Episode Two Point One: Your Future's In An Oblong Box
Six months later...
Albert Wesker was largely known as a man of wealth and taste. Well-spoken and sophisticated, he was an individual whose conduct could only be described as that of a gentleman, and a being of no small intellectual prowess. His contributions to the Umbrella Corporation during his decades of service had made him nothing short of a hero to the corrupt and affluent minority who had profited most notably from its growth, and he remained a figure of exceptional standing within the company. Unbeknownst to those around him, however, the majority of his most prominent characteristics were merely pretension, facades utilised to beguile and control the same people who perceived him as their subordinate, the man that had made them rich. He feigned greed as well as political and professional ambition in the same way that he feigned interest when conversing with his supposed peers, his only true goal being to obtain as much power and as much control as he possibly could. He appeared as he wished to be seen, an aristocrat of distinction, this image facilitating his subtle manipulations as he went about bringing the world under his influence. His tendency towards playing the social chameleon permitted him easy access to the good graces of those necessary few whose resources he found it prudent to use for his own endeavours and who were instrumental in achieving his goals.
Much like the man himself, his estate was a façade for the benefit of the company that he kept, with grounds sprawling over a large area and centred on a palatial main building. He was not an individual who regarded comfort as a necessity; he rarely slept, doing so only to pass the time between one appointment and another, and ate sparingly, usually to facilitate the comfort of any visitors who happened to be dining with him at the time. Had he no guests attending the mansion where he resided then it was entirely likely that it would have possessed a considerably more Spartan feel than the atmosphere of understated luxury that it instead exuded. The hub of the black-clad male's dwelling was the study in which he conducted the majority of his business when he was not visiting his various associates on professional matters. Sitting at the veneered mahogany desk that constituted the room's focal point, he went about quickly preparing his personal correspondence in the flowing italic script that was his handwriting, the scratch of his pen the only sound that could be heard save the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock situated nearby. On the wall opposite were a number of shelves laden with books that spanned the entire vertical surface from side-to-side and top-to-bottom, made accessible by a ladder that was attached by rails, all of the publications having been studied in detail by their owner at some point in the past. To the left were windows that looked out over the well-maintained gardens and flooded the chamber with bright, natural luminescence.
On the right hand side was the door, which was shut. In spite of this, and in spite of the fact that he was seemingly absorbed in his work, sitting in the leather bound office chair that occupied the space behind his desk, his ears twitched imperceptibly in acknowledgement of movement in the corridor outside. Moments later, there was a cordial knock on the wooden panel before it was pushed open and a young woman with shoulder-length auburn hair, wearing a grey, female's business suit, typified by a long skirt in place of trousers, appeared in the frame. She held a notepad in one hand, using the other to cover her mouth as she cleared her throat expectantly. The blond's flow ended as he punctuated his most recent sentence and replaced the cap to his expensive fountain pen, setting it down in front of him and glancing up, regarding her coolly from behind his sunglasses.
"How may I be of assistance, Miss Grey?" he queried, without moving from his position at his work station but raising one slender eyebrow quizzically to suggest that he anticipated a prompt and concise response.
"Lady Spencer and a gentleman here to see you, sir," she informed him, her professional tone born from many months spent in the service of the older male. As his toleration for incompetence was essentially non-existent, any person working for him longer than a fortnight was usually an exceptionally talented individual; anyone who remained in his service after a month could be nothing short of ravenously ambitious.
"Indeed? I would be grateful if you would show them in immediately," he responded, to which she bowed her head and turned on her heel, tracing her steps along the hallway. The fair-haired man stood and moved to a position beside his desk in preparation to greet his distinguished visitants, straightening the lapels of his jacket as he did so. After a few seconds, another young woman arrived at the entrance to the office, her ensemble similar to that of the secretary, though the cut of the garments was finer and evidently of a higher cost. Predominantly ebony in colour, the girl also wore a blouse of deep crimson beneath her blazer and tie, while her golden tresses were restrained beneath an Alice band of a colour that matched the majority of her attire. She looked up at him, brushing a few errant blonde strands from her face and tucking them neatly behind her ear, azure eyes sparkling as she quickly approached his position.
"Uncle!" she exclaimed, the heavy-set male begrudgingly allowing himself to be embraced about the midriff as she darted forward to greet him affectionately, her head coming to rest on the lower portion of his chest, the disparities between their respective heights immediately obvious.
"I would advise against such emotional outbursts, Lady Spencer," he told her bluntly, utilising her full title in order to remind her of their familial ties, and making no move to reciprocate her own motions.
"Please Uncle, there's really no need for this formality," the youth replied, removing her arms from where they were encircling his torso and taking a step backwards, apparently blithely unaware of his attempts to steer their conversation towards matters of business, "call me Sherry."
