Episode Three Point One: Dead End Soul
It was dusk when Doctor Adrian Lovette arrived at Albert Wesker's estate, travelling in a private transport helicopter that had been arranged by the host expressly for his visit. The sole passenger of the vehicle sat in one of the upholstered seats that resided in the compartment designed for distinguished guests such as himself, quietly contemplating the autumnal shades of the evening's heavens as the sun sank on the western horizon behind veils of stone grey clouds, its vibrant yet gentle red luminescence glowing from behind beyond the shrouds as the daylight died until the next morning. The physician was already well into his fifties, a fact that was betrayed by his creased features and silver hair, which had receded considerably in recent years, and had come late to the realisation that the world around him was a thing of majesty. It was for this reason that he marvelled at its beauty while he could, as he was certain that he would miss it when he was gone. He was stirred from this reverie by the aircraft's arrival at its destination, the sudden jerk as it came to rest shaking him from his contemplation.
The helicopter settled upon the tarmac of an elevated courtyard, an area that was far removed from the large building that composed the focal point of the sprawling grounds owned by Umbrella's Chief Executive. As the dull thump of its blades slicing the air lost its cacophonous volume and began to wane, the engines having ceased their input, one of the members of the piloting crew exited the cockpit and came to open the door to Adrian's cabin. His movements were swift and desperately efficient, driven by fear of rebuke or worse, motivated entirely by the looming individual who was watching intently from the outskirts of the landing pad. The aging man himself was not one who openly and harshly criticised others, for he considered this to be detrimental to those same individuals' self-esteem, though Wesker's intolerance for behaviour that was not productive was well known, and the punishment for such activities was the stuff of legend among the company's subordinate caste.
The elderly gentleman's left hand closed around the handle of a duralumin briefcase that lay upon the seat next to him and rose to leave the aircraft, stepping down onto the black surfacing. He adjusted the lapels of the grey suit jacket that he was wearing, nodding his gratitude to the man who had assisted in his exit, and walked across the compound towards the waiting form of the owner of both the vehicle and the area where it was now situated. As was usually the case, the Aryan male was demonstrating his customary well-constructed façade of respectability, clad in ebony-coloured formalwear with the ever-present, darkly-tinted sunglasses perched upon the bridge of his nose. As they came within arm's reach of one another they clasped hands genially, the movement exposing the prosthetic right appendage of the older man, realised in polished chrome. It was unlike many other synthetics, in that it was as flexible as a regular human hand and was wired directly into the nerves and tendons at the end of the individual's severed wrist so that he could control it as well as he could his own flesh and blood. It had been a similar exchange between the two that had necessitated the implant to begin with, but in spite of this he received the physical greeting with a warm and kindly smile that persisted regardless of any insecurities he may still have possessed about the incident.
"So good of you to join me, Doctor," the blond intoned, his voice clear over the dying thunder of the helicopter's rotors.
"A pleasure as always, Albert," the man in question responded, bowing his head in a display of positive acknowledgement, though he struggled to make his own words heard in the same manner that the other male so effortlessly managed. He needn't have worried, however, as the virally-enhanced senses of the larger individual meant that he rarely, if ever, missed anything that was said.
"If you would kindly walk this way," he said, gesturing in the direction of a flight of stairs that led down into a concrete passage, which descended to the ground at the base of the raised platform that they were currently standing on before sinking further to a basement level. The submerged corridor appeared to extend directly to the lower levels of the mansion that could be seen to the east. It was a considerable distance, though not one that Adrian would find challenging even in his old age; he was still fairly healthy in spite of being only a few years shy of sixty.
"Lady Spencer has enquired as to your well-being, you know?" the physician informed him, as they entered the confines of the subterranean area and escaped the echoing chatter of the transport outside as it made ready to depart once again, "what should I tell her?"
Wesker regarded him from the corner of his eyes coldly before turning his attention back to the path ahead. "That I am well, of course," he replied, his tone suggesting that this much should have been obvious to his colleague.
"I ask because you hardly ever attend board meetings anymore," the aged male pointed out, clearly concerned with this inconsistency in the behaviour of a man who was usually only ever consistent, "though it isn't necessary for you to be in attendance, as you are not a true member of the board of directors, your seeming lack of interest has shaken the others' faith in you."
"I am not obliged to suffer their paltry squabbles for the dubious novelty of their respect; the transcripts of their professional discussions allow me to ensure that the corporation is being governed efficiently and my interest in their affairs ends there," he recounted briskly. It was not common for him to speak with such candour, however, years of association with Doctor Lovette had revealed that he was a trustworthy confidant and did not entertain others with idle gossip pertaining to the personal opinions of those he spoke with in the strictest confidence. Wesker had learned during his youth that men of such integrity were rare, and enjoyed those occasions when he could relay his sincerest views without the possibility of repercussion. His former partner, William Birkin, had been similarly reliable, though for reasons of apathy rather than virtue. "I trust that Lady Spencer is capable of orchestrating this company's activities without my constant input?" he queried, continuing his thought process.
"Actually, she is quite the marvel," the older man told him, reflecting on his blonde employer with a degree of personal fondness, "she took the helm of this organisation quite convincingly; I would not have expected it from one so young, particularly when one considers that she had lost her entire family, but I suppose hardship makes survivors of us all. Nevertheless, it was a terrible circumstance to befall anyone and I admire her determination to live up to her Grandfather's name. Perhaps you should consider visiting her, Albert; I am certain she would be overjoyed to see you, and that you would approve of the decisions she has made during your absence."
