Occurs alongside Chapter 25

Marigold took her borrowed access card back from the slot and stepped through. The mechanism auto-locked behind her. I'm not the only one worried about security, Marigold thought wryly. Good. They're thinking.

Someone was moving just beyond the foyer. Not viral, but the meat shield upstairs hadn't quite been either. Marigold cleared her throat. "The next person who wants to take a shot at me, or the family out of spite is going to find that their day can, in fact, get worse. Get out before they decide they're out of patience." Chasing them down meant risking damage to the chelators, or the other precious cargo she carried. "This is as far as mine goes."

The movement stilled. No one emerged. Maybe someone else was keeping a cool head in all of this. If nothing else, they were sitting within striking distance of her niece, and Marigold could give them enough warning for them to deal with the intrusion.

Jill let herself breathe as the woman finally turned and headed up the stairs, presumably looking for the twins.

She hated being right about this. Steve was hiding somewhere- he was the one with the key- but he'd concealed himself somewhere else in the house after she'd gone upstairs for that clusterfuck of a meeting.

Fuck.

Marigold listened for movement at the top of the stairs. Footsteps were echoing away deeper into the wing. She began to walk slowly down the hall, checking each doorway. If Grayson had needed to go down into the facility - if Alexia had allowed it at this point, with everything going down - things had got worse down here.

She found Alfred in the drawing room, even worse than when she found him on Rockfort. He was shaking, badly, and feverish. For now though, his eyes were clear. They found her in the doorway just as the scent of gunpowder reached her. Alfred visibly sagged in relief. "You came back," he said. He sounded exhausted.

"Of course," Marigold replied, stepping into the room. She looked dubiously around at what appeared to be shattered pottery and bullet holes in the walls. "It seems like you've had some excitement while I was out."

Alfred shrugged. "What took you so long?" he asked, peevish.

Marigold made a face. "Your maintenance man decided to let someone out of containment." She sat down next to him so she could get her pack off.

"How?" Alfred asked. He was clear enough to comprehend her, but now she could see that it was a struggle. She shrugged. "I think he called the mercenaries here. It was a mess." The chelators were at the very top, and she pulled out one carefully, loading it into an injector. "I thought we would have at least another day, if they followed at all. They're nearly all dead now. I pulled him off Grayson earlier - he seemed surprised to see me."

Alfred seemed to absorb her words slowly, looking away at that last part. Ah. They'd not got around to telling him yet. "You and your father both have a seriously overdeveloped sense of chivalry when it comes to the girls in the family." He winced a little at the comparison, but it was apt. Between Wesker and Grayson, the remains of Alexander had somehow, perhaps accidentally, managed to attempt to mount a defense of the honor of both Ashford women. Alexander's overprotectiveness of her had been known to a few key parties back in her day, a sort of role reversal from when they'd been children. It was at least partly borne out of the incident with Marcus in Africa, and the responsibility placed on Alexander soon after the Paris accident.

Alfred's possessiveness of his sister as children had been worse. The situation had clearly not improved.

She showed him the injector. "This is a chelator," she said clearly. "I don't know how much time you spent around the roses, but you have some rather bad toxic neuropathy symptoms. Between this and the spores all over the facility, it's no wonder you're having a difficult time."

Alfred stared at the injector. After a long moment, he said, "I…think I might have acted out just now. I don't remember." He winced. "My head hurts. Grayson came back up with some antibiotics."

Marigold eyed the bullet holes in the walls again. "Yes, I think you're right," she said, keeping her voice even. "This should bind the toxins so your body can flush them out. I just finished putting this together, with a few interruptions." She hesitated, then, "You'll feel like you have the flu for a bit while it does its work. If I thought you had the time, I'd wait another day or two. I don't think you have that time. May I?"

She looked at her own hands after Alfred nodded assent. He seemed…sluggish, somehow. Alfred winced a little at the pinch of the needle in his shoulder - her hands had picked up the tremor again after the adrenaline had passed, and Marigold didn't trust herself to go for the neck. After a long moment, Alfred's shaking began to subside, and his bird-like heartbeat evened into something that was less frightening.

His eyes cleared a little more. "I…" he hesitated. "I think that's better."

Marigold smiled a little. "Honestly, I think what everyone needs is about a solid week of sleep. Especially you."

He frowned at her a little. "Are you alright? You've got blood all over you. " he paused, then allowed: "Again, I mean."

She chuckled at that. "I'd like to not make a habit of that." She took a moment to ponder the question seriously. That little tumble she'd taken out in the garden was a bad sign. "The spores are hitting a bit harder to deal with than they normally would, and that Scotsman got a lucky shot off with a gas pellet." Alfred started at that, and she smirked. "Didn't work. He's having a bad day, and I've been exposed to that stuff enough that it's not really effective anymore." She frowned.

"Good," Alfred replied, a little dour.