Wesker placed a hand on her shoulder in a movement that was as close to caring as was possible for him to perform, but which was meaningless due to the lack of emotion behind it, offering a warm smile that was equally devoid of feeling, seeming almost to be the most sincere expression in history. "I will do no such thing, my dear," he stated, "a young woman of your unimpeachable character should be afforded the proper respect."
"Respect becomes meaningless unless it is earned," she mused. The older man regarded her flatly, before adjusting his sunglasses with his right index finger perfunctorily.
"A commendable attitude," he announced, bringing a soft flush to her cheeks that she attempted unsuccessfully to conceal with her hands, as he momentarily turned his hidden eyes away to acknowledge the presence of the girl's chaperone, whom he recognised, "I was not aware that you had been assigned to Lady Spencer's protection, James."
Hunk, or James Cooper as he was known to extremely few, stood several feet from his charge at all times. Currently at rest, his feet were spaced evenly and his hands were clasped behind his back in a typical military at-ease stance. It was doubtful that there existed another man like the soldier, who could be at once so obviously aware of even the slightest inconsistency in his surroundings, and yet appear so entirely disinterested. Clad in the Umbrella Special Forces' characteristic black garb, consisting of a shirt and trousers that had been creased with pain-staking precision, and tactical equipment that, in this formal capacity, consisted solely of a flak jacket, radio and sidearm, it was evident that his appearance was not as important to him as respect for himself and his attire, though the length of his sand-coloured hair and stubble suggested that the ferocity of his training regime did not allow for much personal grooming to compliment his uniform. His stare was unyielding and intense, and though he was rapidly approaching fifty years of age, with flecks of grey amid his otherwise blond mane, he appeared to be in peak physical condition. Even when placed beside the abnormally gargantuan physique of the virally-enhanced Albert Wesker, he could not be described as a small man.
"Sir," he said bluntly, snapping to attention and offering the other man a crisp salute. His upbringing as part of the corporation's armed forces dictated that he would not say much more unless questioned directly, and the executive could not say that he disapproved of this characteristic. He enjoyed his business with the U.S.F member because he achieved the necessary results with the minimum of difficulty, and if there was anything that he could respect then it was efficiency. Still, with the greying male's encroaching old age and loyalty to the Spencer lineage, that he would become the bodyguard to the family's heir apparent was a logical progression. It had not been long since his reassignment, however, and in the few years since he and Wesker had last been acquainted it seemed that he had gained several new injuries, the most prominent of which was a thin line of scarred flesh interrupting the facial hair on his right cheek.
"Please, be seated," he suggested, moving back to his chair at the desk and easing himself into it, watching as the young woman took her place opposite him while the soldier who had been ordered to maintain her safety adopted a position directly beside her left shoulder to immediately facilitate her wishes, "I trust that you did not come here with the express intention of paying me a social visitation, my lady. Surely it would be the duty of a subordinate to bestow such a courtesy upon me."
"You make me sound so cold, Uncle," she exclaimed having only just regained her composure and rid herself of the scarlet hue that had threatened to manifest upon her features, "but ... there was one matter that I needed to speak with you about. When one considers that we are all family I though it would be a good idea to bring you the news myself, and I'm sorry that it couldn't be better tidings, but you were of course aware that Grandfather was very, very ill. Unfortunately his condition worsened and he has since ... passed away."
Wesker's features remained unreadable as the young woman's face fell at the recollection of the past few days, in which the only remaining member of her close family had finally succumbed to the ravages of age and poor health. "I was unaware," he lied expertly, his tone remaining as neutral as ever, "my condolences."
"Thank you," she sighed, bowing her head in a show of gratitude, "I appreciate that you say that. It must be difficult for you also; he was your father, after all."
"The Spencer family elected to foster me from an early age, though our association was perhaps not as strong as that fact would suggest," he stated flatly, failing to mention that the true reason he felt no sorrow for the passing of Umbrella's illustrious leader was because it was a state of affairs that he had brought about by his own hand, "regardless, his demise will prove a great loss to the corporation."
"Yes, I understand," the young female replied, the words causing Wesker to momentarily raise an eyebrow, unsure as to what it was that she was referring, "my mourning has been brief also; Grandfather's death places all of his responsibilities in my hands, and I have to be sure not to disappoint him. Though we may not feel like it, we have to attend to matters of business."
"Indeed," he assented, leaning forward and placing his elbows on the arms of his seat, lacing his fingers and watching the younger individual in a manner that was almost predatory, but which was most likely misconstrued as simple intensity due to the fact that the threatening glare in his eyes was hidden away, "perhaps you would care for some refreshment before we commence, however."
"Oh, I am sorry, I had meant that we should attend to business in general, not now; I really can't stay for long Uncle, I have arrangements to make for the funeral and ... well, you understand?" she finished lamely, adjusting her hair once again awkwardly as he continued to stare, "I could stay for a short while though, I suppose. And I am quite thirsty. Could I have water, please? I really can't stand alcohol."