"I keep my contact with our mutual benefactor to a minimum," he said, his tone once again indicating the frankness of their relationship, "her focus upon the petty niceties is a perplexing trait in one who wields such responsibility and I would rather she prioritise her efforts than concern herself with my well-being."
"She worries about you, as family is wont to do," the grey-clad individual stated, earning himself another sidelong glance, "it is hardly unreasonable that a girl who has seen so much death in her short life should be all the more concerned for the health and safety of those that yet remain. It is a wonder in and of itself that she maintains her innocence. As long as she has veterans such as you and I to steer her in the right direction then she will be fine, I am sure,"
Wesker raised an eyebrow, though it was not an expression that the other man was intended to observe. Perhaps one of the most important reasons for the taller of the pair's candidness with his compatriot was that he was an insightful and intelligent man, who was more than capable of seeing through his veneer of gentility. This being the case, it rather begged the question as to why it would be necessary to continue to exude that pretence when it was so transparent. The reason that Adrian had not been disposed of many, many years ago for this trait, other than his considerable usefulness, was that he was an eternal and unwavering optimist. Though he was aware of the executive's manipulations, he seemed to have mistaken them for concern for their youthful superior's well-being rather than the clandestine power play that they truly were. "I am sure that she will not disappoint," he responded, knowing full well that the female would continue to lead the company so long as she continued to submit to his will either willingly or unknowingly. At current her naivety ensured that it was the latter.
"What exactly was it that you wished to see me regarding, by the way?" the aged gentleman queried after a moment, "your message was rather vague and it has been some time since we last spoke in person."
"I have a member of S.T.A.R.S in my custody," he answered, adjusting his sunglasses casually, "and I require your assistance in her interrogation."
"Ah, I had rather hoped you wouldn't say that," the physician told him, moving his artificial hand to straighten his tie, suddenly feeling incredibly awkward, "or anything of that sort, at least. I am supposed to be a Doctor of medicine; my training and research was not intended to be put towards torturing my patients."
"Our agreement states that in return for the funding and resources I provide you with, you permit me to utilise the fruits of your labours as I see fit," the blond replied, characteristically callous to the moral objections of another human being, "I hope that you would not violate a contract made in good faith, Doctor."
"Of course not, a man's word is his bond, after all," the aging male asserted matter-of-factly, before he paused to correct himself and sighed, "for better or worse, I must acquiesce to your wishes."
"I am glad to hear it," the host stated bluntly, "I would not want to see such promising research cut so woefully short, particularly in light of the sacrifices that you have made in its pursuit. Surely your family would be most dismayed to hear that the project you neglected them for never reached its conclusion, were they still alive."
"At times you are an unreasonably cruel man, Albert," he said, though this criticism was delivered in the same manner that another man might have expressed the status of the weather. Even when discussing the most profound tragedy of his life, in which he had lost his wife and child, the man was no less reasonable. The restraint of his reactions meant that he was not usually a recipient of Wesker's unique brand of personal humour, though the black-clad executive was not above liberally applying salt to wounds for his own amusement.
"The young lady that you will be questioning is hardly a blameless individual," he recounted, allowing the words of the older man to pass without comment, "she has killed many of my subordinates in recent months, and a greater number of this corporation's staff in the period preceding that, including the unfortunate Miss Green."
"Yes, Olivia," he mused, evidently harbouring some manner of regret about that particular female, "killing her may have been a kindness after what she had been through. That poor girl was dead long before her life came to an end, and the blood is on our hands, not those of this S.T.A.R.S member of yours. Regardless, I don't justify my actions by the transgressions of others; it is not my place to seek retribution against her. Do you expect me to convince me that your "young lady" is the villain in this and assuage my guilt?"
"I expect you to act in a manner befitting an employee of this organisation and perform your obligations professionally," the Umbrella C.E.O informed him sternly, "should you continue to exhibit this unfortunate tendency towards compassion then I will be unable to protect you from those who do not share my toleration for the manner in which such quirks influence your productivity."
A moment passed before Adrian responded. "Are you threatening me Albert?" he asked, his voice tinged with what sounded like amusement and a slight smile playing at the corner of his lips, almost as though he found the subtle insinuations of his malicious benefactor to be entertaining rather than frightening. In truth, he was well aware that Wesker could execute him on a whim and never suffer a consequence for that action, and it was for that reason that the elderly male was not scared; it would not change his fate to feel that way, nor would it improve the life he lived before the moment that he became expendable. There were better emotions to experience than fear, he felt.
"I would not dream of it," the taller of the two men asserted, before a momentary silence descended upon their march through the underground corridor. "There was one other matter that I wished to bring to your attention," he eventually continued, "I have a new candidate for the research that we began with dearest Olivia."
"Sometimes I suspect that you forget that I am not a torturer, or one of those men responsible for Umbrella's various biological oddities," the physician spoke up, touching his right temple with the middle and index finger of his artificial hand, "very well, and who might I ask has earned your ire on this occasion?"
"His name is Lucas Black, a sergeant in the Umbrella Special Forces," the other man told him, his tone worryingly frank considering that he was discussing a procedure that would turn another of his fellow human being's into an unthinking, unfeeling automaton, "he is currently serving as an overseer at the academy for that organisation's basic training due to the decimation of his unit, but I will have him relocated to your laboratories within the week. I would appreciate a degree of haste in this affair."
