Author's Note: Alrighty, update! Here we find out what's going on with Wesker and also, surprise character comes up. Let's see if this clears up a bit of what's happening but also adds more questions to your list xD Also, this surprise character has no kind of minor role: hers (yeah, it's a she) is a big one, one that will influence the course of Jill & Co.'s actions, so stay sharp. At the same time, I'd like to hear any theories you have conjured up; I like to know people are interested^^ Enjoy!

Disclaimer: The usual.

IV

Forerunner

Time's creation

The kid wouldn't be older than her, fact that was both proved by his height and how he was gripping the sleeve of his father's sweater with apprehension in his gray eyes. She cocked her head at him, frowning and pouting at such behavior, which caused the boy to also frown and stick his tongue at her. She smirked, laughed afterwards, and turned to look up at her mother, Leah, with that same smirk.

"I like him."

"Y-you like me?" the boy asked in disbelief from behind his father. She smiled more widely, nodded, then stepped forward and placed her hands on her hips.

"Yup." Her reply seemed to calm him down, since he showed himself to be more relaxed and he also took a few step forwards, not without looking first at his father with his undying apprehension. His father, to which the boy bore an inevitable and uncanny resemblance, nodded with a kind smile. It was what the boy needed to grin.

"I-I'm Oliver. N-Nice to meet you," Oliver said, extending his hand towards her. But she was neither surprised nor at ease with such presentation, and she frowned again. Oliver's smile faded, his resolve faltering. "Um..."

"Amanda?" called her mother, concerned.

But Amanda paid no attention to her parents and strode away, tears in her eyes.

They were both eight years old.

X

"Hey, Al."

Amanda turned to see Oliver standing behind her, looking at her with a mild frown and an equally mild smile on his features. She didn't know why she didn't feel anything after seeing him, considering he'd been hospitalized for almost two weeks because of a severe case of pneumonia. Amanda had gone to visit him a few times and of all those times, they didn't talk to each other for almost half of them. Here he was, having just returned from the hospital, expecting a greeting; well, he wouldn't get it. Silent, Amanda turned her gaze to their lawn once more and stayed unmoving.

Oliver sat down beside her, uncaring. "You're still holding that grudge against me?" Amanda pouted, looking away and still mute. "Amanda, please-"

"You didn't even seem to care," Amanda suddenly snapped. "You introduced yourself like it was something else; we-we... Oliver, I wanted to see my brother there, not a stranger!" Oliver stared at her in surprise, momentarily silent. Amanda looked away from him once more, angrier than before, and brought her knees up to her chest. "My mom married your dad, so we're not truly brother and sister, but we are in a way."

Oliver sighed audibly, then Amanda felt his arm around her shoulders. "I didn't know how to begin, Al. I-I thought you were also scared about having... you know, a brother that wasn't yours."

Finally, Amanda dropped her facade and met Oliver's gaze. "I didn't want to be alone all my life. Since my dad left us, it was more difficult for me to make friends-"

"-because you didn't want to make them, yeah?" Oliver finished for her, smiling a bit more and stroking the top of Amanda's head. She was surprised at such a gesture of kindness, something that almost moved her to tears. "It's okay, it's not your fault. It gets difficult sometimes. But we're together now, Al, and I love you very much. You know, I always wanted to talk to you when I was in the hospital but I never knew what to talk to you about."

"Oliver..."

Oliver grinned and pulled her into a tight embrace. Amanda finally felt safe and complete.

They were both ten years old.

–

And now, Amanda Leah Graves was thirty-three, as well as her brother who rested in much belated peace.

The news of her brother's death had come merely two months ago, in his thirty-fourth's eve. She had spent almost a year without seeing Oliver and just two days before his coming home, he was killed. Dead, dead, and Amanda couldn't believe it; she didn't want to. The morbid realization dawned upon her at his funeral, which made her open her eyes to the truth: he was dead and, unlike it happened with the pneumonia he made it out of, he was never coming back. She hadn't cried, she had said no words in his honor, for it was all more personal that the people gathered there could've ever imagined; they had no need to know what she had to say.

