October 18, 1968 - An upscale townhouse on the outskirts of Paris

Alexander stopped in front of his fathers door. Harman saw him and got up from his bedside vigil to meet him. "You just missed your sister," he said in a low voice. "She wouldn't settle, so Poppy took her out to walk the Toullieries. They might be back in an hour or so."

"At least three," Alexander said automatically. At Harman's questioning look, Alexander sighed and explained. "There's no one here to pick a fight with. She's going to pace the Toullierie Gardens while glaring and chain-smoking until someone tries to get her to stop." Alexander chuckled. "Except it's Paris, and no one cares. Even if a tourist is foolish enough to for something, she won't do anything to upset Poppy. It's amazing what she used to get away with, to be frank. Marigold will have to be more careful now. I'd wager she's furious about that in particular."

Harman blinked. Marigold had shown herself to have some real steel in her when they had rescued Edward from the lab, but, "…she handled herself shockingly well, Alexander. Give your sister some credit."

"I'm aware. She's blowing off steam, and needs the break. Ask Poppy what happened after if you think I'm being unfair." He looked past Harman's shoulder. "Is he awake?" Edward Ashford had been swimming in and out of consciousness for the previous day. None of the family had been willing to leave his side, but his sister had been almost belligerent about the very idea of taking a break.

Alexander had had less of a choice. The lab accident had been declared a total loss of everyone in range of the release. Lord Spencer had paid off a private mortuary for the use of their oven to burn the bodies offsite; they were already well aware of what unmanaged exposure would bring. The chaos of that night meant that Lord Ashford was already presumed to be reduced to a small container of ash. The urn had been delivered by two stone-faced attendants the previous evening. Thankfully, Harman had interceded on his behalf to manage the interaction.

They'd been watching him very carefully.

Harman stepped aside to let the young man in. "He's been dozing for the last few hours, but he asked for water earlier."

The man in question cleared his throat from the bed, tried to sit up. The horrid webbing had mostly dissipated from his skin. Edward Ashford was still clammy and deathly pale, his voice weak when he looked to the two men in the doorway. "Don't just stand there gawking, help me up." They'd started him on a regime of antiviral drugs and fluids almost immediately. They did as they were asked, hauling the sick man into a sitting position. Alexander took the chair by the bedside. "There you are. You were incredibly lucky, you know."

Edward was silent for a long moment. "Probably no more than either of you would have been, if I was the only one to make it out. There's only one variable, you realize." He coughed hard into his fist. Harman cast a worried look at Alexander, and the young man felt himself turn to stone. Edward finished his thought. "The previous exposure. Sonnetroppe's too strong for us to get that lucky twice."

"You might be. We put you on quinine right away to inhibit the virus, it worked for her." Alexander hated the desperate note creeping into his voice.

"Time will tell," Edward replied. Even talking right now was draining his energy. "It seems, at least, that we've bought some. What did Oswell say about all of this?"

The room went silent. Then, Harman spoke. "Someone called the house almost immediately and informed the young lady that you were dead. No one had gone in yet, but they apparently seemed quite sure. Your daughter's contrarian streak might have saved your life, sir."

Edward didn't reply right away, but sagged back into the pillows propping him up as if dealt a physical blow. "I see," he said finally. Then, "…quinine won't hold it forever."

There had been so much time before. "No," Alexander said, staring hard at the quilt covering his father. Edward sighed. "This leaves you both vulnerable, now, you realize."

Alexander grimaced. "We have more important things to worry about right here," he argued.

Edward went silent for a moment. Downstairs, the doorbell rang a jarring tone, and Harman excused himself to deal with what he presumed was another bloody casserole for the grieving family.

Finally, the older man spoke. "Oswell has another project running."

Alexander looked up. "What?"

"Do you remember the psychiatrist that would meet with the group of us at Spencer's estate? The one who worked in child development."

"Doctor Wesker? Vaguely. Marigold didn't like him." He snickered in spite of himself. "I think he tried to talk to me once, back with Uncle Spencer first came back, and she bloody bit him."