"Another of your ever-so lucrative defence contracts, Albert?" the aging male queried.
"It is no concern of yours," Wesker pointed out, bringing a crashing halt to that line of questioning and momentarily leaving his colleague to wonder why this was to be a clandestine arrangement. Of course, the black-clad individual was known for having an unreasonable amount of secrets; one more was hardly a surprise.
-
The last couple of weeks had not been swell for Shakahnna. The corpses that Wesker had left in her cell had naturally begun to decay after a couple of days, and the smell had become unbearable exceptionally quickly. Initially it had been her intention to prevent that from happening, and she had formulated several plans to make sure that it didn't. Unfortunately, her attempts the bleed the corpses dry in her shower had not come to any fruition due to the fact that there was nothing to hang them from while they dripped; there was a distinct lack of bars and pipes to tie their feet to, and she did not want to risk breaking the fittings in the bathroom. While she would not have minded being dirty in particular, since it was unlikely that her host, with his superior olfaction, would want to come anywhere near her if her personal hygiene left something to be desired, it would also have meant that she no longer had a method for avoiding his attentions for hours at a time. In the end she had resigned herself to living with the smell and had simply stolen a pair of boots for herself to finally cover her bare feet, before piling the bodies in the corner of the cell furthest away from the bathroom door and the dumbwaiter, and spent the majority of her time in the smaller of the two rooms. It had taken no time at all for the stench of death to become strong enough to permeate the air of her prison in its entirety, however, and she had fought a losing battle with the smell ever since. She had poured bottles of her various hair care products all over the bodies and around the small chamber in an attempt to drown out the stink, and had even sat for several hours beneath the running water of the shower hoping that this would ward it away. Whenever she returned to the main part of the jail for her meals, however, she would feel it invading her nasal passages and often couldn't stop herself from vomiting, even if she was always capable of doing so into the toilet rather than the floor. This, and the fact that her tolerance for the smell of cherries was being tested to its limits, had made the whole "being in prison" thing that much more difficult to manage than usual.
When Wesker had returned that morning he had wordlessly come to her cell, ignoring the chewing out that she was attempting to give him for leaving her in an enclosed space with thirteen dead men, and directed her through a passage that had not been there previously to another room that had not stunk of rot. That chamber had been similar in décor to the one where she spent the majority of her time, but for the large, metal chair with white leather upholstery that looked like a fixture from a dentist's surgery at its centre, and a waist-high work surface running around its circumference. In a moment of genius, if she did say so herself, she had managed to barter a packet of cigarettes from her malicious paramour in return for her cooperation in whatever sick endeavour he had planned on this occasion. As she had promised, she had climbed into the chair and allowed herself to be restrained, and he had gone to fetch her reward immediately afterwards. Once he had returned, he had fulfilled his part of the bargain by placing one of the white sticks between her lips and lighting it for her, before tucking the remainder of the packet into the pocket on the chest of the S.T.A.R.S fatigues that she was still wearing. Though her hands and feet were constrained, she reasoned that this was not that bad a position to be in. The towering sociopath was currently absent, she no longer had to contend with the vile miasma that had settled over her quarters and she had smokes for the first time in months, the first of which she was content to simply puff away at slowly while she waited for the blond's plans to be revealed. She reasoned that even if it turned out that she didn't like where this was going she could always just bite her tongue off and choke on it, though that had always been a possibility for her, and not one that Wesker had ever made any attempt to prevent; he was evidently certain that she would not be displeased with what he had to offer. That or he had some way of preventing her suicide.
She took another small draw on her cancer stick and ejected the smoke from the corner of her mouth, expertly gripping the stub between her pursed lips; years of smoking during combat had finely honed her ability to do so. At around the same time, the door that did not lead back to her prison hummed open, revealing the imposing form of her black-clad suitor. He entered the room in his usually brisk fashion, a commanding presence as ever, followed closely by another, older man wearing a grey suit beneath a neatly starched and pressed white lab coat and carrying a metal briefcase, an item that she had learned to be wary of through her past interactions with the first individual.
"Hey Wesker, you cunt," she greeted from her seated position, drawing once again on the ember and blowing a cloud of grey fog in his direction, though the wisps dispersed before they reached him and his companion.
"As courteous as ever, my dear," the executive responded, to which her only response was to return her attention to her current nicotine fix, before her eyes came to rest upon the man that he had brought to see her.
"Who be's you?" she asked, her tone suspicious. He smiled warmly and extended his artificial hand towards her in a gesture of civil and heartfelt salutation.
"Permit me to introduce myself, I am Doctor Adrian Lovette," he informed her, before he glanced down and noticed the thick, metal cuffs restraining her wrists, "ah, of course, how silly of me. And who might you be? I was not aware that Albert kept the company of such delightful young ladies."
"I'm Shak," she told him in response, grinning broadly with her cigarette still clutched between her teeth, before she shot a glance at the other man who had entered the room, "see, I am too courteous."
The grey-haired physician chuckled. "It would appear that our mutual friend affords you entirely too little credit," he said, his smile never leaving his face.
"Wesker's not my friend," she snorted derisively, her gaze remaining fixed upon the darkly-attired male, "he's just a dirty, little, window-licking fudge slut."
Adrian let out a guffaw in spite of himself, earning an ire-filled glare from his superior. "That will suffice, Doctor," he said, striding over to stand by the shackled female, before addressing the other man sternly, "it would behove you to remain professionally detached and concern yourself solely with the duties that you are required to perform."
