Author's Note: Early updates once again. The reason is this: I'm having some problems with my actual computer (this is my mom's laptop xD) and I wouldn't be able to update tomorrow. Since I don't know if I'd be able to get my hands on this laptop tomorrow, I'm leaving you with some early updates; also, you guys deserve it x333 Alright, this is one of the parts you've been all waiting for, so I won't distract you anymore. Enjoy! Oh, and the psycho games I'm playing on Jill (as some of you have said already) are almost over... almost xD Also, the chapters will be gettin much longer as we continue.

Disclaimer: I do not own Resident Evil or any of its characters, only my OCs

VII

Fates Intertwined

'Insanity - a perfectly rational adjustment to an insane world.' - R.D. Lang

August 1st, 2009

BSAA North American Branch HQ, New York

A blue rose.

Jill had never seen a blue rose in her life but now, she had one lying on her lap at which she had stared for minutes already. Not because of its charm -because it was a beautiful flower, that she had to admit- but because of her mind's constant pondering and thinking.

The last thing she remembered from more than a week ago was herself falling into unconsciousness; that was all that still remained in her mind. Of course, the mission, Ivanov's assassination by a second party and that horror which accompanied it kept pulsating somewhere in the back of her mind, reminding her of something which she couldn't place her finger on yet. All of her attempts to remember had proved futile: no memory would come back, not even a sliver of one of them. Okay, temporary case of amnesia? Possibly; she'd have to wait until she found out. Even though a week had gone by, she was still confused and disoriented.

And rightfully so.

When she had woken up in New York, in the hospital wing of the BSAA American HQ, Jill had had no idea of where she was, how she had gotten there and what momentarily puzzled the medics as well as Graves: who she was. Much to everyone's relief and fortune, she received the answer as soon as she had demanded it: Jill Valentine. Right, momentary stunning... Jill was then filled out on the situation and what had happened so far.

After falling from that building -as Graves had said- he had found her lying unconscious on the ground, unscathed. He told her someone -it had to be someone- had caught her in mid-air before she could crash against the ground and kill herself. Then, when Graves had approached her, he spotted her as the centre of a small group of people, along with that blue rose next to her face.

Jill ran a finger over one of the rose's petals, blinking a few times before frowning. Pensive, she looked outside the window of her office, unconsciously clutching the rose with a bit more strength than she should have. The only few thorns that stuck out of the stem pricked very slightly at her hand, but that was the least of her problems. One question still remained, a question that would keep haunting her until she came up with an answer.

Who had saved her?

Jill had been mentioned that she had started hyperventilating at a certain moment of the mission, right before losing consciousness. To Graves' question of if she had seen someone or something she replied with a shake of her head; she didn't remember anything.

"But you were scared out of your skin! You must remember something!" Graves had protested as if he found cases of memory loss abnormal. Crestfallen, Jill had admitted that she indeed was at a loss of words -and thoughts- too. If Graves had said she was so very scared, then how could she had possibly forgotten the reason why? The whole situation in itself was a mystery.

Would she find out the answer?

xx

August 3rd, 2009

It's almost been two weeks since then, and I'm in a much better state. I've made a quick recovery in an excellent time and I feel like a normal person again. These last two weeks have been days of agony and frustration, all spiking after every attempt I made to move. I felt weak, as if it were not my body the one which I was moving. Of course, I soon found out the reason why. Until I didn't find out what had happened to me, how had I been granted life again, the frustration didn't leave me.

I've developed a strange fear of my own reflection; quite odd, isn't it? Yes. These last days I've tried and tried to have a look at myself in a mirror, to find out about the 'new me', but I haven't been able to: I couldn't step in front of it. It's possible that I'm aware of the reason behind this fear but either I can't accept it or it's definite that I don't know. Out of some unsettling feeling, I've decided it's because I can't accept it; my mind won't allow me to do so because it's all in there, inside my mind.

