. Finally, the elevator let out a chime as we reach our destination.

Private Quarters

Great, I'm back in Wesker's little 'perfect world'.

'....no, Ricardo, I doubt we'll be seeing each other in the near future.' I can hear the sound of a phone beeping.

It's him, the bastard that brought me here.

Hate surges through me like a violent electrical current, from my head to the tips of my toes and fingers. My lividness goes unnoticed, for the most part. The mystery woman gives him a playful smirk as he advances, but he doesn't return it.

'Jillian, it looks like you finally cleaned yourself up.'

He laughs lightly at the look on my face.

I notice that my hair is still dripping. The droplets feel like ice on my skin.

'Thank you for the tour, Albert, but I must be going.' The woman put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a lascivious smile. 'Hope to be seeing you soon.'

He's abso-fucking-lutely emotionless as she walks away, golden heels clicking on the marble floor.

'I didn't know you have a partner.' I say, watching her disappearing figure. I'm aware of the sourness in my voice.

'My my, Jillian, you seem jealous,' he begins, 'but to answer your assumption, she is not my partner.'

I look at him momentarily.

'Granted, you're probably wondering as to what she is doing here. Her name is Excella Gionne, a talented researcher from Tricell,' he pauses shortly, 'she's interested in my work.'

I don't answer him, I merely stare ahead.

I hug the lab-coat closer to my body, it's chilly in here.

I bump my bad arm and yelp from the sudden jolt of pain. He looks down at me, one eyebrow raised.

He's gone. It's been some time since I was left alone in this room. Small, plain, and finally sporting a bed. I decide to get some sleep, maybe he'll bring me some food; I'm starving. As my head rests on the pillow, I can't help but focus on Chris. He's probably grief stricken by now.

A small tear runs down my cheek, I wipe it away furiously.

You're a soldier, Jill, don't forget that.

After that reassuring thought, my mind drifts off into sleep. However, it's short lived, as the audible sound of boots thumping outside in the hallway awakens me.

I can hear the door click open. Wondering if the mystery woman-rightfuly dubbed Excella-has returned, I give a tentative peek form under the covers. All I can make out is a black form against the pale ecru wall.

'Tell me, Jillian, why did you sacrifice yourself for your partner?' He asks as he walks to the side of the window-less room, arms folded behind his back. 'Chris is a milk-before-cereal sort of person, Jill, I wouldn't expect you, of all people, to tackle me out of a castle window.'

I can feel white-hot anger pooling in my stomach; fueling my limbs with primal rage. I don't know how I was able to find my voice.

'I'm selfless.' I reply through gritted teeth. He chuckles darkly.

'Do you expect me to dignify that pitiful response with an answer?'

I get up onto my feet, legs spring-loaded. I real back to deliver a punch, but he easily catches my balled-up fist. He slams me against the wall, as if I were a rag doll. His hand snakes down from above my head, and grasps my throat. I can feel that stinging sensation come back.

I cough.

'Unlike you, I give a damn about people. He has a sister, something to live...for.' I squeeze my eyes shut and choke.

He raises his eyebrows, though the rest of his expression remains unfathomable.

He squeezes harder; thumb digging into my artery.

'Ah, not so brave now are we, Jillian?' That horrible, gloating smirk makes it way back onto his face as he releases his grasp on me.

I rub my throat and glare, but his back is already turned to me. 'To answer your question, I sacrificed myself because you were hurting my partner; you were going to kill him,' I take a breath in, 'and I wouldn't think twice about killing you.'

He walks around the room, seemingly unscathed by my bitter tone.

There's a horrible silence as he paces to the side of the bed, inspecting the sheets. He doesn't give me a response. Instead, he sits on the bed and looks back to me through those damn sunglasses.

I feel like screaming at him. My arm hurts, I'm pretty sure there are a few glass shards embedded in my skin, not to mention a few broken ribs.

Don't cry Jill, don't give in.

I just want to break down and let my emotions go, get rid of all the water waiting to fall from my tear-ducts.

You're alright, come on, you can do it.

But I'm not alright.

I take a few shaky breaths.

'I didn't ask for any of this,' my voice is quivering, 'I'm surprised you didn't leave me to die.'

I don't know what he's going to do, I feel terrified. I press myself further into the wall.

That smirk has turned it self into a smile, but it's not a pleasant smile, it reminds me a friendly snake.

'It's that irritating courage of yours,' he says 'that's why you're alive, Jillian.'

He walks towards me, hauls me onto my feet, and looks down into my face. I can see his fiery-eyes peeking out from behind his shades.

I look up into those pits of hell; once human. I don't know what I'm looking for, compassion, perhaps. Maybe even a hint of warmth. I may as well been looking into a charcoal briquette, for whatever kindness that was left in him has long since burned away.

But know one can be truly evil, can they?

I hope to god I won't have to find that out the hard way.