"Hey, don't you be speaking to my new friend that way or I'll kick your fucking head in!" the flame-haired Amazon said, raising her voice while expertly maintaining her grip on the item clasped between her rounded lips and narrowing her eyes to show that she was serious, though the expression was so enthusiastic that it bordered on farcical. The fair-haired individual simply turned his attention back to his subordinate without acknowledging her outburst.
"Kindly make your preparations," he said, prompting the man to nod and turn to the worktop behind him, setting his briefcase down and lifting the lid in a business-like manner. After a moment, the human B.O.W moved to bring his head down closer to that of his object of fixation, who moved away either because she was uncomfortable with his proximity or wanted to annoy him. "Are you comfortable, dear heart?" he purred into her ear once she was unable to move any further.
"Can't complain," she told him through a mouthful of smouldering cigarette, "company could be better though."
Wesker sneered silently, before removing the charred stub from her mouth with his left hand and grinding it into mulch between his thumb and forefinger. "I shall have to devise a suitable punishment for this loathsome fixation of yours," he stated matter-of-factly, "perhaps I may yet break you of this unseemly vice."
"You could have just not given them to me," she pointed out.
"I would rather your compliance," he told her, reaching toward her with his right arm and gripping the curve of her jaw softly so that her gaze met that of the darkened lenses covering his eyes.
"Long wait, bitch," she said, glaring at him. The smirk on his features remained for a moment longer before he allowed his features to return to their passive neutrality and he released her from his grasp, before straightening and stepping away from the young woman. He folded his arms and cast a glance towards the other man, who was standing over the briefcase that was lying flat on the counter before him. With a practiced efficiency that one could only gain through years of repetition, he disassembled his artificial hand, placing the various components into specially designed areas of the container to keep them safe while he was not using them. With each finger tip he removed, he replaced it with another, similar-looking piece, though these new additions were not the same polished chrome that the previous ones had been. The fresh tips were composed of glass and held a small measure of fluorescent blue gel. This was a superconductive fluid that was instrumental to the success of his operations. Once he had finished assembling the new array of digits, he flexed his hand and a thin needle ejected from the end of each, almost as though he were equipped with retractable talons. Upon completion of his preparations, Wesker moved to stand before his restrained beloved and began to speak.
"Doctor Lovette has spent many years of his life perfecting a medical discipline that he himself created, utilising a device that he fashioned as a fusion of various modern and new age techniques," he informed her, apparently intent on giving her a history lesson that she was not interested in hearing in the slightest, "during his preliminary research he learned that the correct application of electrical charges could promote regeneration in otherwise irreparably damaged nerves, epidermal layers and muscle tissues. The committees responsible for his funding, however, believed that his breakthrough was rather too horrific in appearance for use in legitimate medicine despite his positive results and chose to discontinue his financial backing. When he offered his services to Umbrella, they were similarly closed-minded in reference to the possibilities of this apparatus, and so I chose to advocate this device using my own resources as Chief Executive of the company. The Doctor quickly discovered that he could utilise a similar method to control electrical impulses in the brain, and began to investigate the possibility of using his device as a method of pain relief that did not involve the utilisation of medication. From that revelation, I myself made suggestions as to what the natural progression should be. If you would be so kind, Doctor."
"My apologies, young lady," Adrian said, expressing his sincere remorse moments before the needles at the tips of his fingers pierced her flesh in the area just behind her ear. Five white hot lances of pure, unadulterated agony pierced through her mind and she screamed aloud, a feeling of debilitating nausea accompanying her sudden, painful disequilibrium.
"Do not want! Do not want!" she cried out, and likely would have begun to thrash had the pins not paralysed her somehow, leaving her mouth as the only part of her body that she maintained control over. Two trails of deep scarlet began to dribble from her nose as it spontaneously began to bleed.
"Doctor Lovette is currently accessing your pain centre for reasons other than preventing it, dear heart," the black-clad male before her stated, a fact that she was infinitely aware of already, "however, what you are currently experiencing is a mere fraction of what could possibly be derived from this device. Perhaps a demonstration will better illustrate this fact."
Wesker nodded to his accomplice, who frowned regretfully and adjusted his grip on the girl's cranium. Almost immediately, every nerve on her body lit up all at once, as though someone had doused her with boiling water; she started to scream again, her muscles becoming taut and convulsing violently as she writhed within her restraints, before the noise issuing from her mouth became choked as she forced her teeth to grit down. She went rigid and her face turned bright scarlet, sweat running from every pore on her skin. It appeared that she was resisting the onslaught of the device, though before the white pegs in her mouth were permitted to crack under the pressure, the man administering the treatment relaxed his grip and the suffering subsided.
"...her lasting damage," she heard the older man say, and it took her a long moment to realise that the torture had momentarily rendered her deaf. She breathed heavily, squirming in her seat now that the needles were no longer applied to her skull. Suddenly she was exhausted and her whole body ached, as though all of the tendrils of her nervous system had been stressed into numbness all at once, though they were not quite without feeling. Fatigue was setting in, in spite of the fact that she had been in the death grip for a matter of mere seconds, and the sensation of her damp clothing adhering to her slick skin, as well as the cool of the metal that was enclosing her wrists, felt subdued and somehow hollow. She groaned, the entirety of her form throbbing in a manner that made her want to be sick, until her malicious paramour began to speak again.
