"Wake up," were the first words that he ever spoke to her. Simple, boring words. A command that had no intimate meaning or leopard-like prance. Just…a command. So she obeyed. As did Bruce. Bruce awoke in a different way: a way of realization. He had not seen this coming, and this had been anticipated in no foreseeable way until now, but it was evident: He, Bruce Wayne, was no longer Batman. Not as long as he was beneath the watching eye of W.
In unison, Bruce and Pamela had the same thought: When will it end?
Sure, he'd put in his own with W in this capture operation: after all, Woodrue and Joker, at this point, had intentions that did not see well with that of W. And when W wanted something, W saw to it that it was obtained.
So, again, "wake up" became the first word he ever said to her: so much more than "I knew you were eavesdropping" in terms of first things ever addressed: "wake up" was a command… and a part of her liked being commanded.
Then again, the first words received were only as good as the first words returned, so when her green irises snapped to life as she met his sunglasses clad oculars, with a soft smile she replied, "What took you?" She reached out at once to grab him and pull him in for his death, her hand moving quickly like a striking snake… but oh how he moved. Oh how he anticipated. One second, his arm hung limply at his side. The next millisecond, he bore her wrist in his hand, and the firm pressure upon which he induced seared her veins. It hurt to be held by this man! Hissing, she wrenched back her arm, and W smiled, allowing her to have it back as he confidently placed the hand into his jacket pocket, which was long, dark and trenchy.
"Try it again," he offered calmly, learning forward so that he was very, very close to her. His lips were only centimeters from her own, and he was very, very calm… so calm that it terrified her. "Go on now..try. Try. It. Again."
Her heart began to hammer. Bruce, sitting in the dark corner of the room, watched on quietly, a dark look upon his features. He wore a black turtleneck sweater and dark gray jogging pants, and around his wrist, a silver bracelet with a single flashing, luminescent green button. Pamela noticed him sitting there and watching, and she immediately voiced aloud, "Bruce Wayne…"
"Correct. It's good to see your mental capacities are at decent functionality," W noted, scribbling something into a small notepad as he walked away. "Now get up. We have breakfast and a talk waiting for us downstairs. Bruce, I assume you'll be able to survive being alone with this woman while she dresses, correct?"
"I'll get her up to speed," Bruce replied quietly, his blue eyes analyzing Pamela's face, which was bruised and slightly swollen. Pamela locked a gaze with him, frowning considerably. W nodded, and exited through a sliding door, which slid neatly into place behind him. Pamela looked around the room quickly, taking in the situation. Reflective walls, reflective floors, all so perfectly polished that they mirrored everything that was and would be, creating a distorting illusion that would have incapacitated her had this room not been as dimly lit as it was. Her bed was queen sized and comforted well enough, and beside her, a long couch and bookstand filled with all manner of titles. It was the most boring room in the world… but that was the least of her concern.
Bruce had gotten to his feet, and was leaning against the wall opposite her bed, studying her closely. Pamela realized that she was still nude, but made no attempt to cover herself, instead narrowing her eyes as she asked, "Bruce Wayne?"
"Hello again… slept well?" Bruce's voice was cold and unwelcoming. His eyes were dead and dry. Pamela grimaced.
"So you've kidnapped me, Wayne? Where am I, a lab beneath Wayne Tower? Did the GCPD decide to offer me to your labs as a science experiment? Well, experiment away…" She leaned back comfortably and smiled. "I'll kill every last man, woman and child who tries to keep me in this place. Mark. My. Words."
"Are you finished? Does it feel good to have that out of your system?"
Pamela popped her neck. "Oh I have so much to say to a man who ravaged an entire South American ecosystem in the quest to build a corporate research facility in the name of… what was it… food conservation?"
"Something that gave much needed employment opportunities to more than one thousand individuals… but we're not here to talk about that… we're her to talk about what the boss wants you to talk about." Bile came up in his throat as he said the word 'boss,' but it was a word that he had to use. Remember your place, as W had reminded him.
