Episode Two Point Two: Don't Cry To Me, Oh Baby
Six months earlier...
Shakahnna had been sleeping. It was a nice, dreamless sleep, the kind that she was especially fond of. She would have been quite content to remain that way for quite some time, perhaps indefinitely, particularly considering the last twenty four hours; unfortunately, fate conspired against her and she was woken up when someone dragged back the curtains to her room. Her body tensed suddenly and her eyes screwed shut in response to the sudden influx of bright, natural sunlight; it seemed to be a good day outside, but it was not one that the young redhead had any desire to be a part of at that current moment. Sinking into the covers on her bunk, she pulled the sheets up around her body as a cocoon where she was warm and comfortable, isolated from the outside world that seemed to be encroaching in on her privacy and personal space with this interruption. She felt terrible. Her eyelids were heavy and the green orbs behind them were bleary and unfocused, while her throat was dry and her skin was covered in a thin layer of grime caused by the exertion of the day before. The split in her face was raw and bloody, the feel of it inordinately painful, complimenting the overall ache in her body that was most prominent in her ribcage where several of the bones therein had been broken. There was a familiar burning on her upper arms as well, though she did her best to ignore that.
It occurred to her that there should not have been someone else in her private quarters, and so she slipped one blood-stained hand from her makeshift bundle and gently rubbed the sleep from her eyes so that she could see the person who had entered the chamber where she had been sleeping. The intruder was a slender brunette clad in a white t-shirt and weathered blue jeans, clutching a mess of the prone woman's clothing under one arm while stooping to collect a ruddy uniform shirt with one sleeve missing and add it to the collection that she was forming. The female was in her early twenties and exceptionally pretty, particularly in the luminescence from the window that made the chestnut fibres of her hair shimmer brightly about the soft skin of her face, and the stout soldier was pleased to be with a familiar and unthreatening presence. Smiling affectionately, Amanda Decker straightened as she gathered up her friend's top, before using her free hand to casually brush aside the auburn strands caressing her cheeks. In spite of her warm nature, Lieutenant Morgan could not help but feel distinctly uncomfortable. Perhaps this was because her boyfriend of more years than could be remembered had been murdered on the previous evening by the gamine's own, now-deceased paramour, and the youth still laboured under considerable guilt for that fact. She pulled the sheet covering her body up past her nose so that only her emerald eyes and flame-red hair could still be seen.
"Your room's such a mess, Shak," the young woman said fondly, moving across the room to deposit her load into a hamper in the corner of the room before turning back to look around the reasonably-sized apartment's main chamber and see what else could be done.
"Cleaning up's boring," she replied, the croak in her voice reflecting the dryness of her throat. In spite of her sentiments, she still maintained the upkeep of her dwelling quite regularly, as the rooms would have been in a greater disarray if not, due to the presence of her pet cat. The gentle upward curve of the other female's lips remained as she paused, bringing a finger up to rest upon the lower part of her mouth as she pondered the statement.
"I suppose you have more important things to do," she mused, moving her hands to rest upon her hips, "I hope you don't mind, but I'm used to picking up after Matt and now that he's ... gone ... well, our place seems kind of empty."
"Its okay," the redhead murmured, still hiding under her covers as the other woman began to bustle about the room searching for cleaning products with which to brighten the area up. After a moment, she paused and shot a glance at her incumbent host.
"You didn't forget that you had an appointment with the medical team this morning, did you?" she queried, the concern in her voice evident. For her part, Shakahnna was relatively embarrassed that the female seemed to know her timetable better than she did. She shrank deeper still into her duvet.
"No," she lied meekly, her voice muffled by the covers around the lower part of her face that brushed abrasively against the wound in her features and became stained with dried blood. In truth, she had no desire to see the group that served their organisation's physical health needs whether she had a hole in her cheek or not; her account of the previous night's events had not been well received by her superiors and she didn't particularly want to have to tell the story any more. Enough people didn't believe her version of events as it was. "Do not want," she murmured.
"Oh come on, Shak, don't be like that," Amy said, moving to the bed and crouching in front of her so that their eyes were level and shooting her a sympathetic look, "the sooner you get this done the quicker you'll be back to doing the things you like to do. Now get out of bed, lazy."
She moved away, returning to her bustling as she located an unused can of furniture polish and a pack of cloths that had yet to be opened in an otherwise empty draw, before using them to dust the various fittings that had been provided by the group of which they were both members. The redhead wriggled her face out from under the covers and lay for a moment as the other female continued to clean the surroundings and order her various possessions, which she reminded herself to reorder once she had left, as she was already pleased with how they were. A thought occurred to her and her nose wrinkled as it caused her a degree of vexation.
"How did you get in?" she asked, to which the younger of the two women turned on the spot and offered her another affectionate smile.
"You left the door unlocked," the brunette informed her simply, before returning to her task, "good job you're among friends, huh?"
