Author's Note:
Sorry the updates have taken so long guys, really! I didn't mean for it to take so long, and then gypp you out of a couple hundred words, too. This chapter is shorter than usual, unfortunately. But it gives you enough fodder so I hope you like it. Or at least enjoy it ahahaha….
Motions
The clock ticked irritatingly, rhythmically. Rebecca and Johnson faced each other, a cup of coffee gripped in his hand, tightly enough for his knuckles to turn white.
Rebecca wasn't as stock-still as Johnson. Beneath the table, she twisted her fingers around in her lap, picked at her cuticles until her hands bled.
All was silent except for the clock. Tick. Tick. Ticking her off.
"What did you want to ask me, Rebecca?" Johnson broke the silence first. Rebecca detected a flash of nervousness in his eyes.
She'd become more aware lately.
"What do you know about the Arklay Incident?" she asked abruptly, not bothering to ease into the question.
His eyes flashed with anxiety. "Only that it was your first mission: about the murders of your friends—"
"Don't give me the same story STARS told the media. Tell me what you know, working for Umbrella."
She spat the words as if they were like the poison Richard had running through his veins.
"Rebecca—"
"Don't lie!" she warned him, feeling ill. She knew he was lying. She could feel it, could see it. She was nauseous.
He seemed to crumble beneath her. It had been almost two months since the incident. "You're like a zombie!" Jacob had complained. The remark literally made her vomit. She couldn't handle this anymore. She needed answers.
Chris had run off somewhere: looking for ways to stop Umbrella. Rebecca had worked there for a month. She still had nothing. She kept in contact with him, and whenever Claire brought up the subject of Chris ignoring her calls, Rebecca lied and said she hadn't heard from him either. Claire complained that she was going to come back to the city to hunt him down, and Rebecca hoped with her whole heart that Claire wouldn't follow up on her impetuous promise.
Johnson sighed, breaking through Rebecca's thoughts. "Rebecca-"
She had enough of his evasions. "God damn you!" she swore at him, the curse slipping roughly from her lips. "Tell me the truth, Johnson! Tell me the damn truth! It's torturing me! I know you know something! Tell me!" she screamed at him. "Can't you see it's driving me insane? It's a nightmare I can never leave!" she blubbered, trying and failing to keep her voice strong, to keep her eyes from welling with tears. "Every time I blink, I see it! I see everything! I'm the only surviving member of Bravo: I survived it for two nights, Johnson! I wasn't nearly as capable as handling it as Chris, or Jill! I could've died countless times! Every time I sleep, I wake up every hour, terrified I'm back there. You know what I saw: don't even pretend! Just please," she broke down, her cuticles bleeding in her lap, her tears running down her cheeks, mucus slipping from her nose like a hysterical child. She didn't bother to wipe it away.
Johnson felt his control slipping as he watched his student, his protégé, and his surrogate daughter break down after nearly two months of holding it in. He honestly hoped she'd never suspect him, never ask. He couldn't bear lying to this poor girl. She was a medic, not a fighter, but she had watched her friends die.
She was different now. Rebecca had always been different from her peers, but now she was alienated even from him. She woke up before the sun, and ran, jogging in circles for miles, for hours, and usually didn't return until ten. She exercised constantly with her old comrade Jill, and was always on edge for the telephone. Her once slender frame had become drained: she had lost close to ten pounds, even with the additional muscle. She rarely ate, and the shadows underneath her eyes rivaled the haunted shade in her eyes. She constantly picked at her nails, bleeding everywhere. She was absentminded, but also alert to the minutest movement. Any sudden movement had her reacting, twitching, trying to keep herself from running for her gun, which she had kept even after leaving STARS.
She never confided in him or Jacob anymore. The boy was at the local community college, and although he was over as often as ever, the chemistry between them had changed. The relationship had been casual, mutual. Now, Jacob watched Rebecca with intense love, a worshipful attitude, and she mostly ignored it. Not on purpose: but her mind was never nearby. She was distant.
"I know there was… human test subjects. Lisa and Jessica Trevor were injected with the Progenitor Virus. Jessica showed no results, whereas the daughter Lisa showed promise," he recited from memory. "She went mad, and during her long tenure as a test subject, killed several employees. She became Umbrella's guinea pig. She uncannily managed to survive all forms of experimentation. Recently, due to her immunity, Umbrella extracted a strain of virus from her, which the employees are working on developing now."
"Why?"
The single word carried such pain, Johnson felt it himself. He resisted the urge to clutch his heart at the sight of Rebecca's defiant, weary face.
He looked at her. "To create the perfect bio-organic weapon."
