A/n's: Thanks again to slt (TWIN) for her unbelievably generous help with not only the betaing, but for putting up with my general whining and moaning and meebling. It was especially bad this chapter, I know. Thank you for putting up with me and still consenting to talk to me after. XD

Warnings: Minor swearing, minor gore, death.

Chapter three

Three of Swords

"The symbolism of the Three of Swords is scant, but powerful, and it's almost universal in its portrayal. Three swords pierce a heart. Against a background of a storm, it bleeds. Thus this card depicts, rather unambiguously, the ability of logic and power to harm the physical body and the emotions of a person. There is rejection, sadness, loneliness, heartbreak, betrayal, separation and grief; and it's no wonder why this card is so dreaded. But, as awful as it may sound, there is an up side to this card. Pain is often necessary in life – without it there would be no challenge, no point. Pain motivates us, drives us to surmount obstacles and to return our lives to the way they were before."

-Thirteen, Aeclectic Tarot

-Ata-Tarot

He was actually a little surprised by how easy it was. A few taps, a few clicks, and data was flying away, scattering to the distant corners of the globe.

Copy, send, delete.

He sat in the moonish glow of the monitor (so cool and comforting), turning in the chair, watching his shadowy silhouette dance across the walls, keeping him company as he worked. As he waited.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

The Red Knight hovered by his side, a red blur moving in and out of his sight as he spun. There one minute – gone the next. Real…and not.

It spoke to him, murmuring and imploring, and shifted to follow him, sneakered feet not quite touching the floor.

Almost like it cared.

He was relieved to remember that it – at least - wouldn't be able to bleed.

~.~

My blood.

He didn't have to say it; I could wiggle that last piece into place myself.

Swimming with T.

I was infected. The Zombie virus had at last come for me.

~.~

Wesker knew the exact moment she put it together. The very instant the grand design bloomed before her.

The truth. Her fate. Their destiny.

Her heart skipped, then pounded – hard and fierce – as her lungs expanded on a rushing breath. She tensed, muscles bunching beneath his touch, against him.

When she jerked, sudden and awkward – flight – so did he, his chair tipping and crashing to the floor, wheels whirling uselessly through the air. They slammed as one into an exam table – fight – and coiled like serpents, twisting around one another. Equipment flew through the air, the abrasive squeal of metal offset by the gentle tinkling of breaking glass.

He bent her over the table, pinned her shoulders flat with an arm across her breasts and brought them face to face. Their noses brushed, breath mingling as his hips slid between her thighs and one of her knees pressed into his ribs, the tread of one boot biting into the back of his calf. Her chest heaved beneath him; her eyes - wide and wild – staring up from the other side of his dark lenses.

"Mine." She panted, whispered, her breath warm against his mouth. "It's mine. I'm infected."

It wasn't a question, but he responded regardless, his lips brushing hers. "Yes." An affirmation.

~.~

A promise?

He was hot and heavy, his weight, the nearness, comforting…and terrifying. The taste of him flitted across my tongue with his reply.

Yes.

I swallowed (bitter spice) and took a breath (cologne and leather). "How?"

~.~

Her heart slowed and her breathing settled, body softening under him as the tension melted away and she shifted delicately.

Molding…accommodating. Welcoming.

He watched her lashes flutter, eyes closing, shuttering her away,…then opening again. Meeting him, connecting.

Accepting. Ready.

Trust.

Uncertain and careful , but there. As ever.

He moved, lifting away (freeing her) so he could slide his hands down, push at the fabric of her shirt, find the pale, warm flesh of her stomach. The muscles ticked beneath his fingers, skin pebbling in the coolness of the lab.

How, she had asked, and he held her hips, thumbs circling - soothing…encouraging as he answered.

"The child."

~.~

"Chairman."

They both turned, his head snapping over, hers lifting off the table, to stare at the sudden interloper – the unbidden third wheel.

The Red Knight looked between them, undisturbed by the weight of their gazes, unembarrassed by the intimate tangle of their bodies, and acknowledged her with a polite bob of its head before addressing him once more, "Chairman, I have urgent news regarding Director Maul."

