The encampment - an old base, long abandoned, officially - came with two dormitory barracks buildings, but the men preferred mostly to lodge themselves in town. Marigold had been placed alone in the second one. Wesker had considered placing her in a small hotel just outside the site, but even that posed too great a risk to outsiders at this juncture.
A courier from town came twice a day with food, and the company of mercenaries itself was well-versed in managing a localized canteen for themselves while in the field. He walked the path between the makeshift command office and that second barracks building, aware of the eyes on him.
Perhaps it was in anticipation of combat, or in response to the hormone dosage, but elevating her viral state meant that Marigold was always hungry, in every sense of the word. Any leftovers from catering began to be diverted toward her barracks, and disappeared mere hours later.
She hadn't technically left the building, although the men had spotted her on the roof a few times, observing the training and other activity on the ground. Marigold watched people like a hungry cat watched birds, whether she realized it or not. In any case, it made the men nervous of her, instinctively moving out of reach whenever they had to pass her. That was better for his nerves, if not his ability to focus.
She'd also been craving contact more in the last few weeks, unconsciously turning and clinging to him in her sleep in spite of her waking coolness, which had been wavering under the Chilean summer heat.
Thankfully, there were more banal ways to keep Marigold occupied while he finalized preparations for the days ahead. Miss Wong had taken it upon herself to set up a biweekly movie night in the employee lounge and found that Marigold had a taste for action and crime films from the eighties. She'd been set up with those for the last few days.
Wesker found her asleep in a chair in front of one of these, having long ended and gone to static. He shed his clothes at the door, making his way over and switching off the television as he passed. The room fell into comfortable darkness.
Marigold stirred when he lifted her from the chair, shifting in his arms to take in his scent. Her mannerisms were far more feline than human in this barely waking state. Over the last few weeks, that animal side of her had grown stronger, bolder, in that liminal place.
The patch he had placed on her shoulder that morning would require replacing soon. Marigold reached up to touch the scarring on his chest as sleep slowly fell away.
A month ago, Wesker would have moved her hand away from that place. The scarring was a reminder of his failure, even if it was also proof of the moment of metamorphosis. Marigold had finally caught on and fixed him with a mild look of amusement. "It's so funny what falls out of fashion," she had laughed. "There were entire societies back when I was in school centered around getting a good scar to show bravery. Why do you think all those old men had blades hung in their offices?" She had smiled at the memory, and he had stopped moving her hand away when it would stray there.
Her eyes fluttered open when he set her down in the bed, pulling him down to her mouth. He went easily. The link had gone beyond a communicative tool to something where he could ride the tide of her desire in this state, feel her sink into pleasurable delirium as if he were chasing his own. It was something that had clicked into place only a few weeks prior.
When he first took Marigold into his bed about three months earlier, there had been a certain cynicism to the act. He had felt a particular vindictive pleasure in thoroughly claiming the trophy Lord Spencer had mandated be locked away upon discovering her condition. The virus itself had all but taken the woman by the scruff of her neck and deposited her into his lap.
And…there she'd stayed. He'd required Herculean discipline to stay focused on the mission at hand, but even then, she would serve as a tailor-made distraction at the right moment.
Annette Birkin had been the one to run the tests in 1982 when Spencer had requested to know of her fecundity - whether the virus had restored her ability to reproduce. An old illness had been documented to have left irreparable internal scarring, rendering her sterile as a young woman. But that scarring had been relatively fresh when the infection had happened.
A positive response would have led to tissue harvesting…or something even more invasive. Annette had disappeared to run the examination. Several techs were suddenly reassigned to other areas of the lab on the day the work was performed. Her response had been a flat, resounding 'no', and a hard glare when anyone had asked to look for themselves.
Spencer had accepted the report, and the woman had been relegated to research storage for seventeen years, decanted only for occasional maintenance under strict guard. Annette had seemed thoroughly disgusted by the entire affair, and relieved when it was declared over. Annette's medical ethics had been far less flexible back in those days before the T-virus work had really taken off.
Frankly, ironically, Marigold's old medication was calibrated to behave much more like oral birth control than anything else. It had been the baseline for the patches he now applied twice daily, except now they amplified her drives to a constant state of readiness. While all of that information allowed him a certain degree of latitude in how he used her, there was a growing sense that this disconnected new world would easily separate and swallow her up, now severed from the ties that had once held her in check.
The hormones she was on also had the unexpected side benefit of amplifying her sensitivity. There was an odd softness that had begun to permeate her body. A hand wandered to her breast, palming and squeezing the soft flesh. They had grown fuller in the last week, since he had increased the dosage.
There had been a heady shift in her scent over the last few days. That morning he had driven himself into a frenzy when he had buried his face between her legs in the shower, replacing the patch from the previous evening.