The flame-haired imp broke out in a cold sweat at that thought, certainly not liking the implications of being so out of it that she was forgetting to lock her own door. The sensation of the sudden chill on her skin mingled with the feel of the drying blood that was coating her body and the fabric pressed against it alike, and she reasoned that even if she was loath to visit the doctors that S.T.A.R.S employed, she should at least shower and perhaps apply some bandages. The physicians already believed her to be a raging weirdo and had numerous reasons to place her on psychiatric evaluation without further incentive to do so provided by her own hand. She sat up under her sheets and rotated her body to bring her feet out into the open air, before wriggling her toes and setting them down on the floor. Her movement dislodged a ball of black fur from the top of her covers, which mewed softly and hopped down onto the carpet, where it stretched into the shape of a sleek, ebony cat, which then proceeded to weave around her ankles. She yawned and rubbed at her eyes, not yet able to shake off the sluggishness of her recent awakening, though she was still capable of being startled when her auburn-topped visitor gave a sudden intake of breath and dropped the can in her hand onto the carpet, which sent the purring feline at the base of her legs shooting under the bed. Shakahnna glanced up to see the slender female placing her hands to her mouth as the yellow sheet of fabric she had been using to wipe down the wooden furnishings fluttered to the floor.
"Oh my God, what happened?" she exclaimed, as the older of the pair shot a look at the rapidly cooling blood that was soaking into the sheet where she had previously been lying, and then at the criss-cross of newly-formed and bleeding scars lining her uncovered right arm. Amy continued to stare, her mouth open in a perfect circle of horror as she made the connection between the spilt crimson and the recent wounds. Her face became a mask of mixed emotions, none of which were particularly positive.
"I'm sorry," the gamine cried out in response, getting the feeling in the pit of her stomach that she was in trouble and about to receive a telling off.
"What have you done to your arms?" the guest in the room asked, seeming to ignore the apology though thankfully not sounding quite as harsh as another person might have, instead seeming more concerned than angry. Having kept her propensity for self-harm a closely-guarded secret from everyone in general, she wasn't used to having to explain herself to anyone. On top of that, she was finding it awkward to adapt to the sudden change of someone she perceived as a younger sister suddenly behaving like her mother.
"I was trying to make things better," the redhead asserted, attempting to help the other woman understand her motives as best she could in spite of the fact that she had never done so for another person before, "I couldn't protect them, so..."
She trailed off, drawing her knees up to her chin and huddling in her blankets once again, ignoring the considerable discomfort that was caused by the abundance of her own life fluid drenching them. The taller female ran a hand over her face, sighing as she contemplated what she could say in response. "For fuck's sake, Shak," she said eventually, the rare expletive causing the bloodied host to flinch, before she settled herself and continued, "you aren't to blame; you didn't kill them. Even if they could blame you, they wouldn't, and they especially wouldn't want you to hurt yourself over it."
"But I..." she began, stopping dead as the brunette crouched down in front of her and placed her hands gently atop her stout friend's own as they held her legs in to her body, the soft and delicate touch of the longer, more slender fingers contrasting with the relatively calloused feel of the fighter's digits.
"And you can't apologise because I might start to think that you're at fault, even if I know objectively that you aren't," the girl pointed out, this remark quieting the other's objections. With that accomplished, she straightened again and retrieved her cleaning products from the floor, evidently with a mind to continue her circuit of the guilt-ridden female's chambers.
"I don't think anyone believes me," she muttered, keeping her arms wrapped around the upper part of her calves and beginning to rock back and forth in a manner that was innately soothing to her.
"About the man in black?" Amy questioned, eliciting a nod from the seated individual in spite of the fact that she was currently turned away, "I believe you, if it's any consolation."
"It does be, thankee," the older woman commented gratefully. Only Captain Shawn had been willing to entertain her more unusual eccentricities and the other commanding officers in charge of her specific detachment had been only too eager to tell her that Umbrella wasn't capable of creating monsters like Albert Wesker. The thought that anyone considered her capable of murdering men she thought to be her friends was like a kick in the stomach from the human B.O.W himself.
"You should go and get cleaned up, maybe put some bandages on your arms, and get ready for your appointment," the mother-sister combination suggested, causing the seated female to grip her legs that much tighter.
"Do not want," she stated again, this comment prompting the chestnut-haired beauty to turn around and fix her with an expression of insistence, two damp tracks running the length of her cheeks from her eyes in spite of her efforts to prevent them from appearing.
"You know, when the virus started spreading a lot of people lost friends and family, and a lot of those people gravitated to S.T.A.R.S so that they could get revenge for that, which is a good reason, I guess," she recounted, "but I didn't join this organisation because of that. Matt was the only one who mattered to me and he kept me safe, so I didn't have a reason to want revenge. I joined because it was the right thing to do, and he joined because I did. He didn't really believe in what we were doing, but he did it for me. If anyone's to blame for what happened to him then it's probably me."
"Don't say that," Shakahnna insisted, subdued by what she perceived as an unnecessary confession for a sin not committed, "be's wrong. Be's silly."
The brunette set the items in her hands atop the chest of drawers behind her and placed her lower back against the edge, gripping the rim of the now-polished surface with her hands as she stood facing her friend. "Two peas in a pod, huh?" she noted, giving a sad smile, to which the redhead nodded as enthusiastically as possible to show that she very much considered them close friends, "that was actually kind of a tangent; I had a point to make."
"Huh?" the oldest of the pair queried, tilting her head as she did so.
"I became a member of S.T.A.R.S because I wanted justice to be served," she continued, using the back of her hand to wipe the tears from her face, "and in the whole time I've been here, of all the people I've met, you're the one person I know who's most capable of making sure that happens. You have to do it for me and Matt, and Sage and Captain Dresden, because you owe it to them to make sure that the cause they died for is realised. Right?"
