Wesker followed McNally back to a small lab space that had very recently been cleaned up. A dead hunter lay in a pile of chairs similar to the one he's found smashed by the elevators a few moments ago. McNally unfolded his toughbook on the central bench, glancing back at him. "Aye, that's the lass' handiwork. That too," He nodded up to the destroyed camera. "Made a little hidey-hole after makin' herself obvious all over the facility. Drew attention. As distractions go, not bad. Nosferatu diggin' them out spoiled it though." He typed away furiously, pulling up footage and notes. "We're probably clear here for a mo'. Ah!" He keyed in a code, hit SEND, and grinned at Wesker. "Fresh batch, served up to headquarters. They're supposed to have their vote soon, with the board, but beyond that it's between the old man an' his nucelar button."

"Hyperbaric, but I see your point." Wesker looked at the video McNally had pulled up. "That's on this floor?"

"Ye," McNally admitted, deflating a bit. "It's probably not on this floor anymore, not since it can't get any decent eats without getting its kills stolen." Don hit play on the video. "Kid had been masked up good and proper, playing defense till this one. Technically, this is either the fourth run-in or a follow-up to the third."

There it was, in black and white: Harman stalked by Nosferatu, only to be tackled by his own sister.

Another window was queued up behind it. Don hit play in this as soon as the first ended. "Kid ducked around it taking out Beta and took off, but I think Gamma made enough noise to draw it in the way back." This one showed Segers and Marigold walking down a corridor, Segers trailing a Marigold who was mostly ignoring him. There was an irritated tension in her ramrod straight posture. On sighting Nosferatu, she'd turned and clapped a hand over Segers' mouth, presumably to silence him. Too little, too late- the creature was already climbing down. Given his story, that had likely been the point of infection.

She hadn't been able to bring herself to finish it off. "You mentioned a 'Cask of Amontillado' incident?"

McNally glanced at him. "Shit, you were serious about that? Yeah. The official story's always bullshit, you know that. This probably wasn't even the first cover-up, though it was probably a big one given how long the old sod's name kept this place in operation these parts all these years, till the little girl took her shot and burned on it. They needed people to keep this place running at the start, and things got a little too hot to hang around back home when Umbrella headhunted me. Poor codger showed up a few weeks after the new year, in '69, coughing up a storm. Lingered a while tryin' to save himself. Dinnae realize it was him at first, managed keep himself out of sight. Someone was pulling a ton of power to that old lab though." **McNally smirked. "Dinnae fucking work, mind - the power stopped flowin' so hard sometime that spring - but there was awhile when, well maybe."

Don leaned against the desk and pulled out a cigarette. "The son - ye've made his acquaintance, tho dunno if ye've ever met in life, prickly little shit - knew about it. The lingering. But well, you saw for yourself how talkative he is these days*.* Got maybe three names in its entire vocabulary left."

"Ah," Wesker mused. "I'd wondered. It spoke the twins' names when I happened upon it."

Don nodded. He seemed to find Wesker's phrasing amusing. "It'll sometimes ask for Mary, but that could be anyone. I thought it was the sister for a while - it fits - but I think that one moved on after '68, and she wasn't mentioned much at all." Don's lighter caught, and he took a long drag. "Probably a mercy that poor old bitch died before that next shitstorm hit with the batch in the mansion, especially since the line's probably ending in this shithole. Assuming the little bint you brought ain't been dealt in, obviously."

Officially, Spencer had announced Marigold's death publically in early 1982, after a 'brief illness'. The Ashfords had refused to allow a declaration without evidence. Quietly, and it had been their only real resistance to it, but all the same, it had vexed Spencer. After seven years there had been some effort to have the woman declared dead, but the Ashford estate had blocked the effort and refused to allow it to happen. Parties close to Spencer had convinced the old man it wasn't worth the fight. "You said three attacks?"

McNally's mouth twisted like he'd been caught on a fishhook. His face was red, and he looked strangely swollen. "Nosferatu won't really attack her. Couple of standoffs before it fucked off. Whatever repels that is too useful not to bring into the mansion if you're serious about getting in Doctor Ashford's face."

She'd maintained a cover, at least. Wesker was, however, becoming increasingly wary of how this man's heart was racing. He seemed feverish.