Wesker now pulled aware from her mouth, settling on his back in the middle of the bed. He held himself up in one elbow, the other hand working his stiffening cock to prominence. Marigold bit her lip, watching him, as she often did when these bouts of shy uncertainty hit. This is a change of pace, she sent at him, her cheeks reddening. In this state, words failed her more often than not; but that was rarely a problem these days, now was it?
It's been a long day, and we're finally in the dark. Let me watch you, he responded. I know you worry about hurting someone like this. Don't. You know quite well by now that you won't break me.
In the dark, he could swear the reflective sheen of Marigolds' eyes brightened in sharp lust, and he felt as much wash over him through the bond. A few months ago, saying something like that would have been in warning, rather than in invitation. He reached for her arm, guiding her to straddle him while he lined up his cock, pressing at her waist for her to sink down over him.
The tension she constantly carried through to a consistent tightness in her body. He squeezed her hips in encouragement, and she contracted hard around him in response, eliciting a hard groan. It caught her attention - Wesker had rarely let her drive in their time together - and a thoughtful look flashed across her face before she moved, thrusting against him with purpose.
There had always been a sense of inhuman stillness to her, a focus that pierced and perceived more than a normal human ever could. This focus was on him, entirely, driving towards a steady building feedback loop of cresting waves and heat.
"Good girl," he breathed out through gritted teeth, letting his hands wander up across her body. She leaned down to let him tangle his fingers in her hair, eyes hooded and never leaving his face. When he tightened his grip, her lips parted with a small, breathy sound.
Still trying to hold herself tightly together, even now.
A switch flipped in Wesker, and he reached under her knees to sit up, catching her in mid-thrust with a surprised sound before rolling the both of them so he now lay on top. Her long legs hooked over his arms so that she lay on full display for him. Hands locked at her hips, he took up a brutal pace. Wesker now knew that the force he used was enough to break bones, but Marigold only shuddered and gripped his forearms with equal deadly strength as she gave herself over to the wave overtaking them both.
Tomorrow's mission would risk this; that much was obvious. If all went well, both Ashfords, both her and her nephew, would be caught off-guard. He'd seen how easily lead she was in her anger, and Alfred's temper was already manifesting itself on Rockfort in a similar manner. Bringing her into the field could potentially break Alfred Ashford's will to fight altogether.
Nonetheless, tonight would likely be the last time for a while Marigold allowed him near her, before her drives overtook her once more, to push her back to him. The state that made her so devastating on the field also made her highly suggestible to the right party. Leaving her at the HCF compound was out of the question, as was leaving her here, in reach of scavenging parties. Keeping her in this particular state, with her hormones artificially elevated, and actively maintaining their connection would keep her from lucidity until they arrived on Rockfort Island.
And to insure against that, he had one more measure to deploy, both to keep her under control, and to ensure Umbrella wouldn't be able to get their hands on her once more.
Marigold made a small sound when Wesker pulled out of her, spent, and lay beside her to catch his breath. She stayed where she was. The hazy feeling that she got when Wesker came to her had bled into her days and nights. Her skin sang out with every air current, every piece of cloth that touched her skin.
She had enough experience pushing through this feeling, focusing on getting to a quiet place to take her medication and ride it out, back in the old days. But that was hardly the point of this exercise.
For now, all Marigold could do was remain in the moment, and wait. She had spent the last few days as if underwater, barely tethered to rational thought. Wesker was taking precautions against her likely rebellion once they arrived. The tacky feeling of adhesive on her shoulder, where the patches had been surreptitiously placed, spoke to as much.
The patches wrought hell on her ability to focus, but they masked her secret. If the test she had taken, and subsequently buried was any indication, she was somewhere between six to eight weeks pregnant. In the short window she had taken to speak with Annette Fletcher - no, Birkin - the woman had told her in a dull voice that she'd falsified tests that the higher-ups had requested to confirm whether or not the virus had restored her reproductive capacity.
It had. Marigold had kept that secret buried deeper than most of the others. but Annette had clearly been disgusted with how the whole episode had been playing out, at a time when 'human trials' were unheard of for researchers at her particular level. Marigold had been placed into cold storage afterward with very little fuss, and likely saved her a great deal of trauma.
Neither Annette's husband nor Wesker had known of the falsehood. Why should they? Placidia would be left in place well beyond the time they would be gone from that lab. Who would know?
That information had led to Marigold rationing a small cache of stolen medication meant to dampen her heats, and delay the inevitable. She'd run out in early November, and sure enough, fallen pregnant almost immediately. Once she'd truly succumbed to the heats, it had only been a matter of time.
It was evident that, on some animal level, he was already becoming aware that her body was changing. She could see it in the way Wesker reacted to her scent now, the way her body was just barely beginning to soften. The hormones had been enough for him to explain away these symptoms, but they wouldn't be for long. Another week or two, and something would have given her away.