"She was only eight, and that man had a terrible habit of looming up out of nowhere." Edward automatically jumped to defend the feral housecat his daughter had become for a few years after the death of their mother. "He was gathering a list of candidates. I…hadn't heard of much surrounding that project since, but," he said with a grimace, "well, there were reasons to keep you close while making sure your sister was out of everyone's orbit. Though I'm sure she disqualified herself by virtue of ensuring the man needed stitches."

Alexander stared at his father. He knew the scope of what the Umbrella Project truly entailed, but Edward had kept this from him. "Candidates for what?"

The older man sighed, a deep, unhappy sound. "Adapters. Ones who subscribe to the project's ideals." He cleared his throat again. "I don't know the details. Oswell goes quiet sometimes, and the new facility in America has been holding his focus over the past year. Why didn't you tell anyone I survived?"

Alexander ground his jaw. "Marigold was deeply suspicious of that phone call. She went in wearing a gas mask and my clothes, then dragged Harman along to retrieve you. I don't know the details, but Marigold's been itching to fight someone. Allegedly, they delivered your ashes last night." he scrubbed at his face. "I tell her what you told me and all she'll see is a target."

Edward hesitated, then nodded. "If we can't find a solution, the two of you will have to play to your strengths. Your sister is clever, but she has a temper- she's got the disposition to handle the politics so long as she's got a cool head. Given how little we know about her condition, knowing that could cause more problems than it might solve without…refinement." He quirked a humourless smirk. "And the both of you will have to keep an eye on the other two - Marcus and Spencer. She can't go marching into a facility like that again, people will ask questions."

"You want us to keep her condition secret," Alexander's eyes widened in realization. "I thought we were only waiting until you knew she was stabilized."

Edward groaned. "You may be wiser to delay that until the situation stabilizes."

Alexander continued to stare, trying to process the enormity of what his father was trying to tell him, when Harman's approaching footsteps echoed in the hall. The man stopped at the door, looking flustered. "Sir? There's a woman here that you might remember from our fieldwork last year."

In spite of the somber atmosphere, Edward's brows shot up, and he gave Harman a sly smile. "I'm sure you certainly did."

Harman flushed. "May I invite her up to speak with you? She just may have a lead that you could follow for your…situation."

Alexander frowned. "Can we trust her to be discreet?"

Harman gave an embarrassed laugh and replied. "Oh, I'm sure we can - she's…quite motivated to collaborate. She's waiting downstairs."

Alexander looked back at his father, who was straightening in his seat. "I suppose there's no time like the present. Please tell Miranda that I'd be pleased to see her."

Occurs alongside Chapter 25 s/14128148/25/The-Antarctica-Incident

Segers found his path to the elevator - really, there was only one place to go - almost unimpeded by active hostiles moaning for his warm blood. Still, it took an extra minute to pick through the carnage outside the door before breaking into a light trot.

He slowed as he neared the bank of elevators. Delta still had the serum she'd promised, and McNally…something was wrong with McNally. There was a weird 'roid rage quality to him that didn't gel with the careful nature his communications had suggested. Fuck. He'd have to wait for her to get back. He thought to call this incident in, but…no. Delta would be right behind him. So far, she'd… protected him. He'd see whether she could keep her word.

Maybe the old bastard had finally snapped. Allegedly, he'd been working here for decades. A chance to take a little revenge on someone with the Ashford look might have been too much to resist.

That thought felt off to Segers. McNally's behaviour had a weird chemical quality to it, like an altered state.

He really wished someone had put a damned tracker on Noseferatu. Sure, it telegraphed its impending attacks, but it would be nice to know if it was even on the same floor anymore. Then again, his boss had tried to bell the other cat from that litter, which had just gone so well.

The lighter footfalls of Delta's boots began to ring out behind him, and Segers let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Nice of you to show up," he drawled. "Please tell me you left him able to still send data. If only for that." He let out a long, shaking breath.

Delta materialized from the shadows, pack on her shoulders. "He'll walk out on his own power. I've only delayed him." There was a hard set to the woman's jaw. Somehow, Segers imagined that he could actually feel her roiling anger, though her expression was merely stony. She looked at him. "He has access to the mansion?"

Segers shrugged. "I heard the same thing you did." He hesitated. "So what now?"

