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Empty Eden	By : maiafay376 Category: +M through R > Resident Evil Views: 4592 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Resident Evil or characters therein. I do not profit from this story. Original characters and new Plaga species are mine

Chapter List
- 2
- 3
- Chapter 3: Sanctuary -
He drifted on a raft. Sunlight draped him in garments of gold. Rocking sensations. Soothing. A distant choir of sounds. None belonged. The waves buzzed. The seagulls beeped. The wind became a whirring nuisance. His dream slipped into a gray valley. Fog sighed around his feet. The smell of alcohol, the ache of a needle inserted into his arm.
A voice came to him then, low and comforting.
Ah, right between. Right where you should be. You can hear me, but you can't understand.
Movement around him, a calloused hand along his thigh. Cupping him. Rhythmic motions