She couldn't afford that. Wesker and a nervous executive called Mark Oliver had mentioned that they were heading to South America - but to Argentina, to hit the ship George Bailey used to traffic research materials out of Africa.
It had been a good story. It had also been bullshit. Marigold had heard the executive's heart speed up in nervous anticipation at the lie. Even if she hadn't, this was not Argentina.
Argentina would have been a fool's errand and a false lead anyhow, given how Bailey is in the wind. And Bailey was in the wind because she had sent him that way. The fact that Wesker thought she would believe that told her that he'd never worked out the true extent of the little 'network' she had built up once; only the very few she had targeted maliciously.
George Bailey was in the wind, as were several high-ranking directors, and Albert Wesker was none the wiser as to why.
Wesker had asked her just enough, early on, to set her on edge. A little nudge when meeting 'Alan Green' had confirmed that their true target was the paramilitary base. That meant that the target was her nephew, the 'sole' surviving Ashford as far as the world knew.
The day Kate's involvement had been exposed, just a few months earlier, Marigold had forfeited the medication keeping her heats at bay in exchange for testing her elevated abilities to sense out who in her network was still even alive. After Raccoon CIty, she couldn't risk asking to be put on them once more, fearing what else might be introduced blind into her system. It was an imprecise thing, but in the moments before Albert Wesker had caught her out, she had sensed something far south - something with a strange, strong infection, connected to her. Two tiny pinpricks of life in a deep, dark cold.
The children were alive - all of them, even Harman's boy, as she'd found out later. Grown, alive, and each touched or twisted by the horrors Umbrella had wrought while she slept.
Alfred had dearly loved his little war games as a child. From overhearing various soldiers in her addled state, 'he' had carved out quite a little niche in Spencer's empire using that knowledge.
She didn't deny to herself that she'd grown…comfortable in the past few months. That tense quid pro quo dynamic that had kept her from asking questions had gone away around the time they had moved to the compound. Last week, while watching a film, she had finally asked him if the virus would have killed him had he not let the Tyrant do it instead. She had been curled up at one end, while Wesker had coopted the middle and coaxed her legs across his lap. When she asked questions there was the implicit reciprocation of information, as Wesker has learned.
Wesker had contemplated the question. "No," he had said finally. "What I took was designed to work best with a shock of that magnitude, the activate it quickly. When metabolism is suppressed, the virus can bind without having to fight the body. It's risky if the binding is imperfect. That's why the original virus never worked." He had glanced at her, with a hint of a wry smile. "Allegedly, anyhow."
"So if it's slowed down and suppressed…"
"It would still take a long time. You said you felt stronger now than…before." Always the careful skirting of his role in that. " If there were suppression at the very beginning…"
"I wasn't conscious then, if that's what you're asking. It happened right before I went to bed. There was a fever," she offered. Then she paused. "And about three quiet years after. Before I needed to take anything."
"What triggered the change?" A hand had caressed her knee, passed down a calf, and up again. Without the connection, she might not have been able to tell - his ability to mask his expression was on par with her own - but the virus had made him more sensitive to all kinds of stimuli - light, most obviously, and his hearing was almost as good as hers now; but touch was something he was reacquainting himself with to a similar degree she was. Those little bits of teasing contact back in the remote lab had not entirely been a means to get her off balance.
That wasn't in your notes? She had teased.
You made it quite obvious my notes were barely adequate, he shot back. He'd been in a good enough humour, from the accompanying squeeze to her ankle.
"Uncle Spencer decided I'd served my purpose and sent me off to die." She had said in a flat voice. "You get to classify your poisoners when you have as many as I did by dosage and intent. The amount of hemlock that one used made it clear I wasn't meant to walk away. The next few days were…difficult. You've seen what happened later. I'd never given into it before."
Tomorrow would be more challenging than she'd been willing to admit. Wesker had been coming to her with increasing fervor, as if shoring up something that could weather the incoming storm.
But…she'd warned him to stay away from her family. And here he was, about to drag her headlong into the fray.
She knew Rockfort Island. Things would not go the way Wesker thought they would. It seemed that that particular message had failed to permeate.
For Wesker, this episode likely felt like a bump in the road, something to be managed and mitigated.
For Marigold, this felt like a breaking point, ready to be severed away.
Thoughts churning, she turned and let Wesker draw her to him as she drifted into sleep.
It felt like the last time.
Marigold woke hours later to an empty bed, the spot next to her still warm. She found a robe and wandered out to the balcony, where Wesker sat with a cigarette, watching the sunrise.
He turned his head slightly as she approached, letting her steal the cigarette from his hand to take a short drag (better not to inhale, but she wanted the taste of it) before passing it back. The cool morning air had a sweet floral smell to it.
Without a word, she knelt beside him to lean against his shoulder, watching the sunrise in that silent hour of peace. She'd take in all the moments like this she could before that fragile little clockwork world he'd constructed around her ran down and shattered.