Pamela frowned. Boss? "I thought you were the boss of Wayne Enterprises, Mr. Wayne…"
"You're not at Wayne Enterprises, Pamela Isley. You're a very long, long way away from Wayne Enterprises."
"Then where am I?"
"I have no clue," Bruce replied shortly. "He's never told me… but I aim to find out, because I have to get you back to Gotham. That I can promise you, Isley… a swift and ensured return to lock-up in the confines of Blackgate."
"Blackgate, Mr. Wayne?" Pamela leaned against the headboard and laughed aloud, gazing up at the ceiling. "Oh, buddy, buddy, buddy… Blackgate. You think Blackgate could hold me? You think Blackgate would even dare to try?"
"Yes, I do. Now, as to-"
"Hold on," she cut across him. "What exactly am I doing here? With Bruce Wayne, of all men on this blessed earth…?"
"I'm a prisoner, same as you," he told her grimly, his eyes narrowing. "Does that help you settle in in any way?"
"A prisoner?" Her confidence faded at once. "What do you mean, a prisoner?"
"I mean, I'm, like you, an involuntary guest in W's facility. I assure you that I don't want to be here anymore than you do. But… it's not as if I have a choice at the moment." He held up his arm, and said, "Did you notice, on your own arm?" Pamela, shocked, looked at her own arm, the one that the man from earlier had not grasped, and saw that she took wore the same flashing little wristband as Bruce Wayne did.
"What is it?" she breathed.
"Insurance. 50mA in Amps. That kind of electrical discharge would stop your heart like stone. I've been wearing my own since day one. Even when I captured you at the Fours and Tens…"
Pamela looked from her deadly wristband to the man before her, and took in his features closely. Those eyes… there was something awfully familiar about those eyes…
"Say again?"
"You'll have to refrain from asking questions that you can't live without the answers to," Bruce pressed on, his head bowed and eyes closed. "W doesn't answer questions unless he feels the need to, regardless of how important they may be. While here, you must abide by the laws set down by his superiors. Namely, you will not leave these premises nor endanger the lives of the people who work here. And that includes me!"
During the time that he had bowed his head and closed his eyes, she had jumped from the bed and made a move for him, intent on taking Wayne unawares with her kiss of death… His hand shot out and gripped her throat even as she closed in on him, and he forcibly held her against the wall. Pamela, enraptured and annoyed simultaneously, wrapped a leg around him and tried to pull him forward with her arm, but he trapped it beneath a knee.
"You do know how to treat a girl rough, Mr. Wayne," she breathed in his face, and Bruce forcibly threw her away, tossing her onto the floor and standing above her in a dark, towering form. She gazed up at him in fear, and felt that same familiar feeling of terror… a feeling of terror that she had felt one other time before…
And it hit her.
"Mother Earth," she whispered, backing away from him. "You're… you're Bat-"
"While you're here," Bruce cut across him, "you'll keep to yourself. Any deaths will be noted and you'll be scheduled for an execution. W promises this."
"You're really him, aren't you?" she whispered. "You're really him!?"
Bruce turned away from her. "W is down the hall and there are security cameras dotting the area. None of them will miss a movement, not a single breath. Bugs are grouped and that bracelet there on your arm will give you little reminders here and there if you stray too far from its programmed proximity list. Namely, a 500 foot span from W, until he releases that restriction. Is that clear?" He glanced over his shoulder, and saw her trying to get close again. She stopped in her tracks, blushing. He turned to face her, his eyes dark and dangerous. "Your attempts at murder will only get you killed, Isley."
"Ivy!" she hissed at him, losing patience with the name. "Call me Ivy."
"Poison Ivy is a creation of notoriety. I'm going to call you Pamela Isley." He took a step forward. "And you are going back to Gotham to face justice. I swear to you that. I will find a way."
Pamela clenched a fist. "I thought the room was bugged. You think this W wants to hear all about these plans of yours?"