The flame-haired fighter was silent for a moment that seemed longer than it actually was as neither individual spoke a word, until eventually she allowed her feet to slip to the floor and looked up at the other female. "Uhuh," she conceded.
"Thanks Shak," the girl responded, this time offering her friend a smile of a happier kind, "now get ready and I'll take you to your appointment, okay?"
It occurred to the senior that, though she detested her dealings with the medical team employed by her group, and was incredibly vocal of such, she was both old enough and independent enough not to need to hold someone's hand once she had eventually agreed to attend. There was something about Amy's demeanour, however, that suggested that even if that were the case, she desperately needed a hand to hold. It made sense when one considered that, for the past several years, perhaps even longer, the sylph-like brunette had been picking up after and generally being sensible for her lumbering significant other. Now that he was dead, the redhead may have been the only person left in her life for her to care for. It would likely drive her up the fucking wall having someone to depend on considering that she had made a point of maintaining her self-reliance, but as her penance had not been so well-received she reasoned that she still owed the younger woman something by way of apology.
"Okay," she murmured in agreement, adjusting the duvet around her form so that it acted as an improvised robe and standing up from the bed, revealing the extent of her bleeding, a wide patch of deep red spanning the entirety of the horizontal surface, soaking the sheet and most likely permanently staining the mattress beneath. She made her way to the bathroom at the other end of the chamber, prepared to take the "Bates' Motel" shower she had needed since the night before and then do what needed to be done so that she could return to active duty.
In her wake, Amy made her way into the kitchen, followed closely by Sub-Zero the cat who suspected that he was getting fed. Things weren't hopeless, but her life had unravelled in a way that left it irreparably damaged, and for the time being at least she was doing her best to ignore the utter devastation that was gnawing away at her insides.
Present day, present time...
Lieutenant Morgan's face was aching when she returned to consciousness. This might have been because she had landed on it prior to her being knocked out, or because the floor was so fucking hard and uncomfortable. She made a note to demonstrate this fact to Wesker by slamming his head into it repeatedly when he next showed up. She opened her eyes to the uninterrupted white of the cell that she was currently dwelling in, allowing them to become accustomed to the brilliant fluorescence of the lighting overhead, before placing her palms flat on the floor beneath her and lifting herself up, determined to get her bearings and then escape if possible. Unfortunately, she quickly became aware that she was not alone in the chamber, and identified her black-clad host standing some yards away soon thereafter. Though evidently not pleased to see him, her reaction to his presence was not as immediately violent as it had been before, partly from a sense of realism, knowing that she would be hard-pressed to actually to hurt him, and also due to her own curiosity as to his motives.
"You are awake," he said flatly as she stirred from her position on the floor, without making any motion in her direction for the moment, "I trust that you are well-rested, my dear."
"Fuck off," she grunted, glaring at him. He was wearing a similar black business suit to the one that he had been wearing previously, those parts that had become blood-stained having been replaced, and he had chosen a new, unbroken pair of sunglasses. She noticed that he was also wearing an expression of subtle self-satisfaction, and that coupled with the sight of the duralumin briefcase in his right hand instilled a deep sense of foreboding in her. He gave no reaction to her outburst, instead simply continuing to regard her from his position several yards away. The luminescence from the ceiling glanced from the dark lenses in front of his eyes, giving him a sinister and detached air that was an infinite truth of his personality.
"I would not dream of being so discourteous to one in my hospitality," he informed her, striding past her as she came to a crouching position on the floor, her eyes following him suspiciously as he moved to the chamber's opposing side.
His hand pressed on a section of the wall, seeking a join that was invisible to her eyes but which produced a shelf that extended at waist height from the vertical surface, before he set the metallic case on top of it. Shakahnna eyed the latest furnishing to be introduced to the sparse area, aware that there had been no sign of it prior to Wesker's intervention, and couldn't help but wonder what other surprises the cell he had placed her in held hidden. There was another part of her that pondered how she could use those hidden extras to her advantage when fighting the man who seemed determined to make her suffer in as imaginative a fashion as he could manage. This was all combined with the fact that she was intensely curious as to the contents of the container he had appropriated during the time that she was unconscious. Climbing to her feet, the redhead stood guardedly as he rotated the locks on either side of the item's handle so that they were open, and then lifted the lid, bringing it to an open position at a ninety degree angle to the lower half.
"What be's that?" she asked, attempting to crane her neck and view the contents. Though he made no attempt to block her view, she could not see much within, and what she could see did not make much sense to her.
"Your induction," he told her in response, almost as though that was supposed to make sense to her. It did not, and only succeeded in making her all the more perplexed in regards to what he had in mind.
Without another word, he began to remove items from the case in front of him, setting them to the side while he prepared his torture. There was what appeared to be a bottle fashioned from steel with a nozzle and small wheel attached to its top, and several long, metal rods, each with a wider, flattened tip at their ends. She frowned, not quite making the connection between the various tools until he took up the strange tank, turned the wheel and ignited a flame at the end of the tube that sprouted from the end. It was at that point that she identified the collection of thin poles as brands. Though she found the general concept to be intriguing, in the current context she was nothing short of appalled.
"Nu uh, I'm not playing this game," she announced, turning her head away from him, though sneaking a sidelong glance in his direction as he selected one of the irons from the selection upon the table. Her attention was dragged back to his position in spite of her attempts to remain disaffected by what he was doing. "You first," she suggested, folding her arms over her chest and glowering at him, doing the best she could to suppress any memory of what they had done the last time she had been conscious.
