"You wanna tell me what the fuck that was back there?" he asked Alexia, once the tentacle-things had gone away.

"Hyphae," said Alexia, and when he asked her what the fuck that meant, she just shrugged and said, "Does it matter?" She looked at him. "It got us out of the stasis room, did it not?"

The ants had retreated to their nest, which Grayson realized was much bigger and went much deeper than he'd initially thought, and the catwalk was relatively clear of pests. A winged ant buzzed by his ear, and he raised his hand to swat it—then remembered that was a bad idea, and watched it zip up and away from him before returning his attention to Alexia. "Yeah," he said, "I think it does matter, Lex. You just did some Cthulhu shit."

"There are no Elder Gods sleeping under the Antarctic ice whispering forbidden knowledge in my ear, darling," replied Alexia, rolling her eyes. She snorted. "Though I wish that were the case." Alexia paused as if second-guessing herself, then said, "Actually, no, I take that back. I'd just be driven to madness. It never ends well for Lovecraft's protagonists. Anyway, that's all fiction."

"You know what else is supposed to be fiction?" Before she could reply, Grayson said, "Tentacles and hibernation chambers, Lex. Those are supposed to be fiction."

"If that has your knickers in such a twist, darling, then wait until you see what else I can do."

"I don't like the sound of that."

Alexia stretched out her hands as if in presentation, and her palms were covered in something red and wet, and the red, wet stuff erupted into flames. The hellfire fumes of sulfur and something like gasoline gave the air teeth, and then the fires went out, and Alexia's skin was unburned. The smell lingered unpleasantly, souring the air, and there was a metallic edge to it that made him think of blood. Then she said, "My blood isn't really blood anymore. It's more akin to a chemical. Higher concentrations of magnesium, I believe, among other things—I'll need to study a blood sample, however, to know for sure."

Grayson had seen so much weird shit already that her demonstration barely fazed him. Another day, another freakshow. And despite whatever weirdness was going on in Alexia's body, she was still Alexia, and Grayson loved her. "Where the fuck did the blood come from?" he asked. "I didn't see you cut yourself."

"Secreted," she replied, as if secreting flammable pseudo-blood was a perfectly normal thing, and he was weird for thinking it wasn't. "Seems the mutation created a new exocrine gland."

"Okay," he said, evenly, "that's it. I've reached my Sterling Limit."

"Darling, what the hell is a Sterling Limit?"

"You know, Rod Sterling. Twilight Zone. What I call the limit a person has for weird shit." Grayson ran his hands back through his hair, and said, "And I have reached my Sterling Limit, my apogee for weird shit."

"You're far too dramatic," said Alexia, waving a dismissive hand through the air.

"I'm not the one juggling fire and summoning Cthulhu-tentacles."

"Hyphae," she corrected.

"Tentacles," he insisted. "Big fucking tentacles." Grayson turned to the railing, almost putting his hand down on an ant. He waited for it to take off before leaning on the handrail, staring down into the depths of the facility. The nest went down and down, and he wondered how deep. It hit him, then—the perturbation. He just needed a moment. Just a moment to let the weird shit sink in. Rifling through his pockets, Grayson came up with his crumpled pack of Marlboros, and he lit a bent cigarette. The cigarette settled his nerves.

"Are you all right?" asked Alexia, and she was beside him, arms folded, her tall, willowy body lost in the shapeless billow of the oversized lab coat.

"Kinda?" he said, indecisively.

Alexia sighed. "Grayson."

"Alexia."

She regarded him with a bland look. "Honestly," she said, and shook her head. Narrowing her eyes, Alexia said, "You're being ridiculous. I'm not going to hurt you. I would never hurt you." Her eyes traveled to the cigarette smoldering in his fingers, and she asked, "When did you start bloody smoking?"

"After you went away."

Her mouth became a thin, hard line, her expression unreadable. Then her expression slowly became one of confusion, but Alexia said nothing, waiting patiently for him to elaborate.