"Oh, Bruce has been very adamant from the start on what his intentions are." The voice of W filled the room at once, though the man himself was nowhere to be seen… and yet it sounded as if he were so close. Bruce, unlike Pamela, showed no startle at the voice. "And no worries, Miss Ivy, I've already had a talk with him about that… leave him be now. I'm waiting with breakfast. Bruce, I'll take it from here. Go and find some breakfast yourself. Let her into the living room."
Bruce nodded, and said softly, "Yes, sir." He turned away from her and began to exit the room, pointing at the dresser near the bed as he left, saying, "Clothes in there. Make yourself decent." He then vanished through the sliding door, leaving her completely alone.
Pamela stood rooted to the spot, pale and sweating. Her heart was hammering faster and faster with each terrifying, unpredictable second. Where was this place? Why was Bruce Wayne here? And… and she was right, wasn't she? She had to be right! He was so much like- like the Batman… he had to be the Batman… Everything made sense. It had been Batman who had shown up at the garden when Joker and Woodrue had invaded, and it had been he who had saved her… he who must have brought her here.
It all makes sense… Bruce Wayne is Batman? Those eyes don't lie… that was the same look he gave me when he first captured me. The same look on the night of the Fours and Tens raid… I'll never forget those eyes beneath the cowl. But what is going on exactly!?
And then, another thought: Toxica…Alissa… are you even alive?
The clothes in the dresser was simplistic: black t-shirt and gray sweatpants. Not her color or form, but she was, as Bruce Wayne had put it, a prisoner. She had to play along, for now… this W… she had to manipulate him. The pheromones were needed. She wondered how she could do it?
Her natural charms?
Or something else?
She felt powerless without the means to take hold of the mind. Her spells would do her no good, not here. First things were first, however: find out where she was.
Outside of the door was a shorter hallway, just as reflective and illuminated by faint blue bulbs. Beyond another door, the world changed completely.
The living room, was W had called it, looked nothing like the boring, almost white room she had awoken in. The walls were crafted from dark-red dry-stone, the floor of redwood, polished and scented to woody perfection. A single chandelier of jade, with equal coloration in its bulbs, shined down upon a seating area, where a cluster of two recliners, a semi-round sectional sofa and a black mahogany coffee table sat awaiting with a bountiful feast: fried bacon and eggs, Boudin sausages and steaming donuts, apple jelly and slices of ham with juice and cider… The smell was amazing, a captivating pheromone in its own right, and the man who awaited there…
It was the same man that had awoken her from sleep, but he had changed into new clothes as well. He was more simply dressed, wearing practically the same outfit as hers, except for his pants were black instead of gray. He had also removed the sunshades, and she saw now, as he looked up at her, the intensity of those eyes: they burned orangey-red, with slit pupils and a fiery interior about them. They were the most terrifying eyes she had ever beheld… and in some ways, the most beautiful.
He sat waiting with a glass of orange juice in hand, his feet resting comfortably upon the sectional sofa, and he tipped his glass to her.
"You took so long I had feared the breakfast would go bad," he acknowledged her softly, with a smile just as subtle and relaxing. "Are you ready to join me now?" His voice was soothing, the accent Easterly, like something from the United Kingdom? "Sit," he commanded, motioning at the many plates of food on the other side of the table. "I want you to eat your fill."
Pamela, eyes narrowed, slowly walked around the table and took seat the recliner, gazing at the demon eyed man before her. He was not human. Like her, he had Ascended, but in what way?
As if sensing some unspoken question approaching, W smiled and said, "You tell me, and I'll you." He tapped the side of his head lightly. Pamela nodded, content.
"Woodrue," she replied.
"Stairway to the Sun," was his reply.
They both went silent, each of them sizing up the other, and Pamela frowned considerably. "I'm afraid I don't understand," she admitted, taking a sip of orange juice from the glass he had prepared for her. The contents within went foul at once, turning sickly yellow-green as the poison in her lips reacted to the liquid. Nevertheless, she drained the glass quickly enough, a mad thirst hitting her now that she bore witness to this fine feast.