The footsteps were returning. "Guess I have a bit of explaining to do," she said, more to herself. Marigold pulled the first journal, containing Alexander's prepared instructions, out of her pack. She turned toward the door as two figures appeared there.

Alexia looked harried, but still smirked a bit at her appearance. "You look like bloody Ellen Ripley, Auntie Marigold," she said.

Marigold smiled at her- she couldn't help it. "I know," she said, bemused. "You told me that already, dear." She looked back to Alfred, who was already starting to show a bit of color again. "The antibiotics aren't going to help." It had been a good guess, given the information they'd had on hand. The chelator would consume his energy for a while, but it would also clear most of the chemical stressors from his system. "I gave him something that will though."

Grayson wandered in behind her, looking stricken. "You're supposed to be dead."

Hearing him say it so baldly made Marigold snort in amusement. Same old Grayson. "I hear that a lot these days," she replied. "Seems like death is like the bloody flu in this family. It comes and goes." Marigold eyed Alexia when she said this, and gave Alfred a pat on the arm.

Alexia and Grayson drew closer, and she remembered the journal in her lap. "Here," she said, holding the leather-bound volume out to Alexia.

Alexia flipped it open. "This is Alexander's," she said, leafing through the pages and glancing up at her for confirmation. Marigold knew she was remembering their conversation in the study from earlier.

"It has details about the safe room," Marigold confirmed. Then, "'Where the bodies are buried'."

"Teig O'Kane," said Alexia, snapping the book shut with a smile. It wasn't an escape, but it would serve to shelter them through the self-destruct sequence.

It meant they had a chance. Marigold smiled back. "You've got it."

Grayson stepped forward suddenly and folded Marigold into a hug. She reflexively tensed up for a moment - that wasn't going away anytime soon - then relaxed just enough to pat him on the back. "You've had quite the growth spurt, Grayson."

"Yeah," he said, drawing back, "I guess so, Ma."

Albert Wesker stood over a mangled steel chair, and several fragments of Nosferatu's chitinous back limbs. His brood theory was gaining traction. It seemed that Grayson Harman had come home after surviving Raccoon City, according to Seger's story.

One headache after another.

It had only been around six months since he'd last seen the man who'd cuckolded William Birkin for the four years leading up to the destruction of the NEST, and Raccoon City to follow. Annette's skills and pragmatic nature had been critical to keeping the NEST on an even keel, which meant that it had been left to Wesker to threaten Harman into at least maintaining some discretion. For Annette and Sherry's sake, Harman had complied, but only barely.

After witnessing Alfred Ashford's mania on Rockfort Island, Harman's cool, unflappable contempt of both himself and Birkin made more sense. William had been high-strung, even volatile when angry enough. Growing up next to that powderkeg was an entirely different league.

Segers had told him that 'Delta' had been deeply avoidant of engaging Nosferatu in any sort of combat, but had grabbed a chair and marched out after it the instant she heard gunshots.

Which meant that the fucking idiot he'd spent years blackmailing into maintaining the status quo was not simply an associate, but actively considered family by the woman who had beat him half to death the instant the other fucking idiot appeared to be in peril. Wonderful.

He sighed. Segers had been installed in a room he was quietly sealing up on the research level he'd begun to parse himself, cataloging samples for later analysis. He'd kept carefully out of camera range all the while. Segers wasn't totally out of commission, but he certainly wasn't combat-ready. Several other chitinous sample limbs like these had already been recovered from the BOW level.

He heard McNally before the big man appeared in the corridor, cursing quietly to himself. The man was red-faced, looking somehow swollen and wild-eyed. Far from the sunken-eyed man nearly delirious from exhaustion he'd left below, McNally seemed to be making a conscious effort to seem collected.

A gun for firing BOW gas pellets hung from a strap on his shoulder. Well, Wesker thought, that explains what pissed her off. Segers' account towards the end had been piecemeal and full of holes. Segers wouldn't be reliable for apprehending the family going forward, but he didn't seem aware of that.

McNally approached him, looking wary. "Evenin'," he said, looking awkward. "Ready to go, or are you still hunting for baubles?"

Wesker raised his head to acknowledge the other man. "Care to explain?" He asked, voice dry. The timeline made pretending not to know the other man's fuckup implausible, but McNally seemed confident that the plan was still going forward.

McNally had the gall to rub the back of his neck and grin. "Been down here too fuckin' long, I suppose. The girlie came runnin' out to do this, right after diggin' out a ton o' juicy looking stuff out of the old lab. Couldn't help myself, I had to check the situation out for myself." He gave a sharp laugh, not the phelgmy, sick one from earlier. "Girl looks like a dead ringer for the doctor, don't get me wrong, but none o' them would be caught dead with a West Country accent like that. Damned strong one." He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his coveralls, patting around for a lighter. "Hard to fake."