"Can it wait?" He snapped, the heavy exhale flaring his nostrils.

She was shifting, moving beneath his hands (unwinding), sitting up and brushing by him as she slipped from the table and found her feet (unbound).

"No, Chairman." The A.I. shook its head, almost sadly. "I would not have disturbed you were it not necessary."

He reached for her – she touched him, gentle and quick. A hand, there and gone, on his arm. "It's okay." She told him. "I've got…things to do. We can talk later."

He frowned, mouth thinning.

He didn't want it left this way – unfinished, unsettled between them. He didn't want her leaving before he knew….

But her lips were quirking – a promise – and she was already walking away; glass crunching beneath her boots, a set of forcipes rattling loudly across the floor as she pushed them aside on her way to the door. The door that breezed shut behind her with a hiss of finality.

Done. For now.

He turned on the computer with a snarl. "What is it?"

~.~

I washed my face. Once, twice, a third time - willing myself to be refreshed, calmed, by the cool and clean water.

Infected.

The drain gurgled, bubbling, as I wrenched the knob and turned the water off. My reflection dripped, pale and uncertain, watching me with worried eyes as I groped for a towel. Patted dry.

I'm infected.

The woman in the mirror looked away, eyes cast down. Staring at her navel as I did the same.

I took a step back (she followed) and we both pushed at our shirts, a pair of shaking hands stroking over smooth, unblemished skin.

I'm pregnant. I'm infected and I'm pregnant…infected because I'm pregnant. Pregnant with an infected…what?

What would it be? What could it be? This thing inside me.

What would it do to me? What would become of me…pregnant and infected?

I looked up again, met the gaze in the glass.

Terrified.

Stop!

I shoved at my clothes, pushing them hastily back into place.

Just…stop.

I tore my eyes from the mirror, refused to look, as I swiped at my face again and tossed the towel aside.

So what if he's – what he is. I…my chest tightened, my stomach twisted, the words felt – painfully so – but never spoken.…And he's never – wouldn't...

My fingers fumbled over the wall, clicked the switch. Darkness filled the room.

Comforting.

All I needed were some candles.

~.~

The A.I. had gone, flown away, like the canary in the coal mine, to sing to someone who would listen.

He should have shut it down, kept it from sounding the alarm, but Kenneth found that he hadn't had the heart. It deserved to know – like the rest of them – what was coming. They'd all earned that much – the right to scorn him, curse him, before they joined him.

"Are you sure?" The monitor before him prompted. "This action cannot be reversed."

He looked down, double checked with the gift in his lap, the present one of the Comm boys had left in their desk (that unwitting boon) and tapped the button.

Click. (Execute.)

The screen blinked, flashed, and went dark. (Goodnight moon.) A timer popped up, red against the black.

15 minutes and counting.

His lips curved– the company will be done – and he sat back, hands dropping, cradling the gun, pressing it to his temple (cool and comforting).

The company will be done…his way. Director at last.

What was left of his mouth continued to grin even when his body slumped, fell, and spilled blood and brains across the keyboard.

~.~

Stirring with her alarm, Sergeant Tatianna Blackfeather poured herself from her bunk with a tired groan, slapping at the offending clock with one hand and digging at her eyes with the other. Toes curling against the cold floor she stumbled her way to the door, hissing at the wayward boot that dared to trip her – cursing, when the sharp kick she aimed its way was rewarded with a sharp jolt of pain.

Coffee, she decided as she hobbled into the hall, pounding on doors (rise and shine) as she staggered by. Strong, fresh…black. Definitely.

Seven a.m. was an ungodly way to start one's day.

Leaving the barracks, she rounded the corner blindly, running on instinct, headed for the common area, mouth watering at the promise of caffeine just a quick brew away.

I swear if Anders forgot to-

Brain catching up to her eyes, she paused, stilling mid-step, head-tipping. Turning slowly, she looked back the way she'd come, eyes narrowing…blinking.

Unbelieving.

No. That wasn't – that couldn't….

Rubbing her eyes again, just to be sure, she went back, stood in front of the little red and white box – the briefcase shaped device – she passed by every day. The one that had sat silent, unassuming, all those hundreds – thousands – of times. The one that was suddenly awake, purring - its little timer ticking.