As if sensing his scrutiny, Don reached into his coveralls and produced a laminated card. "Nearly forgot. They left this little thing behind." He held it out to Wesker. "Says it's a chelator? It's Alexander's writing. That second one's a plant in the greenhouse, and I think the third one's in the vicinity of that. Dunno what the first is."

Wesker took the card as McNally talk, scanning it - and paused. A chelator was meant to draw out toxins. This one was designed to manage side effects - calendula-A, calendula-B, and mycosis. Powdered extracts from the second two were called for, in a style that suggested it had been simplified to a painful degree for a layperson to manufacture. There had been a wry note that 'the source for calendula-a bites, and must be approached with caution if used at all despite the pure strain available.'

Asteracae calendula was the Latin taxonomic name for marigolds.

The mycosis was how she had convinced Segers to assist, but that had sounded like a new phenomenon, facility-wide. If Marigold had risked coming up here, and staying up here long enough to manufacture a batch, she was either treating herself or treating family. Actually, that woman was not one for taking care of herself when it came to overdoing it.

Considering Marcus' decline, Alfred's illness may have had a vector not yet considered. Segers had been right.

During his explorations, he'd picked up a spare drive from maintenance, now stored securely in his vest. It had bourne the seeds of a contingency plan that might have to be induced to germinate if the situation were to worsen. Out loud he asked, "What areas were sealed off before the outbreak?"

Don scratched at his beard, clearly slightly more at ease now. "Alexia's research level. The BOW level you were on, obviously. The research level drew a lot of power that we couldn't explain before. Most of it didn't even go to that stasis room, it was fairly efficient. They were keeping the bloody ants alive, probably a greenhouse as well from the amount of waste heat shunted into one of the rooms down there." Don thought a moment longer. "Couple of old sealed systems no one ever activated, too. They were hard to track and manually activated. If they ever turned into anything, it's not on the facility plans." He grinned. "Can't forget the emergency exits for the mansion, of course."

Wesker felt himself go still, finally letting his anger rise. "You didn't mention those." If they had a back door out of the mansion…

There was less time to deal with them than he'd thought. Segers could check the research-level schematics for what they were looking for, now that he was temporarily immune to the stuff. As for T-Veronica, he'd have to deal with Alexia first. This was likely the best time to strike at the family, before they had time to regroup. Something was off with Marigold. He'd sensed intermittent vertigo earlier, a sense of pervasive exhaustion she was trying to wall off. If he took the blocker before she could get into his head, she wouldn't be able to do nearly as much damage.

He might not be able to get a perfect moment to strike as things stood, but it was as good as any.

McNally gave him a nervous look. "How long you plannin' to let them stew?" Wesker had been planning to return to the research level. The greenhouse might yield answers to what was on the card. McNally also still had the T-Veronica data. With Nosferatu on the loose, the spindly legs shed in battle were a start, but not ideal as tissue samples went….

Don was breathing too hard, his heart hammering in his chest. While Wesker had been considering their next move, Don had peeled himself out of his parka, like it was suddenly suffocating him. His breathing was suddenly labored, coming out in strained grunts. The Scotsman looked at him in panic.

The man pitched forward, catching himself on the lab bench for support. "Fuck," he hissed. "That little…" McNally shuddered. "FUCK!" The timbre of Donald's voice shifted into something gravelly, almost bestial.

What did I do?! That is a question you should be asking your new friend. Have fun. That was what Marigold had snapped at him after running into this man. There had been not a little disgust in her voice. Looking around this room, there was blood on the floor, chipped tiles here and there…and the side of the bench Don was leaning on had ben badly damaged. The impact looked more like that of a large man than a slim woman.

Donald McNally had barely been able to stand earlier, when he'd risen from the hibernaculum while recuperating from injuries. Segers had reported a fight, and this…seemingly over juiced, hyper-energized man…

Donald McNally had been dying, and he'd taken something from him to synthesize something approximating a cure. That had been the fear in that man's eyes, just now.

Whatever tenuous equilibrium his body had desperately held was now ending. "Well, now," Wesker breathed, taking a step back. "What did you do?"

With a howl, Donald McNally shoved the toughbook away and turned to him, the regenerative mutation finally cascading out of control.

