Day 9
The question now became: could Walter have returned? As Claire crossed the room slowly, weapon still at the ready, she hoped that it was him, it had to be. Though prepared to take a look out of the peephole, whoever it was interrupted the attempt and knocked once more, louder and more urgently.
"Claire? Are you in there?"
Claire almost collapsed upon hearing Leon's voice, hurrying to the door with weak legs, carefully dropping the gun off in a kitchen drawer. He'd come somehow, appearing with plastic bags of food and a six-pack of beer. She wanted to pull him into the tightest embrace possible, but instead, attempted to put on a brave face while ushering him in. Thunder continued to boom outside, rain still pelting the structure mercilessly, and she wondered how he'd managed to get there.
As Claire led him to the couch which was better-lit thanks to the candles, she asked, "Is it not flooding?"
"Downtown." The agent showed no sign of noticing her edginess.
"Still, it was dicey driving over here."
This scolding didn't seem to affect him as he plopped down next to her. "I have a Land Rover." Though it was courtesy of the US Government, it didn't make Claire feel better that he'd come out during the storm of the year. "Tell me you've got a gas stove," he continued, unfazed. "I know they say non-perishables and food that doesn't need to be cooked, but I've got rice, Ramen, and I may or may not have bought shit to make tacos with."
As Claire felt an irresistible smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, she could only ask, "Where's your jacket?"
"I left it in the stairwell, mom." Suddenly, the agent was smiling back at his old friend, and she'd forgotten about being upset with him along with almost everything. Time stopped existing. The storm, as far as Claire knew, had ceased. As the pair prepared food by candlelight and drank beers -with no qualms despite the fear of Leon doing so excessively- she felt at ease. So at ease, upon recollection of what was seen next door, Claire simply questioned how she could feel deserving of sitting with a man that was just trying to help make the best of everything. Of course, it was nibbling at her brain, but the nervousness that should have been felt about the secret next door was lost along with the fear of an intruder. Why was she not telling Leon about… him? Dr. Cyrus' warning had become a true concern now: Hero Syndrome.
"Leon?"
Mouth full of beer, he raised his brows.
"You took profiling, right? Profile me." Cyrus couldn't possibly know his client so well with their only meetings consisting of Skype chats and third-party reports. Leon did know his friend though, and she wasn't keeping that monster a secret from him because of some brand new label that shrinks slapped on people that they couldn't categorize. No, she just needed to find out what was going on independently.
"I didn't pay attention; I took it for the grants," he admitted, blatantly.
For a moment Claire just stared down at the crumbs left on the paper plate, not wanting to divulge the content of the sessions with Cyrus to anyone, but feeling that the situation that was waiting for just next door required a bit of advice. "Dr. Cyrus seems to think that I need to save people. Hero Syndrome... towards Chris. And possibly broadened now that I'm with the company. Do you think that I need to be the savior?" Claire never saw herself as needing to save anyone; her attempts to save her brother in the past had been acts that any other able sibling would have committed. Everyone else that she'd met on the way never got that same treatment, and now it was merely a job to save the world.
As Leon mulled over the answer, his friend became uneasy, almost tempted to blurt out that Albert Wesker was next door just to prove them all wrong. "I think you're protective. But not pathologically."
Had it not been so dark, she was sure that he would have seen her visibly releasing a bated breath.
"Look, your reasons for doing this are way purer than mine. If anyone's a problem, it's not you." Leon's words were not meant to exalt the younger Redfield through self-deprecation; had he and Sherry not been taken into federal custody after the events of Raccoon City, Claire had strongly felt that he would have gone to the other side of the world and never thought of taking on any other authoritative occupation. This fight wasn't for him, no matter how much of the world was in danger.
Without a second thought, she threw herself onto him, pulling him into a warm embrace, the image of Wesker still back there, tapping away her mind. Claire couldn't send him away though, it would appear odd. So she told him that she would be checking on the previously, mysterious neighbor, sure to lock the door as soon as she went back inside, just in case her friend had become just as curious as she foolishly had. "Are you okay in here?" Claire asked the darkness, knowing that he was sitting in the front room still.