"As you wish," he acquiesced, smirking inwardly as he moved one hand to the tray on the right hand side of the desk and removed two glasses from their place, clustered around various bottles and crystal decanters containing all manner of beverages to suit the tastes of his company, "I myself find any manner of intoxication to be incredibly distasteful. James?"
"No, sir, thank you, sir," the soldier responded, continuing to stare directly ahead with the disciplined glare that characterised him as the exceptional operative that he was. The pseudo-aristocratic blond had expected as much, asking only because the youthful Lady Spencer would have insisted had he not done so of his own accord. Once he had poured a measure of clear liquid into each of the containers before him from a pitcher that had also been situated among the numerous beverages, he set the larger item in its place and waved a hand dismissively, prompting her to select one.
"What was it that you wanted to talk about, Uncle? Was there anything in particular?" Sherry queried, as she took a sip from her glass, before clasping it in her hands and allowing it to rest in her lap, tilting her head in a manner that was sincerely curious, and may have proven endearing had the man before her not been a cold-hearted, murdering sociopath, and therefore unlikely to take an affectionate view of anything that she did.
"I wished to enquire as to your relationship with our esteemed board of directors, and any concerns you may have regarding those particular individuals," he informed her, the expression of bewilderment on her face growing ever more tangible as he spoke.
"Why would I have concerns about them?" she asked, almost as though his own sentiments were the strangest that she had ever heard, "I haven't met any of them in person, but Grandfather always spoke of them with a degree of fondness. He said that they were good, sensible men and women, who would lead the Umbrella Corporation to a bright and prosperous future."
"And indeed they are," Wesker agreed, without a hint of the derision he truly felt for the organisation's upper echelon in its entirety, "however, these are ambitious people also, and I fear that they will not hesitate to exploit your relative inexperience. The late Lord Spencer was a respected man among his peers and as such commanded the obedience of the management; your own influence is not as strong at this time."
"You think they might try to seize control of the company?" the blonde female queried, the pitch of her voice rising with her surprise, almost as though he had suggested something unthinkable.
"An unscrupulous individual might attempt a coup, that is a distinct possibility," he mused, leaning back in his seat and studying her coldly from behind his blackened lenses, "on the other hand, my apprehension is that they will attempt to manipulate you rather than simply assume your position of authority."
"Oh dear, I don't like the sound of that," she replied, taking another gulp of water, her slender and attractive countenance creasing with her consternation as she appeared to be mulling the problem over, "perhaps I need an objective view on the matter to make sure that no one takes advantage of me. Would you help me, Uncle?"
It was doubtful that even the most observant of individuals would have noticed the minute twitch at the corner of the older gentleman's lips as he repressed the urge to smile at how delightfully naïve his niece was, though it was purely for malicious reasons that this characteristic had prompted such a response and thus it did not affect whatever negligible affection he may or may not have felt for her one way or the other. "I am afraid that my participation in your decision-making would lead to something of a conflict of interests," he told her, seemingly apologetic, "surely you have a legal counsel to advise you in these matters?"
"Actually, Grandfather's attorney, and mine I suppose, had said that he was travelling from England for a formal reading of the last will and testament, and to oversee the estate until I had settled in," the young woman recalled, her brow still knitted as she spoke, "unfortunately, he seems to have ... erm, gone missing."
"Most unfortunate," the formally-dressed male commented, before seeming to consider the whole affair for a moment as he attempted to divine a solution, "I believe I may know of someone in my employ that could act as a personal assistant and judicial aide, of sorts. Miss Grey, the young lady who directed you to my office, is an incredibly capable woman, and I imagine that her input would permit you to make your choices confident that they were your own."
"Oh thank you, Uncle," she gushed, smiling gratefully, "although, are you sure that you won't miss her?"
"It will merely be necessary for me to reacquaint myself with the more commonplace duties that I have had her perform in recent months," he responded, granting her a reassuring nod, "I am not one who enjoys delegating their more pertinent responsibilities to subordinates, and as such I am certain that she wishes for a more stimulating environment. I will arrange the requisite documents in due course."
"Thank you, this really does make me feel so much better," she informed him.
"The pleasure is all mine," he stated, with a further bow of his head, "though we are not truly related, I feel compelled to ensure my erstwhile associate and sibling, Doctor Birkin's, only child is cared for to the best of my abilities."
"Genetics isn't as important as simply being able to trust someone, Uncle," she said wistfully, her previous levity waning somewhat, "I didn't have very many friends when I was younger; mother was really the only person who I could talk to. And then, after Raccoon City, when she and father died, the new friends that I had made left me behind. If Grandfather hadn't sent for me then I worry about what would have happened to me. Now that he is gone, I find once again that my family are the only ones that I can rely on. But, I suppose that family is family, after all; if you cannot trust them, then who can you trust?"
The tone of her words combined with her expression might have been enough to break a person's heart, such was the sound of regret in her voice; however, though Wesker obviously possessed an organ for facilitating the movement of blood through his body, it was unlikely that he also had the spiritual equivalent. If he did claim ownership of such a thing, in spite of glaring evidence to the contrary, then it was surely composed entirely of granite and intended purely for the purposes of decoration.