She sighed, leaned back in her chair and took out her pocket-watch, to which she stared at for several seconds. Inside, there was a photograph of her and Oliver... the day of his promotion to captain. She had been there, specifically having flown from Montana to New York just to be there with him, and it was one of the days she most enjoyed. The photo showed her, dressed in formal clothes -and Oliver's favorites-; him, in a simple but elegant gray suit and someone else, someone to whom she paid no attention. Amanda focused on Oliver, at the time twenty-eight, and his bright eyes, his naturally spiky hair, his casual and warm smile. She would miss him alright.

The person who stood beside him, looking at Oliver rather than at the camera, had to hold the answers concerning Oliver's death: those had been Amanda's thoughts the day after Oliver's funeral. She knew that that person, Chris Redfield, had something to do with it. He and Oliver had been colleagues and close friends, judging by what Oliver had told Amanda in letters and phone calls; if that was the case, it was literally impossible for Redfield to be none the wiser. And Amanda was looking for him, trying to figure out a way to get her hands on him and consequently, the answers to her questions. Amanda clutched the watch against her chest, her will unfaltering. She knew it would be difficult to find Chris, but that didn't stop her.

After the BSAA's official dismantlement because of a mission gone wrong and members of the European branch having gone AWOL, the thousands of entities that had formed it -especially the Original Eleven- were kept top-secret by the Consortium and the US Government, which held most of the classified files. It was then that Amanda's dream was broken, but time's victory would be short-lived. She had been at several press conferences due to her being a reporter and there were many people who understood her cause, Sheva Alomar and Josh Stone among others. She officially met them at the conference given by the Consortium's representative and member of Tricell's executive board Carla Ribisi, where they exchanged information and shared their common goal.

Jill Valentine was the name Amanda was given as a clue, a lead.

The mission that had gone wrong had involved her and Chris, during which Chris was reportedly KIA but then found as alive; those had been Sheva's words. The BSAA had allowed someone to meddle in their affairs, to support Tricell without anybody knowing, and that had cost them the world's protection. The remaining branches, except the American and the European, formed a new entity, nameless to the public and kept under secrecy. Amanda and the group she recruited were the leaders; they were the new BSAA, better and stronger. And better yet, illegal. They had neither the support nor the authorization from the local governments to form such an alliance, but that was the least of their concerns. It was all about planning and keeping tabs; nothing would escape them.

"You haven't eaten anything, have you?" Amanda perked up her head at the door, where she found her closest and only friend: Allen Keyes.

She smiled. "No, not yet. I guess I lost track of time," she replied, standing up and locking up a stack of folders inside a drawer. Allen chuckled, light-hearted.

"It doesn't surprise me," he remarked, crossing his arms. "And here I am, wondering if you'd do me the favor of accompanying me to the usual place... unless you're too busy, that is."

"At all. In fact, I think my stomach will send its warning very soon, so I agree," Amanda said, nodding and approaching Allen. He frowned slightly, but Amanda held his gaze.

"Still wondering about what we're gonna do?" he asked, to which Amanda remained silent. "Look, Strangelove, we need to take this slowly. If it's going to keep stuffing your mind with unnecessary stuff -and long live repetitions-, then I might as well lock you up inside the broom closet without a single pen whatsoever so you get the shit bored out of ya."

"I appreciate your candor, Allen," Amanda quipped, sarcastic. Allen bowed his head, clearly stifling a burst of laughter. "You don't take me seriously? I'm being honest; it's not sarcasm or anything."

"I'm just worried, that's all. Please tell me you're not going anorexic here."

That was the last straw. "For your information," Amanda began, annoyed, "I wouldn't be as senseless as to make my ass look like a couple of almonds! Who do you think I am, for crying out loud?"

Allen had been laughing as she'd spoken and didn't care to stop. "Giselle Bundchen?"

His response triggered laughter from Amanda herself, who then rubbed her neck as they both calmed down. "But hey, I appreciate it. So, we get going?" she asked, and Allen nodded. "Want me to help you?"

"Nah, I can handle the chair myself," Allen replied, nonchalant. "I'll just need your help in ramps and such; they're my arms' nightmare."