Grayson considered not telling her, but decided against it; Alexia would find out eventually, and she'd always been good at seeing through his bullshit anyway. "How much did you hear while you were in hibernation?" he asked, studying her in his periphery. "You were clearly aware to some extent. You heard me say that thing about Christmas."

"Not much, honestly," she replied. "I had periods of awareness. Very brief periods. But as my torpor was concluding, I was becoming more cognizant."

"I wasn't there, Lex." The words dropped from his mouth like stones into water.

Alexia stared at him.

"I was in Raccoon City," he said. "I wasn't here. In Antarctica. Alfred never told me about you. About what really happened."

"You thought I was dead," she said, understanding.

Grayson nodded. He finished his cigarette and put it out on the railing, then flicked the butt down into the depths of the facility.

Neither of them said anything for a stretch of time, listening to the chitter and buzz of the ants. Then Alexia spoke. "Is there someone else?" She looked at him with calculated hurt.

"There was," he admitted. "She's gone now. So is Raccoon City."

Now Alexia looked angry, and there was an unsettling coldness in her eyes. "Who?" she demanded, her tone as icy as her gaze.

"It's not important," he said, because he didn't want to talk about Annette right now. And Grayson felt he owed that dignity to Annette: to let her rest in peace without someone hating her for no other reason than the fact she'd had the gall to love him. "She's dead, Alexia. Leave it alone, please."

Alexia said nothing. Then, when an appropriate amount of cold silence had passed, she said, "It's been fifteen years. Do you have any"—she swallowed hard—"children?"

"No," said Grayson, and shook his head. "She had a daughter, but we never had any kids together. We almost did, but… I don't really wanna talk about it." He looked at her, pleadingly. "Alexia, please. Just leave it the fuck alone. I'm begging you."

"How long were you together?"

He sighed. "Four years."

"So it was a serious relationship," she said, curtly.

"Yes."

Alexia had always been a fan of applying the thumbscrews when she wanted to know something, and she asked, very bluntly, "Would you have chosen her over me?"

Grayson hesitated, choosing his words carefully. Then, "I'm glad I didn't have to make that choice."

She stared at him, pursing her lips. "You're lucky," said Alexia, glowering at him, "that I love you, Grayson."

"I am," he agreed. Grayson pushed away from the railing. The lights flickered on, but the heat remained at the bare minimum: enough to warm the facility, but only to the point the cold was tolerable. "Technicians must have gotten one of the back-up generators online. Hallelujah. But the elevator's still locked."

As Grayson said that, however, the elevator rattled open: Alfred stepped off it, running with a limp. There was blood soaking through his pant-leg, on his right shin. When he saw them, he lurched to a stop. Make-up smudged his face, giving him an almost clownish appearance. "Alexia," he gasped, completely ignoring Grayson and making his way to his twin sister. Just as Alfred was about to throw his arms around Alexia, a tentacle shot up from the depths of the facility, from the darkness far below the nest, and wrapped around Alfred's throat, heaving him off the floor and slamming him into the wall. He wriggled helplessly in the thing's grasp, trying to pry it free, mouth opening and closing like a fish's as his lungs struggled to take in air.

"You," hissed Alexia, moving closer to him, "have a lot to answer for, Alfred."

"Alexia, please—"

"Alexia, let him go," said Grayson.

Alexia ignored him, her clinical gaze fixed on Alfred. The look on her face was terrifying, like a spider dispassionately observing a fly. The tentacle tightened around Alfred's throat, and he gasped, clawing uselessly at it. "You," she intoned, "kept my hibernation a secret from Grayson. He found another woman for a short while, dear brother. You almost made me lose him."

"Alexia," said Grayson, putting his hand on her shoulder, trying to pull her away, to distract her from Alfred, "leave him be. He's not okay in the head. He might have forgotten." He paused, adding, "I think he did forget. To a point." Alfred's face was turning an unnerving shade of blue, and Grayson could see consciousness slipping away from him. He continued his plea to Alexia: "He's your twin brother, Lex. Don't kill him. Do it for me. Alfred's an asshole, and sometimes I wanna kill him too, but he's my asshole, my best friend, and I don't wanna see him die."