I've lost everything. All that cost me so much to obtain, it's all gone now. And dare I say that it's not only what concerns the material, but what shaped me into who I am. My body has recovered, now it's my mind's turn. No, it'd be strange to say that I'm victim of some kind of psychological trauma; let's say it's my mind the one that's still damaged and unable to piece itself together for the moment. I haven't forgotten anything about myself; well, perhaps just a scant number of details that I assume are not important, but nothing major. This is the reason why I know I've lost all that was so hard to get.

Some days ago, I suffered the worst outburst of rage that I had ever experienced. Now that I recall, it was when I first had a look at myself. For me, glancing at my reflection proved to be one of the most frightening experiences so far and not because of my physical appearance after all these months of treatment, but because of one damnably feature all humans have: my eyes. What wrong is there in a pair of eyes? Sure, that's a question to ask oneself.

After examining them thoroughly, I discovered that they were almost not mine. They were so very different; I had thought that kind of eyes non-existent or, at least, the gleam in them. I remember the mix of emotions (that's another reason) that flared up: interest, disgust, shock and grief (which was one I had barely experienced before).

The reason why? Because I had regained my humanity and with humanity, all types of weaknesses come hand in hand. There was no way I could escape it. I wouldn't be myself anymore and, up until now, I've thought about giving up many times. That's one of the weaknesses humanity rewarded me with.

And I can't stand it.

XX

Indeed, he couldn't stand it. For Albert Wesker, a man who had never let his emotions meddle in his affairs, it wasn't going to be easy accepting the fact that they were still there. It was obvious, though: hate, disdain and pride had always been there, had always been many of the so called 'emotions' that had kept him strong, had granted him the resolve and perhaps stubbornness to carry on. But, from his point of view, the word 'emotion' enclosed a certain group of them.

And those were the heart's, those which made oneself lose sight of what was at hand.

Wesker laid down the pen, musing upon the matter. There, that one was another of those weaknesses: having to write thoughts or experiences down. He had to see the positive side, since that way he wouldn't forget easily about them, but he'd never needed to do that. It had been so long since he'd felt human again that it was somehow humiliating to see himself having stooped so low. Or maybe not so human at all.

People had always dubbed him as a psychopath and, whilst he did show himself to be one, now one would see he wasn't. True enough, Wesker had pretended to be a friendly -in his own way- person and then he had deceived others like they had never expected. Even though that had happened too many times, it hadn't always been like that. There had come a time when either Wesker hadn't needed anyone or his friendship had been true and lifelong.

Why so much thinking so early in the morning? Well, he hadn't gotten much sleep so thinking was the easiest way to keep himself awake; at least, the easiest for now.

"How long are you going to stay in there?" came a voice from the other side of his door, and it was then accompanied by soft rapping. He sighed, standing up from his seat and walking to the doorway as the rapping stopped.

"For as long as I see fit, but you're free to come in if you please," he replied, nonchalant, as he opened the door and greeted a familiar person. She gave a polite nod and went inside without meeting his gaze, something Wesker didn't find unusual: many times, her gaze was still ginger and refused to meet his. Then, his visitor turned.

"You look even better than before. Are you sure you want me to keep administrating the serum?" she asked him with a faint smile.

"It's necessary. I can't move properly yet, with all honesty," Wesker replied, instinctively stretching his arms behind his back. "Oh, keep in mind that I'm-"

"Not complaining, I know that. Besides, I wouldn't say you're complaining; you take it too much to heart," Sherry chuckled, flashing him what Wesker had always called a 'Birkin' smile, or more like a grin. Then, Sherry took out a familiar syringe and turned it around with her fingers. "In that case, it's good I came prepared."

Without needing to be told, Wesker spun around and sat on one of the chairs that were grouped around a table, rolling up the sleeve of his black sweater and motioning at Sherry for her to do the same as him. She nodded, taking a seat in front of him, and in seconds she was piercing his skin with the needle, careful. As always, the serum made his skin and his veins sting a bit, but it was nothing to worry about.