"Quite," he replied, as the young woman took a further mouthful from her glass, "of course, regardless of our informal association, it is my professional obligation as Chief Executive of Umbrella Incorporated to assist the Chairperson in any manner deemed necessary. I am only too happy to offer my services."
"I hope that I can make you proud of me," she told him sincerely, fixing him with her honest, sapphire eyes in a manner that would have seemed touching to anyone else.
"I am certain that you will not disappoint," he stated, before his eyes fell upon the slender form of his chestnut-haired secretary, who had appeared in the entranceway once again, "if you will excuse me momentarily, it would seem that a matter of some urgency warrants my attention."
He stood up from his seat, nodding to each of his guests in turn, and then moved to the door. The young, blonde female turned her attention to the glass that was resting before the chair where he had previously been resting, her brow knitting as she regarded the item. "Odd," she said, somewhat perplexed.
"Ma'am?" her chaperone queried, more to facilitate her conversationally than because he was actually curious.
"He pours a drink every time I meet with him, and I never see him take a sip," she explained, still staring at the container resting atop the polished surface, "and yet by the time our business is concluded, his glass is always empty."
"You wished to speak with me, my dear?" Wesker asked as he approached the female standing just outside of his study, who nodded as he came to stand on the threshold.
"A U.S.F unit has arrived, sir," she informed him, still holding the notepad in her left hand while using the other to straighten the front of her suit, "their leader has asked me to inform you that they have apprehended the individual you have been searching for."
"Indeed?" he questioned, raising an eyebrow. The small surprise that he felt at this information was derived from the fact that he had intended that particular group to perish in much the same way as the others he had dispatched to pursue his beloved Shakahnna. That the female in question had finally been captured was outside of his expectations, and admittedly somewhat disappointing. He had hoped that this particular endeavour would result in yet another video file of the young and violent redhead brutally slaying his subordinates to add to his growing collection; however, it seemed that the game had reached its conclusion. Fortunately, another was due to begin shortly.
"In that case I would ask that you extend my apologies to Lady Spencer and Mister Cooper as I will not be joining them for the remainder of their visit," he told her, "extend my full hospitality to them both, arrange a meal and make preparations for their return journey. I expect that she will be unlikely to remain here late into the evening, but a dinner alone will give her the opportunity to ponder the loyalties of the distinguished gentlemen at the helm of this company before she returns to her own estate."
"Yes sir, right away," the young woman acquiesced, flipping open her notepad and leafing through several pages of notation, before taking out her pen and scribbling down his instructions hurriedly, "will there be anything else?"
"There was one further matter," he informed his assistant before she had the opportunity to depart, "I have proposed to our young benefactor that you aid her as a legal counsel while she attempts to assert herself as this organisation's new chairperson. Her previous attorney was involved in a rather unfortunate incident that she had yet to become aware of, and it was my pleasure to advocate you for the position. Months of faithful service should not go unrewarded, after all."
"Thank you, sir," she said appreciatively, closing her notebook and clutching it in both hands, before bowing graciously.
"Keep in mind that, should you need guidance, it would be my obligation as your former employer to offer my assistance, if at all necessary," he replied, to which she nodded again, electing not to continue speaking, "now if you will excuse me, I have other engagements to keep."
He swept past her as he excused himself, hearing her move to enter the study and make the necessary excuses to his visitors. Striding at a steady pace through the halls of his dwelling, he took a moment to reflect on the décor. As a man of practicality, Wesker was not known for his passion for interior decorating, though the late Ozwell Spencer's narcissism had introduced him to several men with such flair. Fortunately, this was not a building that the blond's father figure had influenced in any way, and it was for this reason that it lacked the customary self-indulgent decadence of the older, and now deceased, gentleman's other estates. There were no portraits depicting notable ancestors or, more distastefully, himself lining the walls, though he had never known his parents and as such knew nothing of his own lineage, nor were their any needlessly intricate devices used to ensure the secrecy of the mansion's hidden chambers. Having navigated through most of the former Lord's places of residence, he knew that a logical man was more than capable of avoiding those particular difficulties with the minimum of exertion, and thus he favoured barred metal doors and lengthy combinations over his adoptive father's more pretentious methods of maintaining security. He felt that they were considerably more reliable.
The soldier who had wished for an audience with him was standing in the foyer of his grand dwelling, evidently having been led there by a member of his staff to await the host. Upon seeing Wesker approach he snapped to attention and gave a salute, as was customary among U.S.F soldiers, though the executive had yet to meet a man whose discipline matched that of the legendary James Cooper. He was a tall and heavily built individual, though he was of course dwarfed by his superior's own enormous physique, and wore the generic black uniform of the average Special Forces operative. The larger of the two men raised an eyebrow quizzically as he approached, attempting to divine the reason for this individual's success where so many others had failed. Unfortunately, he could see no reason why the dark-haired male occupying the lobby had been capable of finally capturing his coveted object of obsession. Ignoring his doubts about the man's abilities for the time being he paused in his stride several feet from the new arrival.