Delta leaned forward to press the button calling the main elevator. "Don't think either of us want to be around when he gets here. I doubt that little tantrum was sanctioned, and that man doesn't seem like the type who suffers the existence of witnesses." She looked at him. "I appreciate that you tried to de-escalate, but there was no talking that one down without a show of force. Not after he saw my face."

Segers shifted his feet, feeling uncomfortable. This felt weirdly friendly. He'd been on a hair trigger when he'd spotted her only a few hours ago, but now that anxiety was just…gone. He didn't feel sluggish, or drugged in any way, just…alert.

The elevator doors chimed. Delta tensed, relaxing again when she saw the lift was empty. Segers stepped forward to climb in.

It took a couple of seconds too long to realize that Delta had slipped behind him. The cold bite of a needle pierced the meat of his neck. Too late, he propelled himself forward into the elevator. "What the fuck?!" he squawked.

Delta held an injector in her hand- she'd been hiding it - and leaned into the lift to punch the button for the hanger bay level. "I told you I'd give you the treatment," she said, calm.

"You said shouldn't until…" he trailed off. She'd told him that it would wipe his reserves, and to wait until after the mission to take it. She was taking him out of the mission early. She quirked a small smile at him. "Call it an early sick day. Do you really want to be mixed up in what happens next?" She hit the CLOSE button and stepped out, doors shutting out that ghostly visage.

Fuck. Segers hit the floor for the location Wesker had actually told him to report to, and thumbed his radio. "Sir? Beta team's target made an appearance and picked a fight. He seems unstable, sir." His head already felt like it was packed with cotton.

A beat. "Report."

Whatever was in that serum was making his head swim. "He said he got stung earlier? I'm not sure what he took, but Delta got a nasty little surprise before she beat the shit out of him." He paused, then, "he's operating off of educated guesses that were allowed to stand. Tried to buddy up to me right before she got back up again and snapped his fucking arm." Segers winced. "I didn't think she'd just inject me with the damned serum. I might be out of commission for a bit once I get there."

A longer beat this time. "Get to the meeting point, and we'll set up a secured position. Knowing what that serum does may be valuable in its own right."

Segers grinned. If it was Alfred taking this shit, then the odds of the hidey-hole becoming a honeypot went way up. With half their partly injured or too sick to fly, and the psycho holding the kill-switch, the Ashfords could stew in their hole for just a little while longer while desperation set in.

Marigold stumbled out of the private lift to the mansion and down the corridor. Her head was pounding where she'd hit it. The gas round hadn't kept her down for long, but it had taken adrenaline and extraordinary willpower to hold herself together a little while longer afterward in order to extricate herself from Segers. He might not agree, but removing him from the line of fire now that everyone was preparing to move had been an act of mercy.

Her pupils shrank to pinpricks when she came back to the hydroponic garden at the courtyard. The extra light sent her headache from an ache to a throb, and her gorge rose once again. Doesn't seem to matter that I have an empty stomach at this point, she thought. She stumbled and fell down to one knee, waiting for her head to clear again.

The exposure from earlier was giving her a terrible headache. The back of her head was sticky with blood, though the wound had already closed over. It hurt enough that she suspected a hairline fracture. Remember the last time that mess got into your system, she thought blearily.

And perhaps a little too openly. Wesker's voice was in her head again, for the first time since she'd escaped Rockfort. What did you do? There was something clipped in his tone. Restrained.

Definitely still angry about that one time she put her foot down.

Head swimming, she snapped back. What did I do?! That is a question you should be asking your new friend. Have fun. With any luck that encounter upstairs would have spooked them all into regrouping for a bit, buying the family some time. They'd have to do something about their McNally, most likely, assuming he wasn't just turned loose as a battering ram. Marigold would be happy to take another swing at him, at least, but…that was inviting complications.

She shook her head and clamored back to her feet. They didn't have time for this. She needed to get the family ready to move.

That little moment of distraction was all it took for a tendril from the wall to make exploratory contact with his arm. Wesker jerked his arm away, seizing the thing in a gloved hand. The tendril wriggled reflexively. So much for the element of surprise, he thought. Out loud, he muttered, "Goddamned thing," ripping it from the wall in frustration and smashing it under his boot.