Pensive, Wesker lifted his gaze at the same time as Sherry did, and their eyes met for what it seemed aeons.

His mind suddenly thought back eleven years ago, when he had just rescued Sherry from the U.S. Government's custody. Since then, Sherry had grown under his watch and it had been seven years later that she had 'flown out of the nest' to go and enrol at university. Wesker had seen her grow into a mature and strong person; she was like her father in some aspects but completely Sherry Birkin in others. What had been unnatural was that Sherry had reminded Wesker of her father, William, more than one time: that sometimes loose but cold demeanour, her icy blue eyes, the pitch of her laughs, her usual obsessive attitude towards an important matter... In spite of that, Sherry Birkin was Sherry Birkin and that was all there was.

"I remind you, don't I?" Sherry then asked, her smile faltering a bit. "Of my father."

Wesker shrugged lightly, not breaking eye contact. "You still do, sometimes."

"He'd be happy to see you, I'm sure," she said, her gaze dreamy, "and I'd be happy to see him."

"Oh?" he hummed with curiosity: in all the years he'd been with her, Wesker had never seen such wistfulness in her bright gaze... the same as her father's, he couldn't avoid thinking.

Sherry rolled her eyes, grimacing.

"After all these years, you didn't expect me to keep a grudge against him, or did you?" she told him, her tone becoming sharper than before. "I know what happened, I know why my father did what he did and was like he was, so I don't have any reason to be resentful. I came to terms with my life and I came to terms with him a long time ago. And I still miss him." She left out a sharp exhale. "In any case, I didn't come here to talk about him; I had come here to check up on you."

"Well, you brought him up," Wesker said with a shrug, "but do change the subject. Why the sudden checkup?"

"Just to see if you are doing fine," Sherry replied, gesturing at him with her hand. "It's only been three weeks or so since you were up and running again and, even though you've progressed nicely, it's still necessary to have a look at you."

"Fine."

The checkup didn't take long, as usual. As commented by Sherry, his body had recovered without any kind of setback and, with the help of some medical equipment Sherry went to fetch, she removed the thick black threads that had sown many of his scars together. Some bled, some didn't, but Wesker made no remark at the sight of his own blood. What caught his attention was the light contrast -almost unnoticeable, though- between some parts of his skin: some were a bit lighter than his usual tanned tone.

"I've received a bit of news which I thought would interest you," said Sherry once they were finished.

"Enlighten me." Wesker measured Sherry's words with a teaspoon, wondering what kind of interesting news she had.

When he looked at her again, he took the news as severe, judging by the mild frown on the girl's face.

"Remember Chris Redfield?"

"Absolutely." Wesker's reply was prompt: how could he forget about Chris Redfield, the man who had shattered his life to miserable pieces? A sudden surge of rage coursed through him and it was thanks to his self-control that he didn't make any gesture that would let it show.

"He's dead," Sherry said flatly, and it took Wesker a few moments to digest what she had said. Not that he thought Chris was never going to die -both Wesker and Chris were cockroaches to each other- but he didn't expect it to be so soon and sudden. It took him all of his efforts to prevent his lips from curving into a wicked grin of victory.

"How did it happen?"

"By your own hands, although indirectly," Sherry replied crossing her arms. "By one of your creations, the most powerful so far." She smirked with as much wickedness as the one that gnawed at Wesker's chest. "Oh, how Claire must be grieving his death..."

"I thought you were in good terms with her," he said, his tone caustic. "After all, she helped you escape Raccoon City and saved you from your father. I assumed you were still indebted to her in some way?"

"I was in good terms with her, that's the thing."

"Whatever made you change your mind?"

"I really don't know," she answered, shrugging. "I guess it must've been time."