"And you are?" he queried, as the solider returned to a resting position.
"Sergeant Black, sir," he responded, extending his hand in greeting, "Lucas Black."
"Indeed," the businessman said, regarding the outstretched limb blankly as his guest realised that he was not going to shake it and retracted it wordlessly before he continued, "my assistant has brought me auspicious tidings, Sergeant. I trust that she was correct in her assertions as to the success of the mission."
"The objective was achieved within the set parameters, as per your instructions," he announced, turning his head as the older of the two began to walk past him, before realising that the Chief Executive was leading him elsewhere and moved to follow him, "she didn't sustain anything greater than superficial injuries in her struggle, nor will she experience any side effects from the tranquilizer we used. We took her to the lower level as you requested."
"I had expected as much," he informed the other male, by way of explanation as to the location they were currently travelling to, "tell me, how was this operation achieved? Were there casualties?"
"Originally we planned to use a sedative administered from a distance using a rifle," he responded, his voice taking on the first vestiges of dread at the information that he was about to impart, "unfortunately, she was a better marksman than we gave her credit for and she took out the man with the rifle before we could get a clear shot. After that we tried to catch her by force, but she slaughtered my unit to a man. Fortunately I managed to get one shot off with the tranquilizer at point blank before she killed me too. I had another unit on standby just in case the operation went awry, so they helped me tie her up and bring her here. The other group is with her now."
Wesker shot a sidelong glance at the other man as he struggled to keep pace with his gargantuan superior, taking note of the fresh dressing covering his throat and entire right arm. It seemed that the chemical that had rendered his beloved unconscious had taken affect not a moment too soon for the younger individual. "An effort worthy of commendation, Sergeant," he congratulated, "out of curiosity, I wonder if you could tell me how many of your twelve subordinates were castrated before they met their demise."
"Five of them, sir," he answered, his brow furrowing as he did so, "but why do you ask?"
"I merely wished to ensure that you had apprehended the correct female," he said dismissively, falling silent as they came to the top of a flight of stairs leading downstairs, the décor changing from elegant to clinical, autumnal colours becoming a bland, sterile white on the walls, floor and ceiling. They began to descend wordlessly, neither of them willing to entertain the concept of small talk.
The lengthy decline opened out into a small room at its lowest point, the basement area decorated in a similar fashion to the stairwell that connected it to his residence. To the right was a passage that led past numerous doors, behind which lay various other chambers, and eventually came out elsewhere on the grounds, a place that contained the helicopter landing pad where his subordinates had no doubt disembarked with their burden upon their arrival. On the left was a large metal vault door that spanned an entire section of the wall, with a keypad and various other devices located beside it. The soldiers comprising the second unit, who still seemed answerable to Sergeant Black, looked up to acknowledge the presence of their superiors from their position surrounding the redhead, the captive girl lying curled in the foetal position, unconscious, and with her hands and feet bound tightly with plastic strips that bit into her skin, secured as they were. Wesker strode past the cluster of armed individuals and stooped to inspect his latest acquisition. Her scent was familiar: a combination of blood, sweat and, surprisingly enough, cherries that had been ingrained into his memory upon their last, brief, meeting. When he brushed aside the fiery strands that hid her face he was pleased to find the young lady with whom he had become so fixated. Of course, she still believed him to be deceased; the following moments would prove most gratifying.
"Please assist Miss Morgan into this chamber, gentlemen," he commanded, his words evidently an order in spite of how they had been phrased. As the soldiers gathered around her, the black-clad, virally-enhanced male approached the impenetrable door to the left and withdrew a card from his jacket pocket. It was blank, save for the magnetic strip that identified its purpose as a key, and he summarily slid it through the groove beside the bulkhead before entering the combination on the pad that was situated directly adjacent. The string of digits was several hundred items long; fortunately, Albert Wesker did not forget.
With the input of the correct code, the door shuddered as the locks within rotated and decompressed, before the entire panel slid downwards into a deep recess in the floor. Passing over the threshold, it could be seen that the entryway had been guarded by a sheet of metal verging on one foot thick, which would have been a considerable hindrance to anyone attempting to force their way in or out. The pseudo-aristocratic blond stood aside as the men moved the prone body of his beloved into the room, setting her down gently. Perhaps they misconstrued his courtesy for fondness, and as such did not wish to incur his wrath by dropping her any more roughly. It was doubtful that they would have had the time to regret doing so if it had indeed been something to earn his ire. Once they had deposited her onto the sterile white linoleum that composed the floor of the room, he casually adjusted the sunglasses adorning the bridge of his nose.
"Leave us," he said, the statement prompting a momentary glance between the soldiers that was entirely uneasy on the part of all fourteen, the two commanding officers included.