Marigold had let her eyes shut briefly as Grayson had slipped back out, lapsing into a light doze almost instantly. Now her eyes snapped back open.

Something was happening upstairs.

Alfred had come back in, and he startled at her sudden move to stand. She kept her eyes fixed upward. After a long moment, he tentatively ventured: "something's changed up there?"

"I…think so?" Marigold backed around to the back of the chair, reaching out with in hand to steady herself. "I'm going to get dressed."

Alfred's mouth hardened. "Grayson shouldn't have stirred you up like that."

"He needed the friendly ear. And I was missing some context for your traitor in the facility." She gave Alfred a rueful little smile. "He's still an open book. The three of you have exactly the same dynamic you did when you were eleven, you know." Could've-should'ves, indeed. "In any case, don't trust things to stay quiet. If that's the case, I'd rather have trousers on." She made a face at the vest she had tossed in the floor on her way ti the shower earlier. "I suppose I might as well keep wearing that, at any rate."

"Considering how you keep insisting on taking point, I'd feel better if you would." Alfred looked resigned to her being on the move once more.

Marigold turned that thought over a few times, then asked, "That bolt action rifle you mentioned- is it useable? There's actual ammunition for it? I'm not sure what's happening up there. It's too loud to be T-Veronica, but I don't recognize it." It felt oddly like the Tyrant, but there was something chaotic about it, the way Birkin had been in his pit of rage, yet somehow…faint. "The Monitor that's causing all the trouble did something very foolish. He's preventing detonation for the moment, but he's done something incredibly stupid. I think I sped up the process, but his time just ran out." She smirked. "Right in someone else's face. At least I timed it right. I had hoped he would just drop dead when it happened, but it seems like no one gets to be that lucky here."

Alfred looked like he was torn between laughing or cringing at the thought. Finally, he got up. "I'll check the gun room while you get dressed." Throwing another worried look in her direction, he disappeared out the door.

Alfred returned to the room several minutes later. Marigold had changed into a black sweater and slacks, with a white blouse showing under the sweaters wide neckline. She had buckled the vest and cinched the leather shoulder holsters over it. There was an uncertain clumsiness to her movements as she worked to get it to sit right- someone had been doing it for her, before. "Are you having trouble?"

She'd gone still again, in the middle of wrestling into the thing. "For a glorified belt, I shouldn't be. I have it now." Her voice was distant, distracted. "I heard a gunshot downstairs."

Alfred's blood ran cold. Alexia was managing the intruder down in the basement, and Grayson had followed. "Are they…?" He did his best to swallow the bile rising in his throat. Grayson's actions in the foyer had been unexpected. Alexia hadn't anticipated Grayson seizing control of the hyphae as he had, briefly siding against them to allow that Valentine woman to scramble free.

Marigold shook her head. "Something's wrong. I didn't want to run off to investigate before you returned…" she trailed off, brow furrowing. Then she blanched. "Something's wrong and they're…we have to get down there."

The basement was barred by a heavy gate, currently unlocked. Marigold gave the iron bars a dubious look, but said nothing as they descended.

The door to the basement laboratory was open. The two of them stopped and stared down the flight of stairs at the scene below. After a long moment, Alfred spoke. "Well. I suppose this merited trousers after all."

"This wasn't even on my list of reasons for trousers." Marigold said, somewhat faintly. With trepidation, she slowly began to make her way down the stairs, Alfred following after a long moment. It didn't seem like anything was going to jump out at them, at any rate.

Alexia and Grayson were sprawled out on the floor of the basement lab. Somewhere in the fall, Grayson had managed to twist so Alexia had landed partially on him, cushioning her fall. They seemed unconscious, yet eyes were both open- and jet black. "You keep a list?"

A mutated creature that had once been Steve Burnside was splayed over an examination table, restraints almost completely snapped. It had grown huge, skin a mottled greenish-gray. The reason it was unmoving was obvious, from the mass of red and gray matter drying on the wall behind him. Grayson had come down here and shot the boy as the mutation had begun to take shape, and then….this. Marigold replied, "It's a highly defunct list by now, and mostly arbitrary."

"What in the hell did he do?" Alfred muttered, angry. Grayson hadn't been able to stop interfering, and yet he kept getting away with it.