"Oh, and Allen?"

"Hm?"

"Don't you ever call me 'Strangelove' again or I'll send 'em Ruskies after ya."

More laughter eased her uneasiness. Amanda smiled as they headed outside the computer room.

Perhaps a bit of time off things would do her some good.

–

The mirror shattered... "You won't serve us for any purpose at all!"…A look in the mirror was all he needed to know what he was made of... "Don't do this! He's just a child!"... He knew he could change, he knew he could feel... "Perhaps he'll do some good..."... The pieces fell at his feet, pieces of a broken mirror, a broken reflection... "Take me back! Where are my parents?"... Pain cometh, Death's red-cloaked emissary... "No room for mistakes! Learn that well, boy!"... Empathy's corruption is inevitable... "I didn't know you were that good. Anyway, I'm William, William Birkin."... Feeling is tantamount to dying... "You'll know with time..."... Emotions must be hidden...

Fear.

X

It was dark, cold and damp. Nothing was worse than being confined to that hellhole without an explanation. But there he was, collapsed against the wall without the necessary energy to move... not even to breathe. Every breath he took was suffocating; with every breath, he lost a bit of his will to fight.

He had no knowledge of what had gotten him in there. He didn't know of any crimes he had committed: he had just turned six! How could a boy of his age do something to earn him a stay in prison? Perhaps it wasn't prison, not the typical that was shown in the movies; perhaps it was some other kind. There was nobody to talk to, nobody that would pay any attention to them, nobody that would feed them properly. His parents had told him the world could be cruel; was it supposed to be like this?

His hair was matter with sweat and dampness, his skin glistening with it under what little light the bulb above him provided. He was looking, staring at nothing, waiting for something he knew that wouldn't come. His hopes were flickering like a weak flame, still strong and facing the raging wind, but it wouldn't hold for much longer.

"Psst! Hey! Can you hear me?"

He already knew where that voice was coming from. With a tremendous effort, his bones cracking at the sudden urge for movement, he lifted his head and gaze at a small cleft in the stone wall. He could see another pair of eyes of an intense blue staring at him, suddenly gleaming when the person succeeded in catching his attention. He said nothing.

"Gee, Al, you look horrible. Y-you haven't eaten anything?" The voice was soft, dripping with concern and anxiety, also quivering with cold. He could hear the mild chattering of his teeth, he could see how violently his body was shaking.

He shook his head very slightly. "N-no... They haven't..." He tried to swallow, tried to palliate the dryness in his mouth, but to no avail: he could no longer bring himself to utter a single word. Even the effort racked his body with a retch. The other's eyes widened in shock and dread.

"I-I still have a bit of bread. Here!"

The other's offer fell on deaf ears. Hunger had long since disappeared, had long since stopped bothering him despite the evident need of food.

"Al, y-you've got to stay strong! We'll-we'll get outta this place!"

But the question was, how?

"C-c'mon, keep it t-"

Then, something happened, something to which he paid what little attention he could. A door opened, the door to the other cell, and that boy who knew him started yelling out for help... help he would never be able to lend him. Cries in pain and sorrow shook both rooms, echoing off the walls with unimaginable strength.

"Help me!"

But the question was, how?

"ALBERT!"

X

With a jolt, he was awake.

The first thought that crept onto his mind was a chastisement for losing his composure, but Wesker was wise to ignore it. He was still in utter shock, his heart pounding furiously and hyperventilating. He didn't dare to move out of some strange instinct that took hold of him, the notion of something going wrong hand-in-hand with it. It wasn't until he bumped his hand with his knee that he realized the former was trembling; was a dream supposed to drive him to such extremes? Wesker swallowed, closed his eyes.

It was the same thing all over again: it had happened a fourth time, and this one had been the worst of them all.

It wouldn't stop.

It was the first time he'd had the dream in its entirety; the others had been just bits and pieces of it that didn't fail to leave him shaking like a leaf. He had no clue of what the dream was supposed to mean... or perhaps that was what he was telling himself to believe? Unconsciously? Wesker rubbed his eyes and climbed out of bed, unstable and still stunned. Nothing had ever managed to reduce him to such a state, which was something that bugged the hell out of him: something as controlled and 'tamed' like his mind could do this to him? If that was the case, he knew his subconscious would be even worse.