"I am certain you will agree that this was a wise acquisition," he said, his voice resonating with an underplayed sense of self-satisfaction that did not mirror on his face, "just as I am certain that you will not wish to experience this sensation a second time. In return for this concession, however, you will tell me the location of all remaining S.T.A.R.S members, or provide me with the identity of another to take your place."
After all that he had put her through thus far, Shakahnna had to wonder if he really thought it was going to be as simple as that. Could he honestly have thought that, after killing almost everyone who was important to her both now and in the past, he would break her by electrocuting her? What a pussy. Perhaps he assumed that she would just tell him to fuck off, or maybe he really did have his hopes up on this one, but whatever it was that he was expecting she was determined to disappoint. He wasn't going to get away with having underestimated her. Bile rose in her throat as she made an unhealthy snorting noise, moments before a gobbet of blood, saliva and mucus was ejected from her mouth and, with her characteristic marksmanship, spattered on the right lens of his sunglasses. "No," she said bluntly, watching as his jaw clenched tighter by the slightest fraction.
For a second, the darkly-attired sadist seemed to contemplate striking her or some other form of retribution for the act she had performed, but his posture relaxed soon thereafter and he sneered coldly once again, reaching up to remove the soiled accessory from the bridge of his perfectly-shaped nose. The physician standing behind the young female reached into the folds of his suit jacket and extracted an embroidered handkerchief, which the other male accepted wordlessly and used to wipe clean the glass that formed the lenses of his shades. "As you wish," he responded, "I would sooner not destroy your central nervous system in the pursuit of knowledge that could be extracted far more easily from one of your former companions once they are located. And I will find them, dear heart."
"Like fuck you will," the redhead growled, her entire being still complaining loudly at the torture she had already endured. He said nothing, electing merely to finish wiping away her saliva from his chosen mask before replacing it over his virus-warped eyes. Once he had done that, however, he gave the older individual in the chamber a casual nod. Apologetically silent once more, Adrian reintroduced the needles at the tips of his fingers to the skull of his most recent patient. Her eyes widened suddenly, losing their focus entirely before she slumped into her seat, the emerald orbs turning hollow and hauntingly glassy as though her mind had suddenly vacated the space behind them.
"State your name," the blond commanded, folding the square of white cotton and moving to place it upon the worktop closest to him.
"Shakahnna Morgan," the tortured woman droned, the movement of her lips the only change in her blank expression. The slight upturn at the corners of his mouth increased by the slightest fraction as his cruel smirk grew that much more profound upon his features.
"That is her real name?" the grey-haired researcher queried, evidently confused by the unique nature of the moniker.
Wesker returned to his position directly before the prone body of his beloved, seeming to ponder the concept. "An unlikely assumption," he eventually concluded, "I would propose that she has long-since abandoned her given name and taken this pseudonym as an intrinsic aspect of her identity. It is of little consequence, however; even if I were to probe her for that outdated alias it would not allow me to locate her compatriots. Where was your unit of S.T.A.R.S located, Shakahnna?"
"Angel, Wisconsin," she responded, her second answer as precise and emotionless as the first had been, lacking both the jocund delivery and the abject vulgarity of her usual replies to any questions the male asked of her. Even though it was not an insult that was levelled at him, however, the fair-haired individual's brow pinched in acknowledgement of her words.
"A planned community owned and operated by Umbrella; quite the audacious locale, but perhaps I should have expected as much from you, my dear," he said, his tone an amalgam of admiration for her intrepidity and frustration that this information was little more than useless gossip, "a city that has since been overrun by wandering T-virus carriers, however. If her companions have not been slaughtered in their entirety then they have been scattered to the winds; most unfortunate. Who was your direct superior within the organisation?"
"Samuel Hague," she told him vacantly, another worthless return as he already knew that man to be deceased.
"And second in command?" he questioned, his agitation growing imperceptibly in response to the fact that even without her ability to verbally abase him, she persisted in being only ever an obstacle in his pursuit of the group that he wished the destruction of. At this inquiry, however, her brow furrowed slightly as though she were unsure of the truth of the matter, or perhaps was seeking to hide it. After a moment the crease subsided and she relented.
"Amanda Decker," she said.
"I would advise against forcing her to recall questions that she does not have a clear concept of," the only benevolent presence in the chamber interjected, either because he was genuinely concerned for the progression of the "treatment" or conceivably due to the fact that he was desperately attempting to spare the young woman any further anguish, "you run the risk of irreparably damaging her cerebrum. She could suffer memory loss, impaired motor functions or even greater mental complications that I dare not speculate."
"Where are the remaining units of S.T.A.R.S located?" the executive insisted, paying no heed to the warning of the horrified neurologist and receiving nothing but an unintelligible stutter from the mouth of the female before him for his trouble. The expressionless mask that was her face twitched and contorted as she struggled to grasp the question.
"Please Albert, the mind is a fragile thing," the older male continued, applying a subtle alteration in pressure to the cranium of his patient to prevent her from stressing herself into brain damage, "it had never been my intention to abuse it in such a manner, particularly to satiate this morbid obsession of yours."
His intervention had been timely, but unfortunately had most likely not been to his superior's liking. Adrian had momentarily braced himself for the loss of his remaining hand, or worse, but instead the black-clad monster merely continued to scrutinise the girl who remained fixed to the chair in front of him. "Perhaps you are correct," he acquiesced eventually, before a slight smile touched his slender lips and he turned his head slowly to regard the other man with a familiarly predatory air, "my morbid obsession?"