'I don't have to ask your permission for you to follow me,' he says suddenly, 'but something needs to be done about those wounds.'

I look down at my legs, small bumps can be seen along the surface of my skin.

Glass, I'm guessing.

A few broken ribs as well, but I've gotten so used to having them I don't notice the pain when I breathe.

He pushes me, with out question, into the hallway. I can feel his fingers prodding the small of my back, directing me towards the elevator. He follows as I stand on the cold surface.

Sick Bay

The old wording sticks out like a sore thumb against the panel of more technical terms, I notice. As we descend, the lights that glow under each level-name form a luminescent pattern on the steely walls, and I can't help but crack a small smile as they dance across Wesker's face.

The lift comes to a shuddering stop. A cool rush of air swirls around my ankles as the door slides open, revealing yet again, a long metal hallway. This seems to be a reoccurring theme in this god-forsaken place.

Surprisingly, the 'sick bay' is rather small. A hospital gurney idly rests beside a slew of old machines that look like they haven't been used in about forty years. A steel countertop hugs the western wall, equipped with a small sink and jars of numerous medical supplies.

The tongue depressors and cotton balls remind me of my doctor's office as a child.

There's an examination table beside the counter.

'Onto the table.' He instructs. I haul myself up, and sit. The waxy strip of paper crinkles underneath my weight; a resulting wave of nostalgia consumes me as my fingers caress the smooth surface.

He rummages about the room, and returns to my side holding a tray of medical tools. I can see a pair of tweezers, isopropyl alcohol, cotton balls, and some gauze.

'I was convinced as a child that rubbing alcohol was a liquid used to torture children--' I muse. He glances up at me briefly before grabbing my left ankle in his gloved hand. The cotton ball between his fingers swells with the alcohol, and more gently than I expected, he begins to rub it over my shin in small circular motions.

I suck in a breath.

'--I was right.'

Wesker disposes of the dirtied wad of cotton and picks up the tweezers. 'Keep still,' he mutters. The twin blades quickly snake underneath my flesh.

A few minutes pass. Thirteen pieces and counting reside on the metal tray.

By the time both of my legs are finished, the amount of glass on the tray is startling.

Again, he rubs both of my legs over with the rubbing alcohol. I've never bitten my lip so hard in my life. He rubs a topical ointment on the cuts, and tops it all off with the gauze and some medical tape.

'There's nothing I can do about those broken ribs,' he says cooly. I nod.

He motions for me to remove my broken arm from the comforts of the lab-coat. His fingers touch the tender, swollen flesh where the bone once protruded.

I watch from the corner of my eye as he goes back towards the counter. I look to the ceiling and begin to count the small speckles that fleck the tarnished surface. It hurts my neck when I crane my head back like this, but it feels good to finally look up at something.

I can feel his eyes on my bruised trachea. He returns to my side holding a familiar fabric in his hands.

I feel relieved as the sling goes back on.

'Get off.' He says curtly.

The elevator ride is silent besides the groaning of steel cables. We walk back to my room.

'I'll bring you something to eat,' he begins. 'You should get some rest.'

I don't have time to nod.

The small, and only light in the room, flickers with a cold ambience as I sit down on the bed. My head hits the pillow and I sigh. At least I received some decent medical attention.

If Wesker wasn't a tyrant looking to kill anyone who gets in his way, I would probably use him as my doctor.

He wouldn't try to make small talk.

I chuckle at the thought of 'Doctor Wesker.'

Fifteen minutes pass before he returns. Whatever he's brought me, it smells good. He places the tray down on the small beside table.

I wasn't expecting him to sit down on the foot of the bed.

'Eat'. He commands quietly. I sit up and place the container on my lap.

Soup, steamed vegetables and rice. A small glass of milk occupies the tray along with an apple.

'You'll have to get used to non-pershible food.'

I look to the apple and the milk.

'Excella will be stopping by every month, I've asked her to deliver fresh fruits and dairy products,' he adjusts his wrist-watch 'for your benefit, of course.'

I get the feeling that he's trying to atone for almost crushing my wind-pipe.

It's then that I notice a rather large pill beside the milk. I pick it up and sniff it.

A multivitamin, I'm guessing, by its familiar scent.

He sits in silence and watches me eat. I would find it awkward if he was staring at me, but his eyes are occupied with the wall. Once I'm finished, I pop the vitamin and the rest of the milk. There's a long silence before he gets up.

He removes the tray from my lap.

Before he disappears out the door, he turns and looks at me.

'You'd best get some sleep,' I look at him curiously, 'you have a long day ahead of you tomorrow.'

I don't want to think about what that even remotely implies.

'Goodnight, Jillian.'

Wesker's tenderness, no matter how hard he hides it, terrifies me.

It means he's up to something,

I'm sure.

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AN- Holy Lickers-wearing-panties-whilst dancing-and-singing Monty Python on a toasted sesame bun, I'm sorry that took so long!