He hadn't had a look at himself for days -perhaps even more- and it wasn't difficult for him to accept that the paleness of his skin together with the slight bags under his eyes made him look dismal. For once, he questioned his own strength: there wasn't a mix as bad as feeling generally unwell and having piled up a serious amount of stress he hadn't been able to get off his back. Wesker sighed.

All of a sudden, there was a soft knocking at his door: whoever had come had just won the Bad Timing award. Wesker remained silent, staring at door as if with the intent of receiving an answer from it. The door opened and inside peeked Jill, her gaze meeting his in just a heartbeat. Wesker straightened, even stiffened in general distrust, and looked at her thoroughly. She stepped inside, closed the door behind her and kept her distances; a wise choice.

"How're you feeling?" she asked him, genuine concern in her voice. He didn't respond immediately.

"I've been better." The reply came out that way without his actual knowing, but it nevertheless brought out a very faint smile from Jill. "How long have I been-"

"-indisposed?" Jill finished for him, tentatively drawing closer to him. "Unfortunately, not long; I was hoping you could get a bit of rest. It's only been three hours since you left."

Three hours? Then it had indeed been a short while. He remained pensive, frowning as thoughts roamed his head with no kind of logical order. It was Jill's voice which then brought him out of his reverie.

"Are you really feeling alright?"

He didn't know why, but Wesker felt like scoffing. "What leads you to doubt that?"

Jill frowned visibly. "Three nights in a row without sleeping, your general demeanor... you want me to keep going? It's an endless list, one I cared to start before," she stated pointedly. "There's something going on, something you haven't told me about. Please, I need to know."

"I can handle it myself," Wesker began, "so thank you for the-"

"It is not an offer."

Wesker's heart unnaturally skipped a beat at the sudden coldness in Jill's voice, defiant and letting him know how much she was disregarding the consequences of her boldness. Her eyes were narrowed, also defiant and with a glint of overconfidence... Back to square one, it was. He waited for what she had to say.

"Do you really think you can hide it away from me? From yourself?" she questioned, hard. "Think again, because you're on the wrong road."

"You claim to know me; in that case, tell me when was the last time I hid something from myself, Jill," Wesker told her, narrowing his eyes back in defense. Jill replied right off the bat with words that sent him spinning, left him reeling.

"You've done it every day... since the same moment Spencer took hold of you."

Silence reigned, clutching at his heart like an icy hand. He would've most likely slapped her if it wasn't for his self-control, but some unconscious part of his mind told her she was on the right track, that she was right. And despite that self-control, Wesker couldn't keep himself from almost seething.

"Do you see why I say you don't know anything about me?"

"I know something, and what I know is enough for me to draw my own conclusions about you," Jill said with one step forward. "Do you want to know what that is? What I know is that no matter how much you try to hide it, you're afraid! Why would you have run away from emotions if-"

It happened, also without his knowing: he had just slapped her across her face. Jill clearly winced and what surprised him the most, she confronted him fearlessly. Even Wesker himself didn't know how it had happened; he wasn't prone to losing his marbles like that. What he did know was that he had meant it, be in conscious or unconsciously. Jill's gaze was even fuller of rage and defiance than before, something he didn't know how to interpret.

"-if you weren't strong enough to take them?"

Something clicked inside him. "Don't you get it? I am like this! You cannot change that!"

"Of course I can't, but you can!" Jill exclaimed, raising her voice over her usual tone. "What happens is that you don't want to! Don't you get it? He controlled you, Wesker; you've got nothing to do with who you are!"

"Hell, of course I don't want to change!" Wesker exclaimed back, his hands up in the air. "Emotions are nothing but an obstacle! And believe me, I have more than irrefutable proof to support that! Don't you-?"

"Then why the hell are you accepting me into your world, huh?" she said, her harsh gestures cutting through his words. "Why is it that you trust me, Wesker? Why? Think about it: why do you trust me? You know better than that, don't you?"