"You'd like them," he replied, carving into bacon. "They're flowers, you know. Fine flowers, too, but they only grow in one particular part of northwest Africa. What you see before you is clear, I would hope: I am a man reborn from flowers. What about you?"
Pamela's interest skyrocketed at once. Her heart was hammering again, but out of excitement, not fear. "Flowers?"
"Yes, flowers. Stairway to the Sun… I didn't name them, they were discovered long before me… but they made me into the man I am today. I have a special interest in the various contributions of Mother Earth."
Pamela grinned as she swallowed ham. He's a bold one. A manipulator. He says what he thinks I want to hear…
From the other side, W twiddled a fork between his fingers. She'll begin to suspect me a manipulator. She'll believe I intend to use her, that my mentioning of the plants is a ploy to win her over. Then, when she's defensive, I'll throw in the ace.
"Yes," he continued, "I'm a botanist by trade. My favorite strain of natural anesthetics are the Covellian dyostasis. It's what I had Bruce use on you during the raid at your hideout. Apparently, even you aren't immune to everything."
The clatter of her fork was all too audible in the silent room. Her eyes were so wide. "That's a lie," she whispered. "The Covellian dyostasis is a poison from the southern Indies capable of-"
"Complete motor defection with a neural systemic strain," W agreed.
"You don't understand how my body works, do you, Mr. W? I am immune to all manner of poisons and toxins. To diseases and the like. There's no way you could have poisoned me and put me out of commission like that? My body would absorb it in the same way it would absorb any other form of nutrition."
"Unless the strain were mutated with additional viral components…"
Pamela's heart stopped hammering. In fact, it stopped altogether. His words were enough to strike anyone dead. "W-what are you saying?" she hissed.
He leaned forward now, and she caught a powerful trace of fine cologne, a most gratifying smell of…lavender? Yes, it was lavender cologne. And when she smelled it, it empowered her senses dramatically. She blushed when he studied her closely, and tried to look away… but she found this almost impossible. He smelled so good, and those eyes… those eyes had such an otherworldly charm to them.
"Poison Ivy… this is the name you chose?"
She nodded, uncomfortably, and took a sip from her drink… he did the same thing.
"I see," he noted, sitting back and slouching, slightly… he was very, very confident as he kept his gaze intent upon her. He could tell that she was becoming uncomfortable. "It's a fine name, as long as you remember the promise. A name is a promise. Did you intend to keep your promises?"
"I have kept my promises," she said defensively… though it was only out of instinct. She was more fascinated with the man than she was annoyed… but he could not be allowed to know that yet. "I have killed countless individuals within the last two years alone, vagrants and bile that would threaten the very preservation of Mother Earth if I did not step in and take action…"
"It's a fine goal, to be sure." He popped his neck loudly, and decided to offer her a hand. "Albert Wesker, then. You were honest with me, so I'll be honest with you."
"Albert Wesker…W… hmm… You couldn't even change the letter?"
He chuckled softly. There we are. Negative output. "I'm not usually in a habit of offering my real name to anyone… but as a prisoner, here, it would do you little good."
"Tell me, Wesker… why am I a prisoner, then?"
Wesker studied her closely, notably her lips, such fine weapons that they were. "Because I performed a service… and I expect payment."
"Payment?"
"Woodrue would have had you decimated, you know."
"Why save me from Woodrue? What do you care what happens to me, Mr. Wesker?"
"I care about what happens to the woman who had the capacity to do what Woodrue only dreams of doing…"
There was silence. He knew he had struck gold, and the time was now to perform a strafe with his sword and dissipate her shield completely.
"You, Poison Ivy, are the future."
"Ha!" She looked away from him, shaking her head in disgust. "Bold words for a-"
"Human?" he offered, tipping his glass to her. She sat stunned, sweating. Oops…
"Well, obviously not… no, you're something else…"
"But because I'm not you, I can never share your view? Is that correct?"
Checkmate.
Pamela sighed. "Alright fine, then. You tell me: what would you even begin to know about what Woodrue dreams of doing?"