"This vendetta you pursue against your former organisation," the aging individual explained, suddenly bracing himself all over again, but resigning himself to his fate; he had raised the issue and now it had to be confronted, "this is not the first time that I have ever seen this intensity in you and it is so much worse than before. Its perverse and only harm will ever come of it. Perhaps you should consider a sabbatical."
It was always difficult to know exactly where on the spectrum of moods Albert Wesker was at any given moment. In the current situation, Doctor Lovette could not determine whether the man was amused or infuriated. He was immediately unnerved when he moved away from the chair and advanced on him, however, and he began to wish fervently for the former. "Am I to understand that you wish to have no further part in this interrogation, Doctor?" he asked, raising an eyebrow questioningly. The physician suffered a phenomenon akin to witnessing his entire life flash before his eyes as he searched for the correct answer. He could either continue his work and not risk the wrath of the frankly dangerous human B.O.W or do what his conscience demanded of him and relinquish his status as an indispensable member of that same person's upper echelon, a course of action that could very well mean his death.
"You understand me correctly, Albert," he said, the moral imperative winning out over his own desire to live, "Lady Spencer has already informed me of your decision to destroy this country's entire government in order to eradicate those with ties to S.T.A.R.S; I will not aid in the destruction of yet another life."
The predatory smile remained, but when he next spoke it was with a surprisingly unconcerned tone. "As you wish," he replied passively, "you may take your leave."
Suitably unsettled, the physician withdrew his prosthetic from the side of the redhead's skull, retracting the needles at the tips of his fingers in the process, and retreated to the briefcase that was still sitting open on the worktop behind him. He closed it without bothering to change the components of his artificial appendage and tucked the metal container under his arm before hurrying to the door. Pausing at the portal, he shot a regretful glance at the young woman who remained stupefied to this moment. "I regret that I am not strong enough to prevent you from harming that girl," he informed the other man, turning his eyes up to confront the sunglasses perched on his nose with an unwavering gaze, "I can only hope that whatever higher power governs our lives in this world forgives you for what you have done once you reach the next, because if you are punished then it will surely be a suffering to last eternity."
He turned to leave, only to pause mid-stride as the blond addressed him once more. "There was one last concern that I had wished to attend to," he said, waiting until he was certain that he had the other man's attention before continuing, gesturing with a hand towards the blank face of his beloved, "I assume that this state is not permanent."
"It will last another ten minutes, at most," the grey-haired male responded bluntly, turning back to the portal that would lead him away from whatever sordid business Wesker was due to continue with the currently incapacitated female.
"I am pleased to hear it," he stated, turning a glance to the uncharacteristically subdued figure seated nearby, "I had other matters that I wished to inquire about."
-
Several hours subsequent to his return of his beloved Shakahnna to her recently sanitised quarters, Wesker returned to the sterile chambers to indulge in her company, having assured the perturbed Doctor Lovette that she was still alive and in good health before sending him on his way. She had been unconscious when he had left her, however, she had returned to an upright and wakeful position upon his return, and was sitting cross-legged on the floor when he arrived, her back turned to him as she rocked backwards and forwards gently. Upon closing the door to the area, however, she rotated on the spot to great him with a sly smile plastered across her features. A cigarette was clasped between her lips, standing straight from her mouth due to the muscle tension in her face, and it bounced erratically when she addressed him.
"Was wondering where you had gotten to, bitch," she said by way of welcome, leaving him in no doubt as to whether her previous, jovial attitude had returned in full, "I be's needing a light."
His response was one of silent yet definite disapproval, though he stepped toward her and reached into the confines of his suit jacket to remove the lighter that he had placed there regardless. He was aware that it was in her nature to persist in those behaviours that would most earn his ire, particularly now that he had made her aware of how much it aggravated him. On the other hand, a gentleman should never leave his lady wanting, and so he moved to fulfil her wishes. "I trust you approve of the expediency with which your accommodation was rendered habitable again," he stated, watching her clamber to her feet and lean toward him as he fluidly opened the small, metal item in his hand and ignited it so that she could partake in the flame.
"It be's boring," she informed him, her lack of gratitude towards his hospitality vexing him once more as he replaced the cap to the lighter and tucked it back into the recesses of his blazer, "and your peoples be'd wiping off my score."
"I beg your pardon?" he asked, unsure as to what she was referring. She took a draw on the white stick that he had lit for her and casually blew a smoke ring that enveloped his face, wreathing his features in the pale grey miasma. He remained stoic, momentarily pausing his breathing and thankfully not suffering from the various discomforts an ordinary man would have expected to derive from those same impurities in the air, though his patience for her passively caustic attitude was beginning to dwindle steadily.
"I was keeping score on the amount of times we have be'd killing each other," she replied, as though it were the most obvious and normal concept for a tally to ever exist, "and I be'd winning two-nil. Hey, do you add every time that I kill you to the league table?"
He smirked slightly. It seemed that she had come to terms with his possession of the coveted leather notebook that was currently residing with the lighter in one of the pockets of his attire, and that at least demonstrated that she had made some progress. He did not doubt that in time she would submit completely to his will, resign herself to a lifetime as his captive, or lover, and relinquish herself to him completely. "I was under the impression that your score improved only if the Umbrella employee in question was removed from its service," he answered, evidently in the negative, "as you can see, my dear, I am alive and well."