"You heard the man, dismissed," Black's fellow Sergeant barked at the unit under his leadership as the ranking superior took the lead out of the sterile space. They filed out silently to the chamber's exterior, Wesker pressing the switch for the door's release mechanism as the last man exited and watching as the bulkhead rose to obscure the view from one area to the other.
The Chief Executive began to smile as he advanced towards the crumpled heap that was Shakahnna, reaching slowly into the folds of his jacket to withdraw the blade hanging just below his left arm. His steps soft and measured, he came to within inches of her before crouching again, bringing the knife to the bond around her wrists and cutting it away, before doing the same to the similar strip that was tying her ankles. The soldiers had removed her boots and the socks underneath so that she had no room to move within the ties, and as such they left angry purple blemishes on the skin beneath. With that task accomplished he placed his knife back into the recesses of his clothing and sat back on his haunches before he began to speak, quietly but firmly.
"Shakahnna," he said flatly, "wake up."
In the void between sleep and wakefulness, there was a Shak. As she began to regain consciousness, promising to herself that she'd kick the individual responsible for her departure from the land of up and about firmly in the testicles, she thought she could hear a voice. This was, of course, nonsense, as the redheaded death machine didn't let anyone else in her room, especially while she slept. Maybe, and she realised that this was probably a long shot, the ordeal with Umbrella had all been a really bad dream and she'd wake up next to... Well, that or her mind was playing tricks on her. She opened her eyes, letting them adjust to the harsh lighting of the room, before the emerald green orbs finally locked upon a familiar pair of dark-tinted shades. There was a moment of silence as the young woman matched blank stares with the man before her, the list of possible courses of action for her to follow coming to a grand total of none, before something that she could only describe as blind rage rose up in the pit of her stomach and she launched herself towards him screaming incoherently.
He recoiled quickly as she lunged, grunting as her first punch shattered his sunglasses and collapsed the cartilage in his nose with a wet crunch, preceding a second powerful strike that hammered into his rib cage with a rather suspect crack, which he dutifully ignored as he firmly encircled both of her wrists in his hands and forced her backwards into the wall. Knowing what had happened last time he had held her against the wall she began to struggle and squirm with all the strength she could muster, though admittedly she was still somewhat groggy from the sedative and her head was pounding from where she had fallen backwards onto it immediately after that drug had been administered, so this was not her best effort. Almost immediately, he stepped forward, pressing his body against hers in a bid to bring an end to the erratic movements. It had the desired effect when she became momentarily stunned.
"You're dead," she informed him eventually, ignoring the evidence that was comprised of the warm and exceptionally muscular figure pressed to her own.
"You are mistaken," he responded, and in all fairness, with overwhelming support for his statement, mainly stemming from the fact that he could make such a claim at all without doing so through a spirit medium. Even as she continued to glare at him, the purplish hue haunting the centre of his face faded completely and his features realigned to the same slender, ageless form that they had taken previously. It reminded her that the man before her was one of those people who never died, no matter how many times you, to all intents and purposes, killed them. Initially that had made him attractive, a partner who could take the punishment just as well as he could dish it out, an equal and a challenge that she had been without for almost her entire life, but now it was frightening. Who honestly wanted a man like Wesker, capable of such monstrous handiwork, that couldn't be stopped?
"Where am I?" she queried, reasoning that she should know so that she could work out which direction to run in after she had burned the place down.
"My estate," he answered, to which she let out a snort of derision.
"Your interior decorator is shit," said Shakahnna Morgan, renowned architectural critic, "unless you did it yourself, in which case he's a toilet-faced horse's arse too. So what was the plan, Albert? Murder all her friends, rip her face off and then back to my place for coffee?"
"There will be no coffee, dearest," he stated, making her wonder if perhaps he was being as wide as she was. She had to give him a hand for trying in spite of his overwhelming disadvantage, that being that he wasn't her. "However, I would advise that you attempt to find a redeeming feature in this décor, as you will be here for quite some time," he continued, this second point causing her to frown up at him before she realised what he had intended to convey and began to thrash madly again in his grip.
She didn't see the hand that struck her, but felt it slam into her mouth, splitting her lip and shaking her skull in a manner that didn't agree with the injury she had already sustained to that area. Before she regained her balance, however, she was spun on the spot and forced face first into the wall, her cranium bouncing on the solid surface in a fashion that might have left her concussed as she came to rest with her cheek pressed against the white stone before her. Her arms were forced up so that her palms were flat on the vertical surface and her feet were kicked apart so that she was standing in what seemed to be a search position. Sure enough, the blond's hands came to rest upon her shoulders and moved with firm presses up the length of her upper arm.
"Huh?" Shak queried groggily as he began to pat her down.