"It's simple," Wesker replied calmly, draining his glass and reaching out to pour more juice for himself, "I work for him."
The air around them became electrified at once. The look upon her face told a story within its own world, an existence that contained its mixture of shock and anger: that it made livid her heart, and singed her soul. She stood up quickly, hands shaking uncontrollably, and he followed suit, moving swifter than any one person should be able to.
"You work for him!?" she breathed, her eyes wide and filled with fury. Wesker nodded.
"I am most loyal to Jason Woodrue. I am the most dedicated man to his work, his most trusted ally and the source of much of his success in the last few years. I serve him loyally to the point where there are few secrets between us. He knows of my trustworthiness to an almost god-like level."
"This facility is his!?" she gasped, backing into the couch and falling onto the cushions. She scrambled to get up, but he was moving in, around the table, and she curled into a defensive balls, shaking madly. "This facility is Woodrue's!? So you'll had me over to him!?"
"My God, you are truly idiotic," Wesker sighed, coming to sit beside him. "No. As a matter of fact, I have no such intention."
Liar, she screamed in her head. Get him now!
She threw herself forward, hands reaching for his throat as she closed in the space, trying to force her lips upon his, desperate to escape as quickly as she could… The force with which he held her at bay was maddeningly painful against her ribs, and she yielded, falling backwards onto the floor. He examined her closely.
"Calm down," he told her. "This behavior will not do. I have supplied you breakfast. Finish it while I explain things to you."
"I don't want to hear it!" she screamed, leaping to her feet and spinning around. "No!" She began to run for the opposite end of the room, towards a door that led to who knew where… a lightning fast blur shot past her, and within moments, he was awaiting her by the door, leaning against it calmly, but with a look of slight, slight irritation. She stopped in her tracks, terrified. Wesker shook his head.
"No, no, no…"
She spun around again, eager to get back to the room in which she had awoken… but suddenly, a blast of air hit her from behind, and she felt her arms pinned into place. He was right behind her now. His speed was beyond human.
"Please, let me go!" she begged.
He obliged, and she quickly stumbled forward, spinning around for the final time to confront him. He looked…almost amused.
"You're quick on your feet," he observed, "but how quick am I?"
"Too quick…. I'd never escape this place."
"Good girl," he said, nodding. "And so your first lesson concludes. Now, will you sit down?"
Against her better wishes, she knew that she had no choice. Sure, he was asking, but there was a reason swords wore sheathes: a mask is a mask is a mask.
"Now," he began softly, when they had both re-seated, "I am the closest thing that Jason Woodrue has to what you would consider… a friend. He trusts me with both his life and the life of his movement. And do you know why? Because I've given him no reason to distrust me. I keep on the promises I make to him and I exceed his expectations. After all, my employers pay me prime salary for the job."
"Your employers…?"
"Of course. My company has had its eye on the Woodrue family for years. We originally developed our interest in 1963. 1963, the year of the New England Tuskanee Epidemic."
"The Tuskanee Epidemic!?" Pamela gasped, her heart hammering at once. "Oh, Go- I… then he… he told you?"
Wesker smiled. She was finally catching up. "Yes, we know all about her."
"But he… he told me he would never tell anyone… that he had never told anyone else about her!"
"Well, she wasn't exactly a stranger, was she? Her name went out of the annals of American history quickly enough, yes, but nevertheless, we knew about her abilities. We knew about her potential. Woodrue told me everything I needed to know about her work, too… after all, as he must have told you, during your time as his assistant, everything he's been working towards is based on her research…. Her ambitions fuel him daily, as you saw for yourself. The original…" He grinned. "…Poison Ivy, I suppose."
Pamela grimaced, her fist clenched. "I thought that secret meant… meant there was something about me… something about me that he trusted with his life…"
"You wanted to be the only person who knew."
Pamela blinked back her green tears. "Yes…"
"Because you would have felt special?"
She nodded. "Stupid, isn't it?"