"I take it that you have company?" a cool voice asked, ignoring the question completely. In such a vulnerable state one could not expect an honest answer though; his position was always much higher than anyone surrounding him, but not anymore.
"It's Leon." Claire imagined that he'd tensed at that.
"So… I suppose that at this moment I decide whether or not to go out in a blaze of glory… again, or to bow out graciously." This was the most pathetic that she had ever heard him, and though she had not been present during his apparent demise, she imagined that he'd sounded more pathetic now than previously. Before he was desperate and desperation equated to failure, but defeat was the exact opposite.
"I'm not telling him. Yet."
"Why?" the voice floated across the room, almost pleasantly. In the dark, Claire could appreciate it in the way that it could be before the great betrayal. It was in the RPD, and he'd been hidden by the walls of his office, but everyone listening knew it was him. Remembering thinking of how professional he sounded brought with the thought of how beautiful it was, but now was not the time to reminisce of innocence that'd ignorantly been placed upon him all due to his voice.
The question of why remained, hanging in the air, waiting for a response. "Something's going on," Claire responded simply. "I think you know what."
Wesker gave a, "Hmm," and she figured that my response sufficed. Whoever had entered her apartment could have been someone that he'd sent, and the detainment of their leader could have resulted in them abandoning any mercy they may have had for Claire. She had faith that she was destined to be killed; never realizing that someone else had been entering her home. This person was skilled.
Once more, she asked Wesker if he was okay, unsure of when she'd returned. With his assurance, Claire left him there, alone, in the dark, sure to lock the door lingering there for a while, surprisingly hearing him roll over, turning over every lock on the inside, and swearing that she also heard a weapon being loaded. Was it for Claire, or had the intruder come for them both?
When Claire was back with Leon, she completely lied, pretending to have just gone over to be a Good Samaritan, checking on a wheelchair-bound neighbor who assured her that he was fine. Attempts to shut down any conversation about it probably would have become noticeable had Leon continued to press for more information. Then, in what at first seemed like a lucky stroke of fate, Claire's phone lit up.
Abruptly, the brunet threw himself back against the seat, almost angrily taking a swig of his beer. "Is that Tim?" Now Claire was beginning to regret allowing her friend to drink. Was he jealous? It had to be protectiveness.
It was an IG alert that had caused the phone to light up. "Anastas_of_Greece sent you a DM." Thankfully, Claire's body was at an angle to Leon's. Once she'd lifted the phone, he was unable to see, but there should have been no reason to hide the message, only leading her to realize that it was probably because she had no business DM'ing a guy who she just met in a bar.
I see you popped up in my suggestions, he'd typed, followed by a winking emoji.
Figuring that she should answer Leon, she lied; the truth would have been worse to deal with than this. "Yeah, he's just checking on me." She typed back, Maybe we have friends in common.
Leon was silent as he pulled out his phone, more than likely pretending to have received a notification.
Nope. The response was quick.
It's the government. This sentiment echoed those of the average American that found themselves on a list of possible friends due to being in proximity to another person. So far, it was a legitimate observation.
Lol. Text bubbles followed. How you holding up during this storm?
Claire glanced at Leon, still pretending to be checking his phone, wanting to jokingly remind him, "No girls ever call you except Hunnigan." Instead, she focused on finishing up her current conversation as he didn't appear to be in the mood to take a joke of that nature. Power's out, but an awesome friend managed to get over and bring better food than what I had. You? This was not how to finish a conversation, and she was sure that Leon would have appreciated hearing her refer to him as an "awesome friend." That part was for Claire to feel better about all of the lies she'd found herself wrapped up in.
Neighborhood's flooded. Water is literally three inches from getting in the back, but I still have power and Wi-Fi. He followed that up with an exasperated emoji and an excited emoji right after. Damn. You could've come over here. Assuming your boyfriend would've been cool with it. Drake sent a set of emoji eyes, tempting Claire with the luxuries that she didn't currently have and blaming Tim for why they were unattainable.
You're lucky. The conversation should've ended there, but she continued to tack on more. My boyfriend's stuck downtown. He was at work during the flood. Before they could continue this game that should have been off-limits, the two decided to end the conversation. Hey, I'll get at you later. I'm running on limited battery life.