"I still killed you though," she told him, grinning broadly as she removed the cigarette from her mouth and tapped ash over his rigorously polished boots.
"Indeed," the blond acknowledged, reasoning that this transgression could not go unpunished, "you have killed many people in your life, dear heart; you and I are much alike in that respect."
"Fuck off," the young woman scoffed, "we don't be's anything alike at all."
"You delude yourself," he commented, his smirk still present upon his face as he lifted his right hand to adjust the level of his sunglasses so that his virally-warped eyes were peering at her from over the frames, "we both kill to achieve an aim, without remorse or pity for those who die, and we both think nothing of the individuals whose lives are lost at our hands. To me they are merely necessary and justifiable sacrifices, a means to an end, and to you they are merely a method for increasing a score in a game that you created to make the arbitrary task of their slaughter more enjoyable for yourself."
"Nu uh, be's different," she insisted, as he placed the dark lenses back over the monstrous orbs that were scrutinising her viciously, "I kill bad people; its justice."
"Further delusion, my love," he stated, stepping toward her in such a manner that it made her retreat backwards several steps until he outpaced her and came to place his hands upon her shoulders, holding her gently in place, "the only difference between us is that I do not squander my time justifying my actions through subjective moral imperatives. I merely acknowledge that they are necessary and carry them out, regardless of ethical dichotomies. In the end, we have both murdered many, many people, and if you must attribute guilt to me then that same guilt must also rest upon your shoulders as well."
"Its not the same," she continued to insist, glaring up at him before it seemed that her resolve began to wilt and she dipped her head to look away from him, her gaze falling to stare blankly at his chest, "its not the same; I'm the good guys."
"I am certain that the families of the men and women you butchered are not inclined to attribute you a positive moral standing," he replied, the sneer widening as she seemed to be losing her will to object, "as I have already mentioned, these concepts are strictly subjective, and thus, useless."
She was silent for a moment, contemplating his lapels for a moment longer, before the cigarette still clutched between her fingers burned to its stub, the heat searing her skin and causing her to yelp in surprise as she dropped the butt to the linoleum. Almost instantaneously, her head snapped upwards to fix him with two shining emerald eyes that were alive with conviction and righteous indignation. "Fuck you, Wesker, it's not the same!" she asserted, with a finality that would ensure there would be no rebuttal from him, "even if I do kill people like you, to achieve an end like you, without remorse like you do, I don't do it indiscriminately the same way. I know what good and evil are; the people on my team were choosing to do the right thing and I stuck by them because of that. Not once did I ever throw them away like garbage because they had "served their purpose" or whatever other bullshit reasons you give to dispose of people on your own fucking team. And you know what? I know that killing people is wrong, but letting them hurt other people is just as wrong, and given the choice I would rather have the blood of the evil peoples on my hands than of the innocent because I did nothing to keep them safe. And you can say it till you be's blue in the face, but I know it already. I know that if there is a hell then I'm going there, because I'm guilty, I'm guilty, I'm guilty! And you're guilty too, so you'll be going with me, and ha-ha, I'm glad!"
The blond seemed taken aback for the briefest of seconds before his composure reasserted itself. He lifted his hands from her shoulders and allowed his muscular arms to fold over his chest, regarding her critically. "And what, pray tell, has provoked this outburst?" he queried, raising an eyebrow quizzically.
"I know what you be's up to, bitch," she informed him angrily, "it's what you always do, to everyone. You get in their heads and you twist stuff and you make it so that they don't know if they're coming or going, because when they can't even think straight you can be doing anything you want with them, but it doesn't be going to work this time. I've already asked myself all of these questions before, and hearing them in a voice outside of my head isn't going to change my mind, so you can just fuck off."
His brow pinched into a subtle scowl, the crease at the uppermost curve of his nose hidden by the frame of his sunglasses, though it was obvious that she could tell how agitated he was. "If you insist," he replied, turning his back to her and returning to the chamber's entrance.
For a moment the redhead seemed perfectly willing to allow him to leave so soon after arriving, however, she interrupted his exit when she began to speak once again. "Hey Wesker," she called, causing him to halt his stride and turn to glance at her over his shoulder. Another cigarette was clutched between her lips and she was looking at him with her head turned to the side, non-verbally insisting that he returned to light it. He acquiesced silently, returning to her position and withdrawing the stainless steel item from his inside pocket, before striking it and lifting the flame to the proffered end. "Who are you?" she asked him as he did so, eliciting another curious raise of his eyebrow, "I mean, I be'd searching for your name on the police database we have at S.T.A.R.S, but..."
"You found nothing?" he suggested in response, only for her to shake her head.
"Nu uh, actually, the opposite," she told him, puffing thoughtfully on the cylinder in her mouth, "I found about five entries for Albert Wesker. I mean, there was a kid on the adoption register but the record ended there. And there was a researcher with Umbrella with the same name who died in a car crash in the early nineties. Then there was a S.T.A.R.S Captain called A. Wesker back when it be'd an actual special forces unit, also in Raccoon City, but he was supposed to have been killed because of some bullshit about the recklessness of his subordinates, but this is S.T.A.R.S we be talking about, so I be'd taking that with a pinch of salt. Then I found out that the director of Sun Enterprises was called Albert Wesker too, but he kicked the bucket when his company went tits up and finally the current Chief Executive Officer of Umbrella be's Albert Wesker as well. So, who do you be? I thought maybe the first and the last, but if you can't really die then do you be more than that?"