Wesker nodded. "Yes, it is." She looked up at him with a fiery expression, and he continued. "Now, I'm glad you know about Pampadora. She was the start of it all. Pampadora Woodrue, the prodigy child… and forgotten, too. A disowned lineage, cast aside for its radical movements into the research of biological enhancements… The Woodrue's are an old family with a public reputation less than desired in favor of their seemingly more "ethical" relations, the Ashfords…"
Pamela nodded. "The Ashford family… he mentioned them too… in disgust."
"Well, the families warred with each other, didn't they? Claims of research espionage, murder, all manner of conspiracies from both sides… and truth on both sides in relation to these claims."
"Well, both families are gone now so it matters little, doesn't it? Only one man left from either side…"
"And what do you know about the other one?" Wesker implored.
"Ashford? Allen or Alge or…or something like that…."
"Alfred. Alfred Ashford."
"Yes… him… see, that's how little they mean to me and the rest of the society. They're as nothing as the Woodrue family."
Wesker popped his neck loudly. "Give them time…"
"What?"
"Pampadora's research," he pressed on, "fueled contemporary successes in pharmaceuticals from the Ashford side of the family, courtesy of the Umbrella Corporation. Much of what she left behind was picked up by Alexander Ashford during the seventies, a few short years following the birth of his children, one of whom was Alfred. It is because of this…espionage…that the Umbrella Corporation has managed to perfect its Prometheus strain-"
"Prometheus strain?" Pamela cut in. "What's that?"
Wesker looked pleased that she was asking questions, and answered thusly, "Let me show you." He stood up and walked over to the fireplace, where a long shelf of potted plants sat. In particular, he reached for one near the middle. It was a basic looking thing, to be sure, almost identical to Salvia officinalis, the "common sage" or "garden sage." But the tips of the leaves were a subtle, darkened hue, and the smell that came off of them was not unlike some strengthened aloe vera, with something else added…something deeper and more chemical…
He offered it, and she took the potted herb in hand, studying it closely, her eyes darting along its slender, light green body, feeling the soft, almost cream-like texture of the leaves… this plant was not the strongest, she deduced, but there was something there nonetheless: she could feel little vibrations pulsing from it, as if it were breathing on a human-like level.
"The boys downstairs," Wesker told her, "have taken to calling it, "the green herb." The "green herb…" Hardly a name at all, and one that will not do."
"What have you done to this plant?" Pamela asked softly, placing an ear near the bass and listening to some soft, fuzzy static in the air, not unlike bees…
"We've enhanced it. The company has taken to calling it the Prometheus strain. Well, I have, anyway. I haven't made an official presentation yet to the Board of Directors. But I believe it to be ready for basic field testing. If you really want to know, hold out your hand."
"What?" She looked suspicious. "Why?"
Instead of replying, Wesker's hand shot out and pulled it her arm forward. She screamed loudly, the power of his grip breaking her arm at once. Pain, such an agonous fire, overwhelmed her as the bone shattered, and she fell onto the floor, writhing in pain. Wesker knelt down beside her, calmly, smiling as he held her useless arm up and forced her face along with it, so that they were eye level. Her green tears were falling now due to the pain of his attack.
"What did you do that for!?" she exclaimed, her teeth gritted. She looked feral.
His response, again, was a silent action. He took the herb from out of the broken mess (she had dropped the thing onto the floor, and the pot had shattered), and he began to place the herb into her mouth, forcing through her barred teeth. Even as the herb was forced down her throat, she clamped down onto his hand with her teeth and bit deeply. Her moment had come, her chance! A small wound was all she needed. Her lips and saliva, poisonous as they were, would do the rest of her work once there was even the smallest wound within his flesh…
He jerked his hand out at once. She grabbed her mouth in pain. His skin… it was like biting into stone! Standing up, Wesker shook his head, sighing, "You really must stop attempting to murder me, Miss Isley."
"MY NAME IS IVY!" she screamed, jumping to her feet and throwing out both arms for him… "DO YOU HEAR ME, MY NAME IS-" And she froze. Yes… both arms were outstretched indeed, eager to remove life from him… both arms… She gazed at her right arm, the one he had broken, in horror. No… not horror… fascination? Her breathing intensified. The bruises, the pressure, the pain: all of it had gone! All of it! It felt…normal? Fine? Healed!?