Alexia swore under her breath. The tentacle released Alfred, and he dropped like a sack of rocks to the floor. His throat was bruised, and Grayson helped him to his feet. "If you ever go against my instructions again, Alfred," said Alexia coolly, "I will kill you. Is that understood?" When Alfred nodded and said yes, he did understand, Alexia's eyes settled on his face. She was expressionless. "Why on Earth are you wearing make-up?"

Alfred wiped at his face, and his hand came away mottled with paint. His forehead creased, and he wheezed, "I don't know."

Grayson looked at Alexia. "It's a long story, and one I'll happily tell you when we're somewhere fucking warm."

The three of them stepped into the elevator, and Grayson maneuvered himself between the twins as a buffer. Alfred fed his keycard to the lift's card-slot, and it hummed upward. A tangible awkwardness (it wasn't helped by the fact that Alexia was naked underneath the lab coat, and Alfred's face was smeared in make-up) hung in the air, and Grayson found it funny if he imagined tinny cha-cha musak playing in the background—the kind that used to play in grocery stores and in elevators when he'd been a kid. He giggled at the thought, and the twins looked at him as if he'd grown another head.

"What's so funny, Grayson?" asked Alexia.

"Remember the muzak used to play in grocery stores when we were kids?"

She nodded.

"Now imagine that music while we're standing here in silence."

Alexia did. She laughed. Alfred just grimaced in pain, staring at his reflection in the chrome paneling.

When they were back in the mansion, Grayson thanked God for the heat, then took a look at Alfred's leg once they were in the drawing room. Alexia excused herself for a shower, and a change of clothes.

Someone had shot Alfred in the leg (the bullet had missed bone and passed right through), and when he asked Alfred about the wound, he said, "One of the Rockfort prisoners I'd sent here shot me."

"You sent the prisoners here?" asked Grayson, opening a first-aid kit.

"I did. Remotely locked"—Alfred hissed sharply and punched him in the shoulder when he started cleaning out the wound—"their flight-path. That bloody hurts, Grayson. Watch what you're doing!"

"Stop squirming, Alfred." Grayson finished, then carefully bandaged his leg, securing it with strips of medical tape. Then he asked, "Do you know anything about Claire Redfield?"

Alfred peered at him with suspicion, then asked, "How do you know her?"

"I met her in Raccoon City. Recognized her on the camfeed. How'd she wind up on Rockfort?"

"Having second thoughts about your philosophy regarding the prisoners, Grayson?"

"No, just curious."

"She broke into one of the Paris labs," said Alfred.

Grayson was kneeling on the floor in front of Alfred's overstuffed armchair, and he looked up at him with disbelief. "A nineteen-year-old girl broke into a secured Umbrella facility?" Claire had been impressive in Raccoon City, but Grayson doubted she was impressive enough to pull off something like that without help. He stood up, packed away the first-aid kit into a nearby cabinet. "She must have had help," he said, finally. "There's no fucking way."

"Shortly after she arrived on the island, it was attacked," said Alfred. "I think she was working with them."

"Working with who?" he asked.

"They call themselves the H.C.F, the Host Capture Force," said Alfred. "Some sort of special forces group."

"I don't think Claire has any ties like that, Alfred. She's just a kid."

Alfred wasn't placated by that explanation, and waved it off, confident in his assessment that Claire was, in fact, some sort of special forces agent. Grayson wanted to tell him how absurd that sounded, that some nineteen-year-old college kid was working with some special interest military group and had coordinated an attack on Rockfort, but figured there was no point; when Alfred was convinced of something, there was no telling him otherwise—not unless it was Alexia telling him otherwise.

"Alexia's been gone too long," said Alfred, darting a look at the door. The bruise around his throat had turned a nasty shade of purple, and his voice came out like a scrape. "We should check on her."

"She's showering, Alfred."

Alfred looked at him. "I suppose with the power outage, you wouldn't know what's going on in this facility."

"Should I be worried?"

"I should think so. The T-Virus is here, Grayson."