"They all refer to me, dear heart," he stated bluntly, to which she frowned.
"But how does that be working," she challenged, before ejecting a stream of thick smoke from between her lips and directly into his face once more, "I mean, they all had different profiles than you. Looked different, all had different histories, most of them even had different dates of birth. The Wesker who was in S.T.A.R.S even be'd in the United States military."
"You assume that the information you obtained was accurate," he pointed out, while silently adding that she also seemed to assume that it had not been tampered with, "in actuality each of those records was created while I was performing specific duties for my employers. Once I had concluded those objectives, however, there was no longer any reason to maintain the various façades and so I simply abandoned them. Naturally, disappearances cause conjecture, whereas there is little reason to question a death providing that it seems plausibly accidental or natural, or a suitable scapegoat is available. I simply attributed my identity to another, deceased individual and pursued my subsequent project in the absence of my previous charade."
"Then you really did be being a S.T.A.R.S Captain then?" she asked, tilting her head thoughtfully, his only answer coming in the form of a slight incline in the position of his head, "aww, man, you're such an arsehole. Still, I guess that explains why you don't be liking us so much, considering we be'd kicking you arse."
"As I have said before, it is merely because your organisation threatens my interests within this company," he asserted, to which she made a V-shape using the middle and index fingers of her right hand, before waving it at him obnoxiously, "I must confess that I was surprised with what I came to know of your own past, my dear."
She paused for a moment in surprise at his words, her cigarette posed beside her lips as she seemed to mull his comment over, eyeing him warily as she did so. "You don't know anything about me," she eventually concluded, though she was distracted enough not to take another drag on the tube of tobacco that was still held at her mouth. It was a galling task to determine whether he was sincere in his assertions or not, as his expression did not change in a manner that would give her a clear sense of either.
"You were born Jasmine Margaret Alexander in the year 1983 to unmarried parents," he began to recite, the words coming from his mouth causing her to balk in a manner that made her drop her cigarette for the second time since the commencement of this concourse, "you were reared in Scotland in the United Kingdom alongside your younger sister who was born similarly out of wedlock. To the best of your knowledge, your immediate family are still alive and quite safe in the country that you hail from. For a time you were engaged to be married to a young gentleman of American citizenship by the name of Jonathon and subsequently settled with him in that country, however, your visa expired and you were forced to return to your home. You made haste to conclude the bureaucracy that would allow you to return to your beloved; however, before you were able to reunite with him, the outbreaks brought about by the demise of Sun Enterprises plunged this nation into anarchy. In the ensuing chaos you stowed aboard a military flight bound for New York City and journeyed on foot to the dwelling of your fiancé. Unfortunately, you were unable to locate him and remain unsure of his fate to this day. I can only assume that his probable demise was the true motivator behind your decision to wage war against my employers."
As he concluded his account of her history she became immobile, her muscles going rigid as the shock of his knowledge sank in. For a moment he could not help but wonder what her reaction would be once she overcame her initial surprise, though he was not surprised when she suddenly surged forward, her fists slamming against his torso as she tried her best to hurt him in a fit of rage. He easily gripped her by the wrists and brought her attack to a stop and she confronted him, snarling. "How did you find out?" she spat furiously.
A broad smirk split his features as he returned her gaze, the smile that he was giving her composed entirely of malice. "You told me," he replied.
Memories of a chair that looked like it belonged in a dental surgery, agonising pinpoints that felt like molten lead in her mind and a blank spot that she could not fill came rushing back to her, and almost immediately she crumpled before him, knowing that he was telling the truth. As she slumped to her knees he released his hold on her forearms, her sudden assault over as quickly as it had begun. From her position on the ground, she began to convulse as her body was wracked with violent sobs. The emotional barricades that had gone hand-in-hand with her forced forgetfulness were undone in a moment, and she began to quiver as a wave of deep sadness washed over her. Years of focusing on the here and now, and never acknowledging what had happened in the past, had finally caught up to her, and tears spilled from her eyes and ran over the curves of her rounded cheeks, those from her right eye falling upon the scar that bisected her features on that side and rolling to her lips, the taste of salt strong there. Forcing back the spasms that came with the sudden melancholy, she turned her head upwards to look at him, his gargantuan height even more evident now that she was that much closer to the floor.
"Leave them alone," she said, her tone one of pleading in spite of the fact that she was well aware of the fact that the man above her had no mercy, remorse or any concept of morality. Any enjoyment that he may have derived from her reaction had been cut short when she had folded in front of him, and he was now looking down on her with an expression of utter disgust.
"And I believed that I had found an equal," he responded caustically, turning away from her and approaching the cell's entrance with a mind to no longer be in her company. Though her resolve had been impressive in reference to her goals and motivations, towards her own well-being, she still possessed weakness, even if it was a weakness that could only be accessed through the use of another and her relationship with that individual. Had Wesker ever truly intended to interrogate her as to the location of S.T.A.R.S, it was unlikely that he would have had Doctor Lovette utilise his device on her rather than any other whom she might feel compassion for, forcing her to observe and making her promises of leniency towards whomever that person might be.
As he left, she wrapped her arms around her torso and hugged them tightly to her body, a great pain building at the pit of her stomach for the unwitting betrayal that she had committed. "I'm sorry," she moaned quietly, as the hydraulics that controlled the door permitted Wesker his exit, "I'm so sorry."