Drake sent a thumbs up, and she started to feel guilty that the final message had meant that she'd message him again.
Like a guilty person, Claire set the phone back on the table face down before asking sweetly with a smirk, "Who's messaging you?".
His demeanor had suddenly shifted, and he set his phone down as well, but like an innocent man, he'd done so with its face up. "Hunnigan was just reminding me to vacation."
Claire almost laughed. Even his lies were innocent. As the night and the storm went on they just talked and it felt like the first time in a while that she had been able to do that with someone that wasn't a coworker. They talked the way that she and Tim used to, about anything and everything under the sun. Not once did the pair mention work, not even when the subjects involved Chris. Then, it seemed like less than an hour later –though it had been much longer- the lights flickered back on. Electronics whirred and powered up, and sudden brightness caused them to shield their tired, light-deprived eyes.
"Thank God. Is it still raining?" Claire asked.
He checked outside. "It's light. Perfect time for me to get back."
"What?" The disappointment in her voice was palpable.
"Yeah. I didn't bring any clothes and I'm sure that Tim wouldn't appreciate coming home to see that I've been here all night."
Maybe he would, she thought, remembering how warm and receptive he'd always been to Leon. Still, he was right and there should have been some semblance of respect for Tim. Before he left, Claire hugged Leon again, far too tightly for him to be able to pull back and stare at her with those brown eyes of concern and some form of affection.
"If it looks like it's getting bad again, I'm coming to get you," he whispered, leaning in so close that his breath was felt against the skin of her cheek
The water would keep rising, but the storm itself was gone. Outside of the complex, Claire had no clue how it looked but was sure that she'd be getting photo messages from Chris and Leon about it as the former was hellbent on getting his younger sister to lock herself up in a room and never come out. As she watched Leon walk down the hall to the stairwell, she smiled at his awkward smirk. As much as Claire wanted to linger on their time together, she knew that this new day had come ripe with new problems. As her eyes wandered in the other direction, they were stopped at the door that came between her and the newest problem: Albert Wesker.
He'd been hungry. A scheduled diet hung on the same stainless steel refrigerator door that was in the other apartments. It was a rigorous list that would have driven Claire to find a way to inject herself with donut filling. Over time, it appeared that the goal was to add weight to his feeble form, but since he was waiting, she decided to come back to that later and just get to his breakfast: three eggs, a side of fruit, a bowl of oatmeal, and a glass of orange juice. Claire just stood back, watching him as he struggled to come to terms with how he should attempt to pretend that he wasn't starving. Then she wondered, Did he eat?
Instead, of voicing the question she asked, "When do you think Walter will be back?" She'd expected a much different response than what was received.
"Walter is more than likely dead," he said casually before taking a small bite of his eggs.
"Why would you say that?" This inquiry held a trace of horror that he would speak in such a way about the man who'd been aiding him this whole time.
"Walter was also a Raccoon City survivor. An Umbrella employee. The person –or people- stalking you were also after him. He'd intended to draw them out, but I have surmised that he never left the complex."
Leaning against the counter, staring down at the floor with her mouth agape, Claire almost felt her breath leaving her. "It's the cult."
The blond took a drink of his orange juice. "That is very possible."
At that, her head snapped back up. "Leon told me that the cult wasn't here."
"Leon?" he asked with a scoff, almost choking on his drink. "You believe that Kennedy would know anything?"
Ignoring his jab at the agent's intelligence, Claire pushed her body forward. "I have to tell TerraSave!"
Dryly, he asked, "Why?" drawing the word out.
"Because-"
"You work for a glorified ethics counsel. This has nothing to do with TerraSave and everything to do with the United States Government once again failing to tend to their backyard. On the contrary, it appears that they simply do not care." His tone had become one of disappointment, mixed in with annoyance, but it appeared to be directed at the US and not Claire. "This issue was seen as the Russians' problem and the fact that they haven't compiled a registry to track the individuals should tell you that their views on the subject mirror Mr. Kennedy's: it is of no consequence to them."
Claire tried to speak, only to be interrupted once again.