Rebecca looked at him, processing the information. And when she spoke, she sounded a thousand years old.
He realized she was eighteen years old. A high school aged girl. Not yet even a woman. Yet she went through the fight of her life, faced a nightmare not even he could imagine.
"Zombies. The reincarnated James Marcus explained to us about the T-virus and how he created it. I killed dozens of people, zombies. I killed Edward, because he became one. I met Lisa Trevor. I watched Richard die, I got shot by my captain."
Johnson's first reaction was that she was insane.
But then her jumbled explanation made sense.
James Marcus had been working on a virus, by combining P and the DNA of leeches. Johnson hadn't known how successful it was, but he had been assassinated the year Rebecca had been named a child genius.
Johnson searched the recesses of his mind for the name of whoever had finished his work.
Birkin! Johnson recalled. One of Marcus' apprentices had taken over the work and finished it. Birkin, creator of the T-virus.
The T-virus was meant to animate the inanimate: and in this case, dead bodies.
He suddenly felt ill. The needs of an infected create were basic and instinctual. The instinct of a reanimated human would be first and foremost to feed.
A sweat broke out over his brow. He suddenly realized the implications of her words.
Her Captain had been involved in it. What was his name?
Wesker.
He paled and suddenly felt the urge to vomit. Albert Wesker was widely known within Umbrella as one of Marcus' and Spencer's pets: their prize, their prodigy.
What if the assassination hadn't been an accident? There had been tension between the two founders before the death of Marcus: perhaps Spencer had sent his apprentices to kill the man, then ordered them to take credit for the virus…
It had been planned from the beginning.
Umbrella desired Rebecca because of her impeccable genius, but when she originally rejected their offer of employment, she became dispensable. It was only convenient that she was a member of STARS, led by Albert Wesker…
The American branch of Umbrella was researching combat efficiency. Leading STARS in as test subjects against the creatures.
It made sick sense.
The fact that she survived and now worked for Umbrella made her a very valuable player… she'd rise quickly in the ranks, because the higher ups would know, and want to make an ally of her.
Or they could always kill her.
Rebecca was almost unaware of the myriad emotions flashing through Johnson's mind, but was focusing on herself. It was her turn to be selfish.
The doorbell rang, and mechanically, Rebecca wiped away her tears. Jacob.
She recalled that they were supposed to go to a movie.
She was barely dressed.
Billy had almost reached for her, touched her.
He had almost tried to make sure she was real.
Establishing themselves in Raccoon City had been easy: it was a large place and nobody had recognized him. He absorbed newspapers and maps, devouring information. Humanity was such a wonderful thing.
One day, a particular article had caught his attention. STARS.
It was just a picture and a caption, but he had stared at it for hours.
The STARS team held a memorial service for their fallen brethren, who in their last mission to capture a cannibalistic murderer in Raccoon Forest ended unfortunately.
Underneath the caption was a picture of each of the STARS member and their names, and next to the names, "alive" or "deceased".
He scanned the names of the men, and when he reached the final one, his heart constricted in an odd emotion. "Rebecca Chambers: alive."
It was a picture of her looking at the camera, shocked, her eyes bugging widely in surprise. It was a candid shot, and Billy carefully ripped it from the paper and slipped it in his pocket.
He had gone to the same drugstore the next day to get the paper, and that's when it happened.
She was in sweatpants and a thick jacket, despite the sunny weather, and a tan, gangling boy had leaned over her in concern as she murmured.
She was small and fragile and alive.
Billy truly fought back a lump of tears, seeing her wan, pale face. She was miserable, she was weary, and she was alive. He felt hope, for the first time.
He hadn't seen Ada in several days: he had no idea what she was doing. As of yet, she hadn't proved herself to him. He knew nothing about her, and it was likely to stay that way.
He felt himself remembering her constantly, since he had seen her. Walking past her, ignoring her, not even looking at her: it had been the most difficult thing he'd done in years.
He'd hardly thought about her until that photograph had shown her sunny, lighthearted, goofiness. Her eyes, even in black and white, shone with hidden depth in it. Something about seeing her had triggered something within him, until he no longer knew how he felt about the brave little girl who had been his partner, his friend.
She had believed him.
Maybe that was what drove him so crazy now. Before, she had been a cop: albeit a small, clumsy rookie, but a professional.
She was just a girl.
The revelation was earth shattering. She was eighteen years old. Anna had only lived to be eighteen: and because of him, Rebecca had lived.
That's what it was. It was Anna.
If Rebecca lived beyond eighteen, everything would be okay.