Counting down.

~.~

I didn't mean for it happen. I didn't want it. I told myself over and over how pathetic it was – how dangerous it could be, but still…there they were. Hot and wet, streaking down my face.

So weak…and extraneous, the proud, powerful new me sneered.

I'm scared, the old, uncertain me whimpered.

The twin parts of my soul, the two halves that made up my whole.

The woman that loved him…and feared him. The mate that rejoiced in the bond, the unbreakable tie between us; and the human that dreaded the change, worried over what the transformation might bring.

The revolution from what I was – to what I could be.

What if I didn't make it? What if something went wrong?

What if I wasn't…worthy?

No second chance. No right to stand as an equal…

What if there wasn't an Eden waiting for me?

~.~

The door to the bathroom was closed, locked, but that didn't stop him.

It cracked, gave way under his shoulder, and popped open, light from the bedroom spilling inside. Pale, curled up on the floor, she blinked up at him, eyes dark and distant and wet – glittering like the trails of damp sketched down her cheeks.

Tears. He could smell the salt of them, practically taste them, from where he stood above her in the broken doorway.

She'd been crying.

In spite of everything, the urgency of the moment, that gave Wesker pause…if only for a heartbeat.

He flung out a hand, palm up, insistent and urging.

"Come. We must go."

~.~

My secret. My shame.

My weakness.

Abruptly laid bare before him.

He wasn't supposed to see this part – to ever know this side, this part, of me.

What would he think of me now?

His eyes, still shaded, gave nothing away. I waited for the recrimination, the sudden realization on his part, the long-awaited disgust – the disinterest – the turning away….

But he held out a hand, offering, and said instead, "Come. We must go."

I stared.

Go?

We?

Us.

"Now!" He took a step, reaching down. "Come!"

And I took his hand, gripped hard, pushing as he pulled.

Always.

~.~

Chairman Wesker was fleeing with his female.

The Red Knight monitored them, the pair, as they emerged from their quarters and raced for the stairs. It watched also Sergeant Blackfeather and the members of her team as they struggled with the Purge Device, trying to pry it from its housing – trying to stop it.

On Level 2, the Bio Team realized they were locked in. It saw first disbelief, then confusion, fear, and finally, outright panic pass across their faces – drive their actions.

One of the BOW keepers on Level 13 laughed and opened the cages. His fellows did not join in his amusement as they fell to the hungry mouths.

Hiram O'Roarke, in the Satellite Lab, cried into the monitor, begging for help.

The Red Knight listened, but did not.

It could not.

It could only observe with its glass eyes as they struggled and bled, eavesdrop with its mechanical ears as they screamed and cried.

Director Maul had seen to that.

~.~

There was no time for explanation, but she didn't ask.

Trusting.

She ran with him, her hand hot in his. Tight. Her knuckles as white as his own.

(Don't let go.)

The exits, all routes to the surface, had been closed. Locked.

Salvation would not come from above – no escape that way – so Wesker led her down. Down through the spiraling stairwell, through the labyrinth of hallways, their boots pounding on the stairs, her heart drumming in his ears.

The old tram sat on its tracks as it had for years, dark, unneeded and unused. No time to see if he could get it running, to see if Maul – the treacherous bastard – had thought that far.

"Jump."

They hit the track together, she stumbled, he pulled her up, dragged her on into the black of the tunnel.

(Don't stop.)

~.~

They were still struggling – Alpha 7 – still fighting with the bomb when time ran out.

There was a moment, a heartbeat, where Sergeant Blackfeather looked across, hands still on the locking bolts, and met the gaze of Jason Anders.

Words unspoken, actions undone - sorrow, chance unfulfilled, regret.

A lifetime in the seconds before everything came apart.

~.~

The ground shook. Death called their names in the roar of the flames.

Heat closed in around them, too fast, too strong.

She looked up at him, squeezed his hand.

It's okay.

Her eyes closed as he reached for her, turned her into his arms, into the fierceness of his embrace, the scent of her – them – washing over him as the end came.

I understand.