Wesker mused upon her words, coming to the conclusion that she hadn't meant that. Claire was Chris' sister, Chris was his enemy so, by extension, Claire was too; that much, both he and she had figured out. But why that evasive answer? Did Sherry still feel some kind of attachment to Claire?

"Then time it's been," Wesker said at last, finding it sensible not to bring up the subject again. "I believe I'll pay a small visit to an old... friend of mine."

"Be careful," Sherry warned, "since a man like you is not a common sight around the streets."

"There's no need to remind me; still, you're never cautious enough." With that, Wesker procured his trench-coat from behind his door and left at a calm pace. Whilst he made his way out of the building, he thought about this 'friend' he'd pay a visit to: how would she react? Oh, that'd be most interesting to see, especially after hearing about Chris' death.

It was a topic that came back to his mind, and the sole idea of imagining him dead brought back a joy he'd never thought he'd feel again. His creation had killed Chris; he, Albert Wesker, had killed Chris. He had fulfilled the oath he had made to himself... even though he hadn't been there. That was a minor inconvenience and a major preference, but it was better not to look a gift horse in the mouth. No matter what, Wesker had succeeded.

Uroboros had succeeded.

xx

Jill flopped down onto the sofa and released a sigh, letting her whole body relax. It had been a busy day this one, and she had ended up a bit more than tired. She remained there for what it seemed an eternity, enjoying the blissful emptiness of her mind. It was the first time in many days that she had banished all thoughts from her head; not all of them though, since some still were allowed to remain.

With a shake of her head, she looked up front and laid her eyes on the blue rose that was resting inside a small, long vase upon a low cabinet. Why she had kept it like that she didn't know, perhaps because she had the feeling that, sooner or later, she'd find the answers she was looking for, and that all depended on that small flower. Jill frowned, staring at it once again for the usual two minutes, and then sighed again.

"Where did you come from?" she asked out loud, and she soon realized the stupidity of that question. She stood up, walked up to the cabinet and picked the rose up, promptly propping herself against the small piece of furniture. "Will you grant me the answers I'm looking for? It's really annoying to be an amnesiac, you know-"

"That little present might not be the key to obtaining those answers. Shall I say I might be that key?"

The same moment she heard that voice, Jill froze in her place, the horror that soon overcame her rendering her unable to move or even almost to breathe. Slowly, very slowly, she lifted her gaze, only to find the silhouette of the man she had always feared the most propped against the wall in front of her. The rose fell from her hands, landing on the floor with a faint sound, and she stood there, gaping at him.

"N-No..."

Oh yes, he was. When he stepped forward, the orange-coloured sunlight that came through the large window highlighting his features, Jill felt the urge to scream but no sound came.

"I believe 'yes', Miss Valentine."

She cringed when she heard him pronounce her name. Jill suddenly found no sense to the situation, as if the cogs in her head were lacking the necessary oil to turn and fit together as they should. She wanted to pinch herself, to convince herself of the unreality of the matter; this couldn't be happening.

"This can't be happening..." she said, completely forgetting about keeping her thoughts to herself.

"Trust me, it is happening."

Jill refused to believe it.

"Let's go... before...too late...ker."

-ker, -ker...

Of course; it had just clicked.

Why didn't I realize before?! Why didn't I remember before?! I should've known! I should've!

Albert Wesker was still alive.

A/N: Aha! So, small summary: Wesker's alive, Sherry's with him, Jill knows Wesker's still alive, he's right in front of her and... well, you'll see what he'll ask for in the next chapter. I'm leaving behind a lot of clues, and A LOT xDDD Have in mind the blue rose Jill was given; it'll play an important part in future chapters... Look a blue rose's meaning up on the Internet and you'll see what I'm talking about. Remember: guesses are forbidden in reviews, everything will be confirmed through PM. Something else: I haven't revealed -and I won't- much about Wesker's physical appearance until later on; I'll include some details in some chapters, some won't have, but everything will be explained at the end, just give it some time.

Reviews are appreciated!^^