"A minor formality, dear heart," he informed her, as he reached the end the short sleeves on her navy blue uniform shirt and drew them back to inspect the skin beneath. A satisfied hum issued from his pursed lips, his sudden interest causing her to balk as she shot a glance at her own flesh in a bid to find out what it was that had caught his eye, before she flushed bright scarlet, noticing the relatively fresh trails criss-crossing that area. "You wound yourself over and over, and to what end?" he questioned, his scrutiny making her all the more self-conscious, "perhaps in reminiscence of our short time together?"
"Its got nothing to do with you," she snapped, and likely would have attacked him for a second time had he not anticipated such a movement and held her tightly in place, though she continued to glare at him out of the corners of her eyes. The line of ragged scar tissue running from her mouth to her right ear gave the impression that she was snarling at him, though her own facial features were set in a mere frown. The medical personnel who worked for S.T.A.R.S had used an aggressive and painful treatment to heal the wound so that she could return to field work as soon as possible at her own behest. They had essentially welded the two pieces of her cheek back together, fused them with fire to both sterilise it and fix the damage her black-clad tormentor had done. It had culminated in a frightening and grotesque parody of the smile that had once been her default expression, something that she realised made the other members of her organisation wary of her.
If she were telling the truth then the new scars decorating her bulky arms had everything to do with him. They were penance, a ritual of suffering in apology to her deceased team mates, whom she had failed by allowing them to die. Objectively she knew that there was little that could have been done to save them, and that the blame lay squarely at his feet, but she also knew that even if he had been alive he would not have apologised, or even acknowledged his sin. Someone needed to do something, to balance Karma or maintain the status quo, and she felt it incumbent upon her as the sole survivor; it was the least she could do for them, and physical pain was a language that she was fluent in. He said as nothing he began to unclip the straps on her tactical vest, his movements provoking a blush and a deep scowl at the same time.
"What are you searching for?" she asked, his fingers nimbly unhooking the clasps at her shoulders, before falling to her midriff to do the same there.
"I would have thought that much would be obvious, my dear," he replied flatly, as the second set of fasteners were undone and the front piece of her armour came away from the top beneath, allowing him to remove it from her with relative ease and cast it aside.
"You know I can't hurt you," she said, to which he did not offer any response. His hands encircled her torso and tore away the Velcro that was securing the rear part of the tactical vest, and then made the transition to the two similar straps that were fixed around her shoulders. It was at this point that the redhead realised the true reason for his search and snorted for the second time since she had woken up. "Don't flatter yourself; I wouldn't kill myself over you," she told him, her voice dripping with contempt, "besides, now that I know you can die more than once I can really make you pay for my peoples that you be'd killing. I wouldn't wanna kill me until I'd done you at least a dozen more times."
He stripped her of the jacket at last, throwing away the second piece of the item before he began to speak again. "In spite of your fervour," he began, running his off hand through his hair in an attempt to maintain its impeccable arrangement, "you may find that your opinion is subject to change."
"Get bent," she insisted, as his hands came to rest on her shoulders for the second time, before coasting softly down her back, following the curvature of her physique as he attempted to locate any items sewn into the fabric of her outfit. Whether that was his only intention or not was not clear to the young woman undergoing the process, though she was willing to suffer the discomfort for the opportunity to lull him into a false sense of security and seize the upper hand if she were offered such a moment.
"Your sentiments being what they are, I will spare you the indignity of a full cavity search," he informed her, his neutral tone making her unsure of how serious this statement was. If he had expected gratitude for that dubious courtesy, however, then he was due to suffer a disappointment.
"That's disgusting," she spat vehemently, throwing herself into her indignation with as much force as she could muster in an attempt to beat back the butterflies rising in her stomach as his hands traversed her sides.
"Quite," he agreed, allowing his hands to slip from her underarms to the area just beneath her collar bone, before following the swell of her chest, the tips of his fingers tracing the inner curve while his thumbs did the same for the outermost edges, this movement provoking an increase in the fluttering occupying her gut as well as the burning sensation in her face as she flushed bright red. It took her a moment to realise that his systematic massaging of her person had moved down to the upper part of her midriff, though even this thought did little to shake the embarrassment from her features.
Shak would rather have been fighting zombies at this point; at least they didn't try to grope her. She corrected herself. Okay, sometimes they did, but not because they wanted her. She rejected that thought too. Of course, everyone wanted her, but the undead certainly wouldn't get it, now, would they? With the possible exception of that female Tyrant she had blown up a while back, and scored fifty points for, she asserted that they would not. But then, if Wesker would get it, what was the problem? It occurred to her that she wouldn't even let herself win an argument, and maybe that was why no one liked her. Wait! That was wrong too. Everyone liked her; even the ones who didn't seem to were only confused and yet to realise it, or were denying their true feelings. Which was silly, since who was more open to affection than her? Emotional affection, that was, physical affection got you knocked out. She nodded inwardly, congratulating herself on reaching the correct conclusion. She was startled from her reverie by the man searching her form running his hands up her inner thighs.