"Also, how would you present this case to them? Hmm?" The direction of his annoyance had turned to the woman now. "This continued encounter with me would be cruel on your end if you were to bring this to the attention of your superiors or Kennedy. You'd tell them that you had been living next door to an ex-Umbrella employee?" He paused. "How would you broach the subject of how you came to gather this intel? Where am I when you obtained this information?"
Claire had nothing; Wesker's words had knocked her back against the counter, and her head hung like a scolded dog's.
"If you're going to kill me, at least offer me a choice in my last meal."
With a sigh, the victim of his torrent of jabs tore her eyes away from the floor and looked back at his, "I am not going to kill you."
Taking up his fork once more, he said to his plate, "Well you have to figure something out quick then."
Without realizing it, the brunette reached the table in two strides and pulled the plate away from him, causing him to freeze just before he impaled another lump of scrambled eggs. "I don't know what's going on right now," she stated evenly, staring daggers into cold, blue eyes. "I don't know who I can even trust right now. However, I do know that you're smarter than the average bear, and you're the only one that seemed to know anything about a cult in Aurora." Claire pushed the plain, porcelain plate back to its previous place in front of him. "After this, I don't know what happens to you, but the fact that you've been sulking in hoodies for the past year and a half tells me that you're not going to sacrifice yourself for some Brave New World again anytime soon."
Seemingly disgusted by such an indigestible truth, the once proud and untouchable man set the fork down on the plate. "Once I regain my independence, I swear to you that I am finished."
"I have to ask why." Otherwise, it made no sense. An oath from a prolific traitor held little prestige to someone who had read every one of his formerly redacted files: he'd betrayed a James Marcus, he'd betrayed S.T.A.R.S., he'd betrayed Umbrella and Spencer twice, and then there came the late Excella Gionne…
"Because insanity is committing the same action repetitiously with asinine expectations of a different result. At that moment, I'd fallen into a pit of insanity." He returned to his breakfast then, seeming as broken on the inside as he had on the outside. Though Claire wanted to question him further on his plans, she chose to leave it be. Eventually, he'd show her if he was as mad now as then. Eventually.
With a slight feeling of annoyance, Claire rolled the wheelchair into the master bathroom, stopping just in front of the shower. For a moment she looked around, mentally questioning the next step; surely he wouldn't request that someone bathe him? "What next?"
Without even turning his head in the slightest, Wesker commanded, "Get me inside and I will handle it from there." The same level of vexation that his unexpected aide displayed, he made audible, as though he was not being assisted when she could have left him to fend for himself and possibly rot.
Taking note of the full-sized towel draped on the rod, Claire silently said a thank you to whatever omnipotent being granted the fortune of providing a visual barrier for when she needed to return. Pulling the glass door of the shower open before leaning down slightly, she prompted him to use her to gain some footing.
Shockingly, in a show of vulnerability, he let out a short grunt, a telltale sign that this was a strain on him that he would rather the world remain unaware of. The weight of his body was alarming as Claire felt pain quickly develop in the middle of her back, and now they both fought to keep from revealing any physical exertion to one another. When he was on his feet, he quickly took hold of the grab bar set into the shower, pulling himself over into the seat that was placed against the back wall. Without receiving an instruction to leave, the brunette began to do so anyway when he began lowering himself.
"What else did you need?" The question was so odd. It sounded as though she genuinely cared about what Albert Wesker needed to have some level of comfort when he could have been held prisoner due to his current condition, but instead, the would-be jailer was engaging in the role of an active caregiver. Disgusting. Pathetic. Everything that he thought of the Redfields and probably the rest of human civilization, or whatever word he would use that was far less nice to describe the human population.
Sounding almost out of breath, he simply stated, "My shoes."
Refusing to kneel on my knees for Albert Wesker, Claire bent over into the shower, prepared to roughly pull off the sneakers that required no strings (that in itself was far more bizarre than anything else when it came to the man that Chris had taken to calling Mr. Matrix during his recollections of their later encounters).
He winced at her careless attempt.
Sighing, Claire began removing it properly, gently tugging at the heel, going so far as to set them on the floor carefully after that. Without further stimulus, she then reached for a sock to remove it.