He turned to fix her with his hidden eyes, one brow arched over his sunglasses as he regarded her coolly, before he reached up to take hold of his tie in both hands. "As you wish," he acquiesced passively, pulling the knot loose before unthreading it with nimble fingers. He removed the length of silk from around his collar, folding it in half in the air, then into quarters, and then into eighths, before laying it beside the briefcase. With that done, he shrugged off his blazer and set that down also.
"What are you doing?" she asked, somewhat incredulously as her face began to flush, watching as his hands traversed the front of his shirt, slowly unbuttoning it with a sense of almost leisurely disregard for her presence.
"I am inclined to acquiesce to your wishes," the executive explained, as he removed the lower part of his tailored garment from where it was tucked neatly into a similarly well-fitting pair of black trousers. "Understand that I am not a man who regularly favours disrobing in full view of others, Miss Morgan, however, one should have no secrets from one's lover" he continued, leaving the upper portion of his attire where it was, the parting at the middle revealing an abdomen that was exceptionally chiselled, making the young woman blush that much harder in spite of herself and regardless of what indignation she felt at his words, "I hope that you will forgive me if I refrain from doing lasting damage to areas of my body that might be conspicuous to others."
The young lady placed her hands over her face so that her fingers were covering her eyes, but could not help but allow her curiosity to get the better of her, a narrow gap between her middle and index digit on her right hand filling with the bright green of her iris as she peeked out. "Do what you want," she murmured from behind her palms.
The slightest of smiles played across his pale lips as he took up one of the brands and held the flattened end to the tongue of flame whispering ceaselessly from the bottle that contained its fuel. The metal quickly made the transition from gentle scarlet to warm orange, before rapidly transforming into bright yellow and finishing on sheer white, so bright that it matched the surrounding décor. With the desired temperature acquired, he lifted the rod away from the torch and twisted it in his grip, bringing it around in his right hand in order to aim it at his hairless midriff. He cast her a glance in order to ensure that she was still watching, though he knew that she invariably would be, before drawing aside the left hand portion of his shirt with the appendage of the same side and quickly forcing the circular section at the tip of the handle onto the skin beneath.
There was a hissing noise as it made contact, the smouldering end pressing into his flesh, the extreme heat withering and corroding layers of tissue. The surrounding area began to bubble and blister, while the blood that seeped from the burnt sores evaporated immediately and became sweet-yet-foul smelling steam in the air. The muscles lining his stomach went rigid and tense as the iron seared him, the sensation of it acutely painful and the mastery of that stimulus bringing him no end of pleasure. His face twitched slightly as the agony manifested on his features, though only in the most gentle of flickers and pursing of lips, far removed from any normal man's reaction. Behind his sunglasses, his cat's eyes became narrow slits as his pupils dilated, and then he removed the iron from his skin. It required some effort, as the tool had fused to him, and carried with it some of his charred epidermis. Beneath it, a perfect circle of burn scarring marred the perfect musculature of his well-trained torso, pink and raw to the touch. He set the brand down in a business-like manner and turned to address his captive.
"I would advise your cooperation in this, my dear," he said, adjusting his shades on the bridge of his nose as a slight sheen of sweat became visible on his forehead, a discomforting side-effect of the branding process that persisted even in spite of his ordinarily inhuman tolerance for pain.
Her face composed entirely of a shade of deep crimson, Shakahnna found herself momentarily speechless. However, even unable to speak as she was, she pondered her situation and weighed up her options quickly. Resistance had only ever been a costly strategy for her during their previous confrontations, but at the same time, compliance was not something that she favoured, not least because she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of an easy victory over her. It occurred to her that he seemed to enjoy orchestrating games and that perhaps she could use that to her advantage. She could bargain with him, trade something for her willingness, and perhaps eventually convince him to provide her with the opportunity she needed to make her escape. It she overestimated his penchant for sadistic mind play, however, she'd never be able to play that card again; the first demand would need to be enough to hold his interest but not so outrageous that he laughed it off immediately. By the time her cheeks had lost their sanguine glow, her mind had already set itself to that very problem.
"Nu uh, you can fuck right off," she snapped, ignoring his current state of undress and readying herself in case he attempted to approach her. An embryonic smile appeared on his face, a gentle upturn at the corners of his mouth that might have been missed by a less observant individual, as he took a step toward her.
"You believe yourself capable of resisting?" he queried, that much sounding like a threat to her ears, but also leading her to believe that he would enjoy such behaviour on her part immensely. As much as she was tempted to make a glib remark about him sucking her cock, it was likely that he would take that as a cue to come and get her, and as such she would be unable to implement her strategy.
"Maybe not, but I'm not gonna let you be having your sick thrills for free," she asserted, aiming an angry finger at him. He paused, setting his feet together where he was standing and evidently abandoning his intentions to forcefully manoeuvre her, for the time being at least.
"I beg your pardon?" he asked, the underdeveloped smirk on his features vanishing and instead giving way to a subtle raise of his eyebrow. Anyone else might have believed him to be affronted by her words, but she could see from his posture that he was intrigued, evidently wiling to entertain any idea that she might propose.
"I'll do what you want if you be doing something for me," she informed him simply, this comment bringing back his smirk as he folded his arms over his chest, regarding her in a manner that suggested he was weighing her commitment to that course of action.