Billy wandered to the first church he found and knelt at the pew. He devoutly believed Anna's presence was stronger in the church than anywhere else.
He wracked his mind for her, for any suggestion, any hint that she was there. Nothing but his own memories, nothing but his own desires.
What Billy regretted most was not remembering. He could no longer recall her exact scent when she got out of the shower, or the way her palms felt. Were her hands soft and smooth, or were they callused? He couldn't decide on the exact size and shape of her eyes, or the length and shine of her hair.
He was a dick.
It didn't occur to Billy that he had lost her eight years ago. He was twenty six years old and she had died when they were eighteen. She had been a child: she had never experienced life with him. She was gone, stuck and static at eighteen. His only reference to her was his memories, his illusion of her. But if Anna were alive now, would she be the same Anna? Would she scream at the sight of bugs or blush when he kissed her in public?
What would he be like if she had lived?
Would they have the regular happy family? Two kids and a white picket fence? Would she make him dinner every night and do his laundry?
Well, she wouldn't have done that either way, but it was nice to pretend. Anna pregnant, her stomach poking over her maternity clothes, beautiful and radiant. Giving birth to a child of his.
What if he couldn't hear her now because he couldn't remember the nuances of her voice? What if he wanted to forget, to move on?
Did that really make him a monster?
It was raw, the feeling of betrayal. Even the thought, questioning his motives, doubting himself had him clenching his fists. It was as if she were there next to him, his love was so alive for her.
Was he afraid to let go of her? Was he a little chickenshit, too worried and scared to let go of the one thing he'd loved unselfishly?
What if true love was real, what if he could never find another person like her?
He might as well be dead.
Rebecca opened the door. The first thing she noticed was the red rash along Jacob's neck.
"What's that?" she asked animatedly. Something she could throw herself into. She was a medic for STARS: or had been.
He shrugged. "It itches," he replied, scratching at the irritated skin.
"Well don't scratch it!" she rolled her eyes at him, feeling a smile creep up. That was the affection she held for Jacob. She grabbed his hand and looked under his nails. "Disgusting!" she proclaimed. "Look at all that blood! That's what you get for picking—"
"Have you been crying?" Jacob asked her suddenly.
She smirked at him, trying to give him a smile. "Of course I have!" she lied. "I just watched Cinderella. Happy endings always get me."
He looked at her, and she noticed his eyes were dull: Jacob's eyes were usually bright and glassy.
"You're sick," she sighed. "Why did you come if you're sick?"
"I just wanted to be with you," he answered, and she felt a twinge of guilt.
"Just sit down and we can watch a movie here. Pick anything you want," she offered generously. Their tastes differed.
Jacob picked a tape and slid it into the VCR. Rebecca distractedly watched him, rather than the movie. He scratched at himself habitually, and his skin was peeling and irritated. But she didn't recognize the symptoms.
After a while, he fell asleep. Rebecca noticed Johnson had quietly slipped upstairs when Jacob had arrived, quietly ending their little scene. She wondered what would happen now.
Jacob groaned and rolled over. She scooted over on the couch: he looked like he was going to vomit. She was going to have to clean up her boyfriend's puke. What a great day.
He opened his eyes and Rebecca immediately detected something wrong. The smell of sickness on him had changed, gone fetid. She stood, ready to run for the flu medicine, when he groaned again.
The sound was unearthly.
She looked at him carefully. What was wrong with him? She'd never seen anything like this before. Was it serious enough for him to go to the hospital?
He opened his eyes and that's when Rebecca knew, in the pit of her stomach and the drumming pulse of her heart.
His eyes fixed on her.
Jerkily, Jacob reached for her, and she stepped away unconsciously. The blood underneath his fingernails repelled her. Immediately, she felt guilty for turning from his reach. "Jacob," she began quietly, ready to admit to him that she couldn't do the relationship anymore.
He looked at her, analyzing her.
"I think—"
With a groaning roar, Jacob launched himself at her, this time intensely. He didn't stop though, even when he fell off the couch, hitting his chin on the carpeted floor, hard.
He stood and reached for her.
Rebecca screamed.
She ran as fast as she could to the kitchen, searching frantically for her gun.
But Jacob beat her too it.
His height, once endearing, now terrified her. His longer footsteps overpowered hers.
She grabbed the broom and beat at him pitifully. "The head…" she told herself pitifully.
This couldn't be real. This wasn't real. This was Jacob! He was the only part of her who remained untouched by the Arklay Incident: he was supposed to be pure.
Instead, he reached for her, bloodlust in his eyes, in his sickening scent, in his flaking skin.
Jacob was dead.
The virus was back.