"Killed it. Mercy, it looks like." He hadn't expected Marigold to answer. "I'm glad. I could barely handle the one, and I think the previous exposure had a lot to do with it. This is T-Veronica?" His aunt knelt down next to the pair, assessing. Grayson was holding fast to Alexia's arm, and the grip tightened when she tried to gently shake them awake.

Alfred hesitated. "Handle?"

"It's how your grandfather hung on for so long after exposure. I was much more virulent at the beginning, for a few weeks. It's all interconnected." She stole another glance up at Steve's remains. "T-Veronica is hard for me to pick up on. That's probably why I didn't know about this." She gently shook Alexia's shoulder, who remained unresponsive. Marigold went still, appearing to concentrate, then blew out her breath in frustration. "Every bloody thing here starts and ends with Mold, doesn't it. I can't wake them unless I do something that might hurt them."

Alfred blinked, processing her statement. "This is the antifungal issue, isn't it. Just being here is making you sick."

Marigold glanced back at him. "It wasn't as bad until the Scotsman picked a fight upstairs. I think It got into my bloodstream when I hit my head, and the gas knocked me back enough for it to sink its claws in." She cleared her throat. "Once the place burns, it should clear."

On the table, Steve's remains twitched. Marigold started to her feet, while Alfred went still this time. They stared at it, and it twitched again. Very slowly, the skull matter, the tissue, was regenerating. Marigold finally spoke in a shaking voice. "We need to get these two out of here, now." Without another word, she knelt down again. She took Alexia's arm and shifted her over her shoulder in a fireman's carry. Marigold then reached down to haul Grayson up over the other shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Even sick, now, Marigold made it easy to forget how damn strong she was.

Alfred drew his pistol, aiming at the healing gray matter of Steve's head. The heavy rifle he carried on his own shoulder might do the trick, but there were only five rounds for it, and the only person who could be relied on to fire it was acting as a pack mule. He could buy them a little more time before he became a problem.

Marigold toed open the door to Grayson's room a little deeper down the wing, despite Alfred's look. "I don't know if we're going to have to defend any of this space," she explained. "But if we do, I'd rather it not be obvious where they are. They're looking for her, up there. I don't want them to realize she's incapacitated." Stepping into the room, she tipped Grayson off her shoulder onto the bed. Even in this state, he kept a firm grip on Alexia's arm as Marigold eased her down. "I don't like the idea of splitting anyone up right now, and…" she hesitated. "I don't understand what's happening. I thought she had more control than this?"

Alfred looked at her, then to the pair on the bed. "I'm not sure she's doing this," he admitted.

Was surprised to see the kid out and about, McNally had bragged to her. Woulda thought he'd starved to death in Doctor Ashford's stasis chamber. McNally had said he'd locked him in the stasis chamber two months ago, and expected him to die there. She hadn't quite lost her temper in that moment, but it was enough for her to stop playing along and push the bastard over the edge. What might have happened to Grayson in that two-month period?

Out loud, she said, "Let's see if they can snap out of this on their own. If this drags on, I might have to try to delay to vote, if it hasn't happened already."

Alfred looked thoughtful for a moment, and began to reply, but a massive screaming sound of twisted metal came from outside, followed by a crash. It sounded like a car wreck. Alfred paused, then looked concerned. "That came from the lift to the facility," he said.

The two moved down to the foyer quickly, opening the door to the courtyard to see a huge cloud of dust unfurling from the corridor to the lift.

"Something broke the lift," Marigold said, faintly stunned. "What could do that?"

Alfred stood stock still next to her. "That book you gave Alexia. It had alternate exits, did it not?"

Marigold glanced at him, startled. "I keep being surprised by how little you've been told. There was a plan to read you two into the important parts in stages, once you got old enough." She sighed. "There never seems to be enough time, anymore." She took a few steps out into the courtyard, listening. "Do you think anything could have survived that?"

A hoarse, almost demonic scream answered her question, seeming to go on without end. After a moment, the source of the screaming began to find its words, accompanied by the sound of metal and concrete grinding.

"ASHFORD!" A deep, male voice with a tinge of a Scottish accent bellowed. "ASHFORD! Fix this now and I'll think about letting you bastards live!"

Marigold blinked, nonplussed. "I suppose we have an appointment, then."