"And why would I find it necessary to resort to such petty bargaining?" he questioned of her, which was a valid point. Wesker had no reason to give anything away to an individual who was currently his captive, particularly in lieu of the fact that his physical capabilities rendered that same prisoner's own considerable prowess next to useless. In spite of this, it was clear to the redhead that he favoured her compliance over needing to make her do as he commanded. Perhaps he hoped that her willingness to make sacrifices was auspicious for their future association; she almost felt sorry for him if that was truly what he believed.
Shakahnna clasped her hands behind her back and leaned toward him slightly, cocking her head in an expression of youthful innocence, before she adopted a broad and malicious grin. "You don't wanna play?" she enquired cutely, letting him know that the choice was his. The increased tension in his jaw was all that she needed to see to be sure that her goad had been successful. Much like herself, he could not decline a challenge.
"Which concession did you wish me to grant?" he queried, his words causing her to smile inwardly, though externally she kept her features guarded so as not to betray her motives. Even simply speaking with the blond sociopath was like playing several different games at the same time, and unless she paid attention to all of them she would lose them one by one. Her current problem was the correct demand to make of her jailor, though she already had an idea for that.
"I be's wanting a shower," the young woman told him. Considering what was at stake, her demand was paltry by comparison, however, she had no desire to lose his attention when this ploy was so incredibly promising. In truth, she was still quite bloody and the sweat of previous exertion made her skin and clothing feel unkempt, which she was not fond of, and as such a shower would have been greatly appreciated. "I don't want you perving on me though," she added, lifting her finger again and jabbing it at him, "I want a guarantee that you won't be watching me; I want you to be promising."
"And you trust me to be a man of my word, dear heart?" he asked her. There was an urge to scoff welling up within her, to mock his concept of gentlemanly conduct, maligned and twisted as it was, but she held her tongue for the sake of harmony.
"If you were a gentleman then you have no problem keeping a promise, especially one as simple as that," she stated, a second goad that she assumed would draw him in even if he saw it for the manipulation that it was. It was likely that he would be able to ensure that escape was impossible without monitoring her for the entirety of her time in the shower, so it was well within his power to grant her the privacy she desired. Whether he had the will was directly affected by how he reacted to her bait. Fortunately, she was in luck.
"As you wish," he said flatly, turning to the extended worktop behind him, the terms of her cooperation having been decided, "if you would follow me."
Shakahnna hesitated for a moment, but eventually padded after him, her bare feet slapping on the white linoleum as she pursued him to the area where his tools were gathered. He stood with his back to her as he prepared a particular brand, so she placed herself to his left side and watched his movements as he used the hissing miniature propane tank to heat the head of the iron, primarily so that she could observe, but also so that she was not within reach of his main hand on the off-chance that he did something she disliked. There seemed to be no deception; he was doing as he had informed her he would, and it was at this point that the flame-haired female began to develop that familiar knot of anticipation and foreboding combined in the pit of her stomach. It promised her that, whether she wanted to or not, she was going to enjoy the pain that he caused her. This conflicted with her overwhelming desire to pass judgement over and punish him for his reprehensible behaviour, her personal moral imperative clashing with her need to fulfil her sadistic lust in a case of duty versus self-indulgence. She told herself that no matter what he did to her, and whether she enjoyed it or not, she would never let him have control.
The blond-haired sociopath finished with his preparations and lifted the metal rod in his right hand as he extended his left towards her, prompting her to regard this appendage with some suspicion. "What?" she asked, glaring at his palm.
"Your hand, my dear," he insisted, watching her intently as she brought her right arm up and laid her palm on his, before he gripped it tightly, the skin in that area becoming white with the pressure applied by his ensnaring digits. Once he had taken hold of her, he raised the brand and pressed it into the flesh on the back of her smaller, more calloused paw.
The gamine squirmed as the octagonal head of the iron was pressed flat to the skin of her hand, the epidermal layer sizzling in the same manner as his had as it gave way to the heat from the metal object. She clenched her fingers around his, her nails biting into them as she grit her teeth against the pain and squeezed her eyes shut as the transferred flame ate away at her. The blistering of the surrounding tissue began and the sickly sweet smell of burnt flesh rose to her flaring nostrils, made all the more pungent by the knowledge that it was her own that was melting. Sweat beaded on her forehead and her arms prickled in response to the smouldering touch, as her eyes began to water at their corners, driven by the agony that he had placed upon her. Eventually he lifted the tool, separating it from her skin with a sharp tug and a wet tearing noise that caused her to gasp aloud. The butterflies in her stomach settled and her face flushed in what could only have been described as an afterglow; though painful, the experience had been immensely satisfying.
Unfortunately, her sense of masochistic fulfilment was short-lived due to the fact that, when she opened her eyes to study the pattern branded on her skin, it was replaced by absolute horror. Though the end of the iron had been octagonal, the underside of it, the part that had been used to burn her, had instead consisted of eight equal segments, which were now rendered in charred black on the reverse of her palm. She recognised it as the Umbrella logo and promptly went berserk.
"You tricked me!" the redhead accused loudly, lunging at him furiously but finding herself batted away easily, the blow from his left hand as powerful as his right and dropping her on her behind some way away. With his attention directed at her, however, he dropped the tool clutched in his fingers and allowed it to clatter to the floor where it left a black mark in the plastic and continued to smoulder.