"No," Wesker stated firmly, his eyes attempting to burn right through his underserved help despite no longer being ablaze. "I'm capable of that much." The following explanation was an attempt to counterpoise his previous demand. In this country, in this era, people said, "My apologies. What I meant was…" It would be foolish to expect a correction though.
Staring back into his now lifeless gaze, Claire told herself that this was the closest to an apology that he would probably get for his harsh manners. Rather than become offended, she straightened herself, looking at the collection of items in the shower rack that hung against the large, square, gray tiles. A body sponge was hung from a hook at the bottom while the rack itself stored a bottle of shampoo and conditioner that could be recognized as expensive, two different washes, and a plastic container with what appeared to be some form of bath salts inside. She could only suppose that those were being saved for when he could safely submerge himself.
Though she awaited instruction, he simply looked around the shower floor for a moment before beginning to slowly remove the pullover as though it pained him to do so. "Come back in twenty minutes."
Before he even got the hoodie over his head Claire had pushed the shower door closed enough to where he could reach the handle and turned to leave. Perhaps it was better that way. Truthfully, she was afraid of what would be seen beneath the hood. A scalp left with nothing but patches of hair? A scalp that was so scarred that no hair would ever grow again? Shutting the door, she realized that she was also shutting the door on a part of her that she couldn't believe existed. No joy could be taken in his destruction in the way that all of the survivors had imagined that they would. Saying and seeing were two different things.
Perhaps Chris could have relished in his demise, stripping him to bear witness to the shame of his humanity before putting him out of his misery, but the younger Redfield could not. She felt sick. Without a second thought about it, Claire swiftly crossed the bedroom to head back to the living area where she turned on the television to distract from a growing conscience by utilizing background noise.
Five minutes of waiting felt like five hours of treason, but for some reason, Claire couldn't stop adding to her crimes. Popping a pair of earbuds in, she went over to the sink to begin washing the dishes that had been used. Claire, you fed him, she told herself guiltily.
Am I out of my head? Am I out of my mind? If you only-
"Hey, SARAH?" The virtual assistant had certainly earned her nickname that Claire would never say out aloud.
The phone gave a chime in response.
"Next song." She must have given that command a thousand times before reaching an Avenged Sevenfold song. That would work. As she got to cleaning dishes that had been dirtied before Walter's disappearance, she began to think back to the unlikely moment that came when helping Wesker into the shower. Oddly enough, he had no identifiable scent, still barely human even though he seemed uncomfortably so from her point of view. Still, something so simple to the average person was so powerful. Wesker was unidentifiable.
He barely resembled the man that all of the survivors had known. His strength, body, and resolve all had become frail and withered. Had Claire taken his life, she would not have found any solace. Instead, she would have continued to lie awake at night, fearing the sleep that threatened to tug her away from her new reality of a safer world than the one that had fallen behind in a land of nightmares. His death would have brought her away from leave, away from the slice of normalcy that'd been procured for, and closer to absolute destruction and despair. He'd burnt out, she'd burnt out. He was broken, and she was broken. Yet, last night, when finding herself in his presence, Claire never felt more alive.
Running a dry towel over a plate, she realized that his survival should have been the symbol of hope that was needed.
I'm fucked up. I'm black and blue. I'm built for it, all the abuse. I got secrets, that nobody, nobody, nobody knows. I'm good on, that pussy shit. I don't want what I can get.
"Shit," Claire hissed, quickly plucking a pod from one ear; it had been twenty minutes and a thudding against the wall that had to have been him could be heard, signaling that he'd finished. Without the previously feigned disinterest, she made her way to the master bath, greeted by the sight of his obscured body as he waited. Without looking down, she removed the towel from the door and turned while passing it to him from outside.
When he'd adequately dried off, he pushed the door open, and Claire prepared for what would perhaps be a chilling sight once she laid eyes on his head.