"And why was it so critical to trundle into the middle of their op?" Wesker asked, voice mild.

McNally continued, though he was clearly sweating. "Well, she seemed to know a lot about the founder's lab, and no one's seen the inside of that for fifteen years," he said. "Got kind of curious, considering how he'd Cask of Amontillado'd himself in there."

Wesker frowned. That didn't add up. "Come again?"

"Y'know, like that Poe story where the guy walls up his enemy inside a wine cellar to starve." Don paused. "Not sure about the wine cellar detail. You get the gist, though." Wesker frowned. "He died in 1968, did he not? The Paris facility had an early accident, and they lost the entire level."

"An' the latest doctor Ashford had an accident in 1983. The closest to a real accidental death of a 'Doctor Ashford' got real close to taking you out earlier, yeah?" Don glanced around. "Come on. I don' mind chatting 'bout ancient history, but some outfit called PABS landed a little while ago. I assumed it was a rescue for the redhead kids, but they've not left yet, and the little shits seem to know what they're doing. Let's have this conversation somewhere a bit more…out of the open?" He swiped at his brow. "Got something ye oughta see anyhow."

Behind his glasses, Wesker shut his eyes for the briefest moment. On top of everything else, he had fucking Redfields to deal with.

Well, Redfields, and a hoodlum with a vendetta. Perhaps he could give them a bit of time to make themselves useful in stirring up the ant's nest. In the meantime, it could be useful to hear more about Don's theory. If nothing else, he'd be able to glean just what Don had fucked up in the plan, and plan around it. "We might as well. Lead the way."

Marigold closed her bedroom door behind her, pack dangling from one hand. Her time in that bloodbath of a facility had affected her more than she'd realized. When Grayson had ventured to thank her for the intervention, her mask of calm had cracked, just enough to snap at Alexia over the debacle. It was true, though - if it had been anyone else holding the syringe…

Well. No one ever accused her of not being protective of her family. She'd got even angrier when Alexia had attempted to throw Alfred under the bus. From the look on Alfred's face, no one had really taken his side against his sister's actions before. That spoke volumes about what life here had really been like.

She'd ground her teeth before she could really lose her temper, and excused herself. On the way out of the drawing room, she'd tossed out that there were people skulking around the house when she'd come in. It would have to do.

Anger, mixed with exhaustion and nausea. She was still covered in blood. Very suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to burn this bloody uniform.

Instead, she went to the bureau. Some of her old clothes - slacks, black sweaters, button-down shirts - were still there. What she had left behind at Rockfort during her last visit had been cleaned and moved here, expectant that she'd come to reclaim them. They had a strong scent of mothballs, but she pulled them out anyways, setting them on the bed. She stared at them a moment, feeling strangely empty. After a moment, she shook her head, heading into the bathroom to wash away the blood for the second time that day.

She turned the hot water up as high as she could stand, scrubbing shampoo through her bloodstained hair. She needed real rest. There likely wasn't time for it. Having to look the kids (not anymore, but that term was entrenched hard in her vocabulary when it came to them) in the eye and tell them that Wesker had followed them here felt like failure.

Once again, she contemplated whether leaving McNally alive was the right call. Every time she'd let one of these bastards live, it created complications. McNally, Segers, Marcus, Zinoviev….

Albert.

The moment you give in to that impulse is the moment someone decides they're justified in putting you down, that cold, logical part of her whispered. Spencer had decided that, back when she'd panicked and tried to flee in 1981.

That last outburst back in the Matilda yard had been calculated, yes, but the consequences still stalked the corridors above. McNally had given him a keycard. Killing McNally would have only expedited the self-destruct sequence, brought him straight to their door, and cut any recovery time Alfred got. Taking Segers (gently) off the board and rattling Don would, however, buy some time, if only because Wesker would have to secure the first and talk the other into a manageable state.

Given how confident McNally had become when he'd realized he could heal quickly, that might take longer than he anticipated.

You're dying, she'd told McNally. That ammonia scent coming off him had been strong at the end, and he'd shown a wild flash of terror at the words. McNally had reason to believe her. She wasn't sure what he'd done to get into that state, but he'd gone behind Wesker's back to do it. Let him be trouble in someone else's road then.

A wave of light-headedness hit her, and her vision swam. Marigold put out her hand to steady herself against the wall and shut off the taps. This…this wasn't good. Maybe it was the sudden shift in humidity, maybe it was the exhaustion, or maybe she'd finally run down her reserves.

Taking a steadying breath, Marigold gingerly went through the motions of finding a towel, then a bathrobe. The light-headed feeling persisted. Standing in the middle of the bathroom, Marigold Ashford willed herself to stabilize. She'd pushed through so many times before.

Then the first shots fired downstairs, and she stepped quickly forward out of instinct - and her body failed her. when she reached out to catch herself, Marigold's hand only found a shower curtain, which she pulled down after her when she hit the floor.