Before she was able to get her bearings and rise beyond her knees he was upon her, reaching for her with his off-hand and gripping her by the back of her head, clutching her scalp roughly so that she was unable to move it. She struggled, hearing the fiery strands tearing in his fingers, before he clamped his free hand around her throat and lifted her to her feet. His face was still set in its eternally neutral frown, an expression that was counter to her own look of rabid malice.
"I assure you that there was no deception on my part," he said, to which she glowered furiously, "however, I believe that we had come to an agreement."
He released his grip on her skull and shoved her backwards with the hand holding her neck, sending her slamming into the wall behind her, where she struck heavily on the concrete and slumped to the floor. Lying crumpled on the ground, she shot him a disparaging look from behind her matted locks, massaging her throat as she did so. He returned to the work station and casually picked up the fallen brand, setting it back atop the table before shutting off the propane bottle that had, to that moment, still been hissing fiercely. He strode past the outcropping and made his way to the corner of the room, where he probed the wall once again and opened a section that was large enough for him to step through, that had previously been seamlessly integrated into the vertical surface, such that she could not have seen it before. His back was turned to her, and she needed no further prompt to lift herself from her position and move rapidly towards the tools that he had left behind.
"You will find the facilities beyond this door to be most adequate," Wesker informed her, moments before there was the sound of an empty briefcase slamming shut behind him. He rounded on her, only to see her heft the duralumin container and hurl it at him with a force any normal individual would have been hard-pressed to avoid. It should have come as no surprise to his beloved young lady that, in the blink of an eye, he was no longer occupying the space where her makeshift projectile had been aimed and was instead directly in front of her, his right hand reaching for her face.
She seized one of the discarded irons from the table and swung it at his head with her own right, only for the thin rod to thud into the skin of his forearm as he lifted his left limb to guard against her attack. His approaching palm paused inches from the end of her nose, before withdrawing to gently remove his sunglasses from where they covered his eyes and set them down upon the horizontal surface so that they were no longer in danger of being broken. The female grinned maliciously and snatched up a second of the tools in her free hand, slamming it down on the shades and smashing them to pieces. He grunted and took both of the weapons in his hands before jerking them out of hers with such a force that he might have dislocated her arms if she had been maintaining a firmer grip. Truthfully, she was happy to allow him possession of the brands, as she instantly grabbed the propane tank, turned the wheel to ignite the flame and thrust it into his face. In the same moment that his skin was seared across his features, his right fist struck her in the mouth and sent her tumbling backwards onto her rear and skidding across the floor yet again. The two steel rods he had taken from her rattled on the ground and the miniature blow torch she had been holding rolled across the linoleum burning charred, black holes in it as it did so, before the gas within ran out and the fire died.
The captive redhead rubbed her jaw as she sat up, crying out as one oversized hand clamped around her throat and hauled her into the air, forcing her back-first into the wall with seemingly little regard for her personal well-being. Errant strands of orange fell over her face as she was manoeuvred roughly, noting with some displeasure the snarl that had manifested on her sinister paramour's features for the briefest of moments before he resumed his usual expression of cold indifference. A track of burn scarring ran up his right cheek, across the bridge of his nose and covered his forehead, the charred skin having fused one of his eyes closed. The monstrous left orb regarded her furiously from its inset of blistered flesh, the cat-like slit focused on her face with an anger that had the potential to give way to extreme violence at any moment. She leered at him.
"Not so pretty anymore are you, bitch?" Shak scoffed. He glared at her for a second and then allowed his lips to split into a cruel smile. With that he lifted her away from the wall and hurled her into the concrete surface to their left, where she thudded heavily and slid onto the plastic flooring. In spite of the fact that she was covered in bruises, most of them she imagined covering large areas of the skin beneath her clothing, her face was still set in the broad grin that had recently graced her features, this expression far different from the one that had once been her default, fuelled by resentment rather than gaiety.
"As per our arrangement," he began, closing the briefcase where it rested on the worktop, having gathered the scattered equipment and placed it inside before she had even noticed that he had moved, "you will have privacy in the chamber beyond; on that you have my word. I will bid you farewell for now, however."
He lifted the case and pressed the extension of the wall on which it had previously rested on so that it retracted once again to integrate seamlessly into the vertical surface. His attire had been restored and the broken fragments of his sunglasses secreted somewhere on his person, but the mass of ruined flesh that now composed the front of his head remained, the burnt and blistered details proving a fairly accurate insight to the ugliness that dwelt within. With his possessions recovered, he turned to leave the room.
"This doesn't change anything," she informed him, holding up her clenched right fist so that he could see the scarred reverse and tapped the tender flesh there with her index finger. She was still smiling, but it was clear that she was deathly serious. Something like this wouldn't change the fact that she would never surrender to him.
He paused at the door as he input his code and watched as it opened onto the corridor beyond, before turning his head to regard her with the one eye that had not been blinded, the red and gold-ringed pupil fixing her with a predatory air. "We shall see," he said.
One month earlier...