It wasn't a question for him to answer, for she was cruelly reminding him of the self he had once more embraced. Was it because she was actually right? Was it simple fear towards the unknown or towards the known?

"Let me tell you that the only thing that helps me keep my marbles is knowing that you still are the man I know." Jill's features mellowed into a worried expression, closing the space between them. "I'm just... I'm just trying to help you, don't you see?"

A sudden light flashed before his eyes, painful and blinding.

"I'm just trying to help you, don't you see?"

For a second he could've sworn he'd been into another place, dismal and swathed in darkness with a single distinguishable silhouette. It was like having another dream, only this time illusion and reality were one.

"I-I should've never... I should've never allowed someone else in." Wesker didn't know who he was talking to: be it himself or Jill, it was impossible for him to know. "They're... they're just thieves looking for fragile hearts to break, which is why we-"

"Wesker?" Jill's voice came thin, dripping with shock. He looked up at her, found her staring at him, fear having been struck into her. "Wesker, what's going on?"

"I'm just trying to help you, don't you see?"

A hoarse and short cry in pain escaped him, images flooding his vision.

...

It was dark, cold and damp. Nothing was worse that being confined to that hellhole without an explanation. But there he was, collapsed against the wall without the necessary energy to move... not even to breathe.

…

He couldn't control his voice, which quivered and dripped with agony. "There's... there's blood spattered everywhere, screams echoing off the walls..."

...

"Help me!"

But the question was, how?

"ALBERT!"

…

"OH, GOD!"

The scream left his throat in an instant. Strength abandoned him and he collapsed onto his knees, tightly gripping his head in an attempt to drown off the screams he had just recalled. The voices desperately called for help, some others were crying and the rest asked questions with the hopes of receiving the answers. But most importantly, images he had never thought that existed came to his mind, flashing with harshness he had never imagined possible. Wesker had no idea of why they existed, of why he was remembering now; he didn't even know if the memories were his own. He felt himself shaking, more than before, the state he fell into almost every night catching hold of him and drive him paranoid and selfish, made him careen on sanity's edge.

And for the first time in forever, the unmistakable sensation of tears falling struck him like cold water.

"We're no good... we've been stripped of our essence, our selves torn apart..."

Despite being fully aware of what he was saying, he had the horrible need to speak, to let everything out. He didn't hear, he didn't see, he didn't feel-

-until a pair of hands grabbed his shoulders and partially stopped his shaking with their strong grip.

"Wesker, please, look at me!"

And he did as she asked, making sure their eyes met. She was startled and he didn't know why. What he was sure of was of the pain that was still corroding his insides and torturing his mind like there was no end to time. Nothing palliated his pain; nothing could.

"He tore me apart..." he uttered, his voice weak. "His shadow still haunts me, reaches at me from his filthy grave... he would never let me go..." Jill was staring at him as he allowed a smirk to spread across his features. "And I didn't fight..." For once, he couldn't dissolve the knot in his throat. "I remember... and I don't want to!"

"Wesker..."

He shrank even further, opening his mouth to scream out once more but to allow no sounds to come out. Her dread was contagious, so was her despair. Tired of putting up a fight, Wesker dropped his arms and remained unmoving, waiting for any kind of reaction or response. "Please tell me these memories aren't mine... they shouldn't be..."

No response.

Then, what he didn't expect: her arms around him. After that, he knew nothing more than her presence.

He soon learned to let go.

A/N: AHA! How did it come for you? The whole 'repressed memories' thing really did the trick for me because it seemed incredibly plausible; we know of Capcom's tendency to forget major details, but how could've Wesker ignored such memories if it wasn't because they had made him forget? I mean, he didn't even know himself, so Spencer had to play some kind of role in the matter. And here you go, one of my big theories. Now it's up to you to decide if you like it or not.

Reviews are appreciated!^^

PS: Oh, the references Amanda and Allen played with are all from "Dr. Strangelove Or How I Stopped Worrying And Learnt To Love The Bomb", an amazing film of Stanley Kubrick's. And yes, they have both seen the movie xDDD