From Segers' initial report - and Marigold's indignant little taunt just now - McNally was turning himself into a liability. Still, the man was a useful source of information, and he was, at the end of the day, still only human. So long as whatever chemical rage was pointed in the right direction - and it was so very clearly primed as such - he could work within the parameters given.

Have fun. Unbelievable. It wasn't lost on him that, had the target been anyone else, the two of them would have swept this place up by now rather than actively getting in each other's way. She'd put about as much effort into hiding the existence of the upcoming trap as Redfield had last year in concealing the 'surprise' birthday party in the STARS office. The fact that she'd outright told him of it did nothing to put him at ease.

Then again, a pissed-off McNally might be a bit freer with information this time around, and she hadn't given away anything that would have the man running to Spencer for a better deal.

He couldn't afford to be distracted like the puppy-eyed rookie cop Wong had strung along in Raccoon City. So long as the situation could be steered in the right direction, he still had confidence in his control over this mission.

Inside Don McNally's body, a time bomb was ticking down. Viral adapters, people suited to bond to the T-Virus, were incredibly rare, determined primarily by genetics. Had Don been a viable candidate, he would have found himself under the tender care of Sergei Vladamir years ago under the Tyrant program, thanks to Umbrella's extensive regular medical screenings.

Whether a blood transfusion from an adapter to an ordinary human was even viable was unknown. Don hadn't considered this, only seeing a trait he could use to dig out of his own situation and leveraging the shit out of it to save his own life. Now, those antibodies were burrowing into the muscle tissue they had previously regenerated from necrotizing due to previous venom exposure.

Had anyone qualified been in the mood to tell Don why it wouldn't work, they might have mentioned that the polyclonal gammopathy, the uncontrolled rate of antibody production was sweeping through his body, was as bad as any virus Umbrella could come up with. Worse still, the period of euphoric grace holding his system in a state of heightened equilibrium had been cut in half or worse when he'd baited the smaller soldier to a fight.

Don groaned, touching his throat gingerly as the pain regressed. The girl had a mean little jab, he'd give her that much. He'd need another few minutes before he really trusted his knee enough to put real weight on it, but the pain had dulled to a healing throb.

He was pretty sure the bitch had been humming the tune to Jefferson Airplane's "White Rabbit" when she left.

He still ought to get off the ground, at any rate. Rolling up, he reached for one of the scattered chairs on the ground and unfolded one, hoisting himself into it. He eyed the hole torn in the wall by that…thing…that had knocked him out cold for a few moments. It seemed to be gone now. Suddenly, the broken camera in here made all kinds of sense. Delta must have been careful not to touch any of that stuff in here while she was using this room. He stretched his bad leg out and pulled his toughbook into his lap. A blind spot was still a blind spot.

The machine was in good working order, and the woman - BOW, he corrected himself - hadn't seen fit to grab it. That had been a lucky break.

Wesker was down on Alexia's research level for now, but he was making his way over to the elevators. Another lucky break in his favor- the other soldier had been sent off before the BOW had done any real damage. He could explain away a dislocated arm. They hurt like a bitch to reset, but it wasn't unheard of. A broken knee and crushed trachea would have been harder to brush off.

So, fine - the power had gone to his head for a moment, and he'd picked a presumably soft target that had turned out to be hard as nails. Worse, he had a distinct feeling that she'd been toying with him when she'd knocked him down, and there had still been real damage done - without this new regeneration factor, he would have suffocated from those two little hits to the throat. The best way to play this off would be grudging respect, while holding to doubt. The mask of the happy fool wouldn't quite work, anymore, but it would take him far enough.

Don pulled the handwritten card from his vest. It was Alexander's spidery writing, he was sure of it. There was some sort of airborne toxin being created from his own research - the man had been obsessed with something in the botanical lab in his final years - as well as another from Alexia's work. This, whatever it was, was designed to remove both from the human body as a countermeasure. The BOW and the other soldier had been in a hell of a hurry to make some. And here he'd thought that she'd just been trying to work out whether old Edward had walled himself up in his own old lab, like an old Poe story.

Don scanned the card a bit further, then returned to that summary. Toxins. There'd been a proper treatment all along.

Well, it would hold for now, and he still felt fucking fantastic, if a touch annoyed. If either of those things were still in the air, his leverage over Wesker just increased.