S.T.A.R.S had at one time been a widespread and tightly organised group with branches throughout the country and managed by their headquarters in New York City. Initially formed to combat cult-affiliated terrorism during the sixties, they had developed over time into a fully-fledged Special Forces organisation utilised in situations ranging from hostage rescue to siege breaking. The death and resurrection of the official agency had led to a new structure emerging in the operations of what was now an underground vigilante group in opposition to a corrupt corporation. Now, rather than units stationed in various parts of the United States, they instead consisted of an individual base of operations in each region of the nation, each one with members scattered in the vicinity whose efforts were coordinated by an appointed Regional Director. These men acted as liaisons between the soldiers in the field and the government sponsors who provided them with the equipment and information they needed to successfully disrupt Umbrella's activities. Though it could not be said that volunteers to fight against the company were thin on the ground due to the tragedies instigated by them in recent years and the many people who had been affected by these losses, the need for the utmost secrecy as well as the overwhelming danger involved was enough to ensure that resources and manpower were not as great as they otherwise could have been. It did not seem that the conglomerate would be meeting its end any time soon.
In one of the north-eastern regions, the headquarters consisted of a non-descript building in one of the busiest areas of the city in which it was hidden, ideally located to mask the movements of its soldiers. It consisted of a garage, firing range, armoury, workshop and gymnasium to cater to the needs of the individuals who frequented it, as well as a number of administrative offices for the purposes of collating available information. There were also a number of rooms to accommodate certain members of the team who were at risk in the outside world, or who found it difficult to go unnoticed.
The Regional Director of this area was a dark-haired, middle-aged man by the name of Samuel Hague, a former Central Intelligence Agency operative who had since joined the effort against Umbrella. He was largely regarded as an efficient and competent man, though he walked a fine line between congratulating his government on the private war it was fighting against the maligned corporation and resentment for its inaction for all the years that it was aware of T-virus research and did nothing to prevent it before it caused the disasters that plagued the country. Sitting behind his desk in the office that he called his own, wearing a customarily neat grey suit, he sifted through his papers at his leisure. His job was more difficult than most of his contemporaries for one very pertinent reason, that being the individual who was currently advancing up the stairs to the floor where his room was situated, every enthused boom of her footsteps causing the fittings within to shake. He sighed to himself, moments before the door was thrown open and Shakahnna Morgan introduced herself with a cry of "WAH!"
"You be'd wanting to see me, sir?" she asked, standing up straight and saluting him, though more from a sense of respect for what he was doing than because she truly cared to observe a code of military discipline for her meetings with her superiors.
"I did," he informed her, nodding before he gestured to the chair that was situated opposite his own on the other side of the worktop, "take a seat."
"Okies," she said, depositing herself heavily on the furnishing and presenting him with her full attention. Once she was settled, Hague shot a glance at one of the memorandums that was closest to the top of the pile and cleared his throat, aware that this was likely not going to be a good meeting for either of them.
"There's no easy way to say this, Shakahnna," he began, which automatically provoked an expression of dread upon her features even before he had said anything, "Captain Grey has asked for you to be removed from his unit and the rest of his subordinates support the petition. They claim that your behaviour during the last operation was unprofessional and almost cost them a very valuable objective. In fact, had it not been for extreme mitigating circumstances, that being the head researcher's sudden cardiac arrest, then the mission would have been an absolute failure."
"Well, they can all get bent," she announced, though the male couldn't help but think he saw the slightest flicker of disappointment and hurt in her eyes before she said it, "I wasn't going to let us get all separated so that they could go and get themselves killed."
"It's only natural that someone in your situation should feel responsible for the deaths of their team mates, but these men knew the risks before they joined this organisation; their lives are not your responsibility," he pointed out, to which her face screwed up in incomprehension, as though she wasn't sure which incident he was referring to, this or the one five months previous, "unfortunately, your behaviour has earned you the attention of my superiors also, and they want you stricken from the active roster and made subject to a psychiatric evaluation."
"Fuck off!" she scoffed, "I won't be doing that."
"I'm sorry, Shakahnna, but you really don't have any say in the matter," he informed her, pinching the bridge of his nose as she gaped at him, "I am in full support of their decision. Even if you are perfectly sane, recently you have been singled out by the corporation and you are placing the people around you in more danger than usual, and this habit of yours for refusing to allow your team to split up is interfering with our achievements. I can't in good conscience allow you to continue to work for S.T.A.R.S."
There was a moment of silence as neither individual was inclined to speech, Hague because he had finished his part in the conversation and the young redhead before him because she could not think of anything to say. And then, she spoke up. "Then I'll leave S.T.A.R.S," she said flatly, both her voice and her face deathly serious. Her superior sighed to himself.
"I had hoped that you wouldn't say that," he said, setting his elbows on the desk in front of him and lacing his fingers, staring at her over the top of them, "though I imagine in hindsight that it was the only recourse that you could possibly take."
"There's no point in me being here if you won't let me fight; it be's all I'm good for," she asserted, the comment hovering somewhere between honest and self-deprecating depending on who it was that was listening, "besides, like you said, I've been singled out. It doesn't be right for me to put my guys in more danger than usual like that."
"A clever girl like you can pass a psychiatric evaluation without breaking a sweat, I'm sure," he pointed out, his words making her grin despite herself.
"Fuck off," she said again, though this time with a degree more good humour and much less outrage than before, "even if that were true, I can't just be sitting on my hands. I'd actually go mental."
The grey-clad bureaucrat scratched at his chin thoughtfully, before returning his fingers to their position laced in front of his face. "Then leave," he told her bluntly, "say your goodbyes, let Amy take care of your cat and have Ivan let you into the armoury before you go. Pick out a few parting gifts, courtesy of S.T.A.R.S."