She looked up at him in disbelief and shock. He looked pleased. "As you can see, the Prometheus strain is a success. More so, with you, I'd say, due to your biological adaptability to plant matter. A broken arm no more. That is the power I wished to show you." He held out a hand, as if presenting to an audience. "Within a few months, the first public marketing opportunities will be abundant. Umbrella will present, "Prometheus: Surgery In A Bottle," a revolution in home-based pharmaceuticals capable of restoring dead tissue and interior inflictions to a medium degree of intensity."
Pamela felt faint as he talked. She was overwhelmed by all of this. Unable to comprehend such a powerful revolution of medication, she stuttered out, "Y-you're with U-Umbrella?"
"As I said, I am an employee," Wesker noted, stretching out across the couch. "Secretly, I consider myself its most promising researcher. The Prometheus is merely a side-project, however… I need greater things. I have a mind for greater things."
Pamela fell to her knees, suddenly completely fatigued. Weakness was not even a word she could think of speaking aloud. "And you want me for all of this?"
"You've now seen for yourself the power of the Prometheus strain," Wesker told her. "But can you imagine, Ivy… a world filled with something greater than a miracle plant: a world filled with plants that could fight back, effectively, against deforestation and the chemical malfunctions of humankind. Mutations that, given the right care, could restore the Eden that we so desperately crave…"
"The Prometheus is a start to all of that?" she whispered. Wesker nodded.
"A small start. It will put Umbrella ahead of its top competitor at last…"
"Wayne." She knew it before he said it. It was a common, public fact, well-known and happily worshiped in media, that Wayne Enterprises and the Umbrella Corporation were competitors in the market for pharmaceutical research. For a time, Umbrella had been following behind closely the efforts of Wayne Labs representatives… but what she saw before her, this Prometheus strain… "This would put you far, far ahead of Wayne Enterprises. Umbrella would dominate the pharmaceuticals market."
"And what do you think would happen afterward? The public would swarm in their support of Umbrella. So much so, in fact, that we would have a foothold in a more secretive service: biological warfare."
"Bio-weapons? How?"
"By using our consumers as test subjects. What if, say, the chemicals that Umbrella developed had…secret additives? Viral components, you see, capable of enhancing the agility and strength of its consumers?"
"Turning them into behemoths?"
"Long-term… it would be so much easier to show you all of this. In fact… I daresay I could show you all of this."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, I could show you the long-term goals, Ivy. I could show you the true intentions of Umbrella. What we are truly capable of… Would you like to see the 'Hunter' class?"
She did not know what he meant, but she felt some powerful, almost whimsical secret behind those words.
"Where do I fall into this, really?"
"As I said… I work under Woodrue as a research assistant, an assignment given to me by the Board Directors of Umbrella. At least, the only one that matters. Ozwell Spencer… We've been stockpiling Woodrue's research for more than two years now, under my watchful eyes, analyzing every change and direction as he progresses. And eventually, we'll have enough information to carry on Woodrue's work without him. The long-term goal, Miss Ivy, is to murder Woodrue."
"Murder him?" she breathed.
"And," Wesker added, "I want you to do it."
There was a silence. But it was a very infatuating silence.
"What?" she whispered.
"You heard me correct," he said. "When I give the word, I want to give you the opportunity to exact your full vengeance upon the fool. I will let you remove Woodrue. But only after we've widdled out the contents of his mind to a point where we can continue on without him. We're so close… Woodrue is a dangerous idiot. He's a genius… but still, an idiot, and a messy one at that. His desperation to use Gotham as a breeding ground and remove you in the process has led him to take the mad route of allying himself with someone as pestilent as the Joker… That madman will, of course, also be removed, but for now, I must continue observing Woodrue and advancing his work. Eventually, my employer will give me the clear to remove both. I will allow you to kill Woodrue. You, his greatest failure and his once greatest creation."