Looking down at him, she was shocked. There were no burns upon his scalp, no scars, or scabbing, but instead sprouts of blond hair that seemed to reach out into the loosest of waves. It was almost the length that she'd known him to have in the past. Her eyes wandered lower to his face, also untouched with skin that appeared almost new, but darkened under his eyes due to his expected fatigue. The skin of his neck was also perfect, free of any blemishes or signs of trauma, but as she allowed her eyes to rove over his chest and arms, the signs of him healing from the damage that would have killed a normal person became apparent. His hands had suffered the worst of it as far as his upper body was concerned, still blackened in some places, but scabbing only now. His arms were specked with paler skin that was covered with thin layers of the epidermis, highlighting that it was new.
Large scars stretched from his shoulders across his chest, dipping towards his abdomen. This scar was almost purple, given a sheen by a newly formed layer of skin. Uroboros, she assumed, had done this. His legs were hidden from sight, leading to conjecture that they had suffered the worst of the near incineration. His need for a wheelchair was enough to confirm this hypothesis. For some reason, it also led Claire to refuse to look at his feet not knowing what would be seen there, and despite being so near a sink, she was far too frightened that it would lead to vomiting in the presence of a still-somewhat proud man that at one point could crush a man's larynx with a pinch.
Wesker had instructed the unexpected caregiver on which clothes to pull from the closet, hesitant to ask for help in getting dressed. She would see far too much that way, and this brought forth a question if he still had… It didn't matter. She was curious though. So much of him that was delicate had survived, but this was of no concern to her as she possessed no need of such knowledge.
"You should just let me help you," she said in vexation. "You can't even walk, so I know that you can't possibly get any of your bottoms on."
A spark had ignited, his lip threatening to curl into a snarl. He had no appreciation for a suggestion that he was incapable of doing for himself.
Quickly, the brunette suggested, "Look, we'll get you on the bed and I'll close my eyes." So they did just that, however, it proved to be difficult to navigate what went where. It also startled her almost noticeably every time her hands brushed up against what felt like scabbed skin. Over a year after he'd been presumed dead, all he had to show was a wheelchair and damage that had betrayed his previous appearance that could only be described by even the biggest enemy as perfection. There were subdued grunts throughout the ordeal, but he made no verbal complaint, and the gentle handling of him gave little reason for him to do so.
Claire thought that the worst was over then until they'd gotten him back in his chair and he began coughing as he had before. Wesker leaned forward, coughing so hard that she knew his head had to have begun hurting.
Had he been someone else, the slightest bit of compassion could be felt. "What do you need?" Her voice was calm, although inside she was beginning to feel the effects of previously checked apprehension.
"Pills!" he managed to get out. A pale but burned hand shot in the direction of the nightstand on the other side of the bed.
There were five bottles, all with counterfeit labeling wrapped around the orange containers. "Which one?"
"All!" He sounded worse.
Claire scooped the bottles up into her arms, hurrying back to him. One by one, she dumped a pill into the palm of her hand, carefully handing them over to him. Anxiety became apparent as she dashed into the bathroom to get a glass of water.
Once he swallowed the medication, he seemed to calm, his breath now shallow.
Before asking how he felt Claire heard a knock on the door. "What the fuck is going on?"
As she reached the bedroom door he coughed again. "Take your gun."
"We're going to talk later," the brunette swore, going to pick up the gun from the kitchen counter where it'd been left. Wesker had to know something to give such a warning. Peering through the peephole revealed nothing, and with a deep breath, Claire pulled the door open almost violently, hoping that none of the other tenants ever witnessed her in one of these moments, because surely there would be plenty more at this point.
No one was in sight. With Wesker's weapon aimed at the floor, she looked left and then right. Then she saw it, a small, black box that had been set in front of her door. Before leaving the doorway, she checked the left again, still seeing no one. Fully expecting the terrorizers to have the ability to hear a pin drop, she walked quietly. Slowly, she knelt to eye what appeared to be a large ring box. Claire's fingers passed over the velvet as she continued to check the hallway before finally picking it up. There was no sure way to know what it was; it could have been a prank, but with all of the revelations spilling forth it also could have been a threat.
Claire turned it away, opening it backward, although there was very little that a ring box could hide. When nothing had sprung out she turned it around, almost dropping it to the ground once the contents were revealed. Bile and last night's tacos threatened to make their way up her throat and out of her mouth. A severed nose was covered in blood and nestled into a wad of tissue.