"Does you be serious?" the flame-haired fighter asked, the nod that he gave in response prompting her to smile broadly. She stood up from her seat and offered him another exuberant salute. "Fuck yeah," she beamed, "thankee so much."
"You won't ever be able to come back, Shakahnna," he informed her, before she had the opportunity to take her leave, "you'll be followed constantly on the outside world, and if you return they will follow you right to us. Do I make myself clear?"
"Uhuh, I understand," she told him in response, nodding enthusiastically and obviously too enamoured with the concept of having a free run in the armoury to take the rest of the conversation particularly seriously. Hague nodded and gestured towards the room's entranceway, permitting her to take her leave, which she promptly did, waving goodbye before she closed the door behind her.
The Regional Director permitted himself a moment to listen to the younger woman thundering down the stairs before he gathered up the papers on the desk and dropped them in their entirety into the tray on the right-most edge labelled "OUT". Once he had done that, he reached into the confines of his jacket's inner pocket and withdrew a sleek, black cellular phone and flipped it open, grimly scrolling to the only number in its memory and pressing the "call" button, before holding it to his ear. After a number of rings, someone answered.
"Mister Hague," Albert Wesker said, his voice distorted subtly by the filter of the telephone, "I trust you are calling to report that my wishes have been fulfilled."
"Unfortunately, yes," the middle-aged male stated, his voice resoundingly bitter, "she'll be out and on her own by the time the day is out."
"You have my gratitude then," the blond let him know, which unsurprisingly came as no consolation to the former CIA agent, "and now our attention must turn to professional matters. You will provide me with the locations of your organisation's various headquarters'."
"I'll do no such thing, Wesker," the younger of the two men replied curtly, "our agreement was that in exchange for the girl you would leave S.T.A.R.S to its own devices and pursue no further action."
"Indeed, and now I would like to propose a second transaction," the pseudo-aristocratic voice intoned dangerously, "provide me with the information that I have specified and I will permit your estranged wife and young daughter to live in ignorance."
"I thought I asked you to leave them out of this, you bastard," he snapped, his usually even temper crumbling beneath the threats against his family, whom he still very much loved in spite of their disassociation. It had been some weeks ago when his teenaged girl had come looking for him, and found him in spite of the efforts he had gone to in order to conceal his location, doing her old man proud. Mere days after he had told her to return home and never contact him again for both their sakes Umbrella had done so instead, revealing that she had led them directly to his door. Wesker had been using him ever since.
"I do not recall agreeing to your request," the silver tongue spoke, "though perhaps you forget how much you love your spouse in lieu of how long you have been separated. Tell me, Samuel; which of her eyes did you find to be the most captivating during your marriage? I will endeavour to let you see it again."
"You sick son of a bitch," the dark-haired man spat angrily, placing a hand around the lower part of his face and the mouthpiece of the cell phone in a bid to suppress his cursing so that no one else in the building suspected what was occurring.
"You have my terms," he said, his voice level as usual, though there was something in his tone that suggested he was smiling, "what is your answer?"
Hague pressed his palm to his face, grimacing to himself and swearing silently against everything that he could possibly think of, but especially Albert Wesker. He believed in the sacrifice of the smallest number being the best option, that was why offering up Shakahnna Morgan instead of the S.T.A.R.S had been so easy, but now he was torn. Either permit the monster he was currently conversing with to destroy the organisation that he supported with his every waking moment, or allow him to indulge his sadistic imagination with the two people whom he loved most in the world. For a moment he could think of nothing to say in response, the sound of his tortured decision-making seeming to increase the level of smug self-satisfaction that was coming from the other end. His eyes came to rest upon the top drawer of his desk, before screwing shut.
"I'll do it," he agreed eventually.
"Excellent," the sadist replied, "you will be contacted with details of a meeting in due course. It will be a pleasure to meet you in person at last."
"Fine," the aggravated individual said, pressing the "disconnect" button sharply and snapping the phone shut. He set it down gently on the desk and placed his fingers to his temples, massaging them in clockwise circles to ease some of the tension there.
It had occurred to him during his deliberation that a course of action that sacrificed one human life was better than that which caused the deaths of two, and so it was with a steady hand and dedicated mind that he reached to the uppermost draw of his desk and pulled it open, the loose bullets for the .357 Colt Python that lay inside rolling around and clinking against one another as he did so. He removed the firearm and hefted it in his right hand, placing it on the desk's veneered surface before he reached into the draw again and withdrew a single bullet to go with it. Once he had done this, he picked up the cell phone and slid the reverse aside to reveal the chip that made it usable, removing this vital piece and putting it down on the tabletop in front of him. He placed the telephone back into the interior of his coat, and then lifted the pistol, bringing the butt down heavily on the plastic fragment and smashing it, before sweeping it unceremoniously into his wastepaper basket.
He took a memorandum slip from a pile of empty papers and took up his pen, writing a brief message in block capitals before going through the motions of loading the lone bullet into the chamber of his gun. His face expressionless, he lifted the weapon to rest against his right temple, cocked back the hammer and sacrificed one to save many. In doing so he had taken away any reason for Wesker to harm his family, and any way he might have had to locate the men in charge of S.T.A.R.S.
Blood spattered a note that read: "Inform my family of my demise and ensure that an obituary is published."
Pragmatic to the end, Hague had wasted no words on sentimentality.