"Freely?" she whispered, enthralled.
"He killed you… it's only fair that you do the same to him."
"So… how do I help you, then?"
"I'm glad you asked." He now came over to her, and stood before, helping her stand and gazing into her eyes as he held her arms. "You, Poison Ivy, are the future, as I said. Your research, your skills, they will come after Woodrue's death. As for the pre-stage…" He popped his neck. "I'll give you chores. You should consider yourself an involuntary guest during your time here. Not so much a prisoner. You will not leave this facility unless permitted to do so, but you will leave this facility, and that's the point. I will allow you freedom in time… consider this witness protection protocol."
"And these chores?"
"Namely, I will study you. I will study your biology and take from you what I need to aid Woodrue in his research. His movement, currently, is on the brink of something revolutionary."
"What? What could he be up to that you would need to study me to ensure it succeeds?"
"It has already succeeded. Woodrue has created another."
Pamela went silent for a moment. Another?
"Another what?" she demanded.
"Another…you. I daresay, the term 'Poison Ivy' is unique to you. Woodrue and I have taken to calling them many things. I prefer to call your kind 'The Florics,' something Woodrue has supported. And he has created the perfect Floric."
"In what way, exactly? I was under the impression that he had failed to create one in me… that it had all been a ruse to murder me."
"For your sake, that is true… but he still had the means of doing so."
Her eyes widened. "He truly succeeded?" she said quietly.
Wesker nodded. "Lasetta Rilee, once heiress to the Oregon Coupe de Grace. Now… now the solution to Eden, as far as Woodrue is concerned. Lasetta's biology is, in a word, divine. The toxicity is similar to your own, but she has an evolutionary advantage: her body continually resets itself, issuing from her pores a continuous cloud of the Nyrox poison, making it practically impossible for anyone to get close to her without inhaling the deadly spore cloud and dying instantly. Her body… it produces seeding spores. The spores will not only kill anyone who comes into contact with them, but they will use the body as a breeding ground, producing flora capable of emitting the same toxin. In essence, she is constantly creating more and more Floric life with every step she takes. The poison she produces is developing at a rapid rate, too. Thus far, we've not found a hazard suit that can withstand its almost…acidic qualities. Many of Woodrue's staff have died as a result of getting too close to her."
"She sounds perfect," Ivy breathed. "She… she truly sounds perfect…"
"She is the ideal 'Mother Nature' that you and Woodrue so desperately crave. Her purity as the perfect organism ensures that Woodrue had perfected what his sister Pampadora sought to do years ago. He'll unleash Lasetta into every major city across the United States. Within months, Lasetta could demolish the West and build a deadly utopia of plant-life. But he needs resources. Any major movement and nations across the sea will respond with deadly force. She is the perfect biological weapon, and will be tempered as such."
"We could obtain her, correct!?" Pamela began to pace about now, excited and beyond energized. Her mind was reeling with visual possibilities, her heart aflame with a passion greater than she had ever imagined. It was real! It was all becoming real! Eden… Eden was returning! "Once Woodrue is dead, Lasetta could be ours. With Umbrella's financial advantages and influence, we could achieve what Woodrue…" She smirked, and Wesker's earlier words came back to her. "…what Woodrue could only dream of doing."
Wesker nodded. "That is the mid-term goal."
"And our race… could our race multiply?"
"Ideally, yes. As it stands, I have not risked getting too close to Lasetta. I have my own biological 'insurances', but I doubt I could withstand the potency of Lasetta. For some time, she can only have close contact from one other person…"
And Pamela remembered at once the terrible demon that had come to attack her.
"Woodrue… he's mutated himself."
"Into something beyond a man. He's beyond Florics. There is no longer a discernible quality of appearance between he and a living tree."
"The bastard succeeded way more than I thought he could…"
"It is naturally the step that your kind will take, in the end…"
Pamela nodded, sighing. "Okay, then… show me more, Wesker. Show me so much more. Introduce me to your world."
Wesker smiled. "What a world it is."