"Hey! Keep your hands to yourself or I'll chop them off!" she snapped, though admittedly it was perhaps a little too late for threats like that, especially in lieu of the fact that he already possessed an intimate knowledge of her curvature at this point, "dirty fudge slut that thou art."
"My apologies," he said, finishing his search by patting along her calves firmly. When he found nothing secreted away on her person, he returned to his standing position behind her and gripped the back of her head roughly, dragging her away from the wall and shoving her in the direction of another large steel door opposite the one that they had originally entered. "Move," he commanded flatly, watching as she stumbled slightly before turning back to face him, unwilling to allow him to remain outside of her field of vision any longer.
"Whatever happened to acting the gentleman?" she asked sardonically, sneering in a manner that gave the blood running from her lip and the healed tear in her face an innately sinister and threatening air.
"When last we met it was under less formal circumstances, and as such I could afford to entertain your wishes to be treated as a lady," he stated, advancing towards her with an aim to remind her of which of them was the physical superior, but only succeeding in forcing her to crane her neck in order to glare at him. He smiled inwardly, having expected as much; she would not be intimated in such a manner. "You are now my captive, however, and no such courtesy will be extended toward you," he continued, his facial expression still as neutral as ever, "you will do as I insist or suffer the consequences of your defiance."
"Bring it on, bitch," she insisted, her previously derisive grace becoming a perverse leer.
"As you wish," he said, his own tone remaining as emotionless as his features. The redhead set her feet apart and raised her fists with every intention of resisting him, only for him to surge forward at a speed that her eyes could not follow, let alone her body, and strike her in such a manner that for a moment she thought she'd stepped onto a drag strip during a race. She flew backwards, the impact catching her in the stomach and sending her slamming into the wall several yards behind, where she was caught by the concrete and given to gravity so that she could become best friends with the floor. "I trust that this has been a learning experience for you, my dear," the blond commented, straightening in the aftermath of the blow and adjusting his hair where it had become loosened by the sudden burst of motion.
"Fuck you," she groaned from her pile of S.T.A.R.S member on the ground.
He moved to the control panel and removed the security card from his jacket pocket, swiping it through the reader affixed to the wall and entering the combination as he had done with the previous entranceway. No sooner had the door descended than he was struck in the back with the full weight of the young redhead. Perhaps it had been her intention to knock him into the corridor beyond and shut the door behind him, or possibly, with him still on its threshold. Whatever her motives, the scheme had failed due to the fact that he was quite literally built like a brick outhouse. For the second time in as many minutes, Shak felt like she had run into a concrete wall, though she herself didn't know whether to feel glad or embarrassed that the latter impact had been a product of her own will rather than because something else had exerted control over her.
He turned on the spot and reached out to take hold of her, only for her to kick out at him violently. Unfortunately, Wesker's finely honed reflexes permitted him to simply seize her right ankle and turn to drag her across the length of the new hallway. Sliding across the floor on her back, she began to stamp repeatedly on his wrist and the back of his hand with her free foot in a bid to earn her release, though finding this exceedingly difficult without boots on, and thus with a distinct disadvantage against his resilient skin. He ignored her struggles as he continued to lead her by the leg towards the portal at its very end, in which he intended her to enjoy the fullness of his hospitality. To say that she was opposed to this concept was something of an understatement.
As he stopped at the passage's end to open the door on the farthest wall, she twisted in his grasp, bringing her hands up to claw at the flesh of his wrist, before folding at the waist and beginning to gnaw at him feverishly. He grunted as she bit deeply into the muscle on the back of his hand, her teeth severing fibres and causing blood to spurt from the wound, the fluid running the length of his fingers and flooding her mouth as she mauled him. Wrenching his arm away from her and involuntarily causing her to rip a sinewy chunk from the surrounding meat, he drew back his bloodied appendage and caught her a stinging backhand across the face, the blow slapping the torn piece from between her lips and possibly dislocating her jaw. Suitably dazed, Shakahnna sat in place as her captor returned his attention to the door, her only movement being to turn her eyes to the discarded lump that had been forcibly removed from his body as it began to wither and decay almost immediately. The taste in her mouth became stale and bitter as the male's loose cells began to break down at an accelerated rate.
A hand seized her under the arm and dragged her to her feet, pulling her into a position that placed her back flush to the toned abdomen of her tormentor, who gripped her firmly under the chin in order to direct her attention towards the newly opened chamber's interior. What she saw was simply a sterile, white rectangular room, without any doors or windows, or any other kind of decoration. In short, it was boring. The redhead was not impressed.
"I hope that you will enjoy your rest, my dear," the blond said, as she began to struggle, "when you awaken I will feel obliged to extend the courtesy of my abode to you, and you may not find the experience to be a pleasant one. Of course, who is to say?"
"Wha-?" the S.T.A.R.S operative began, before she was pushed forward and dealt a concussive blow to the back of the head. She stumbled, her vision blurring, before she slumped to the linoleum beneath her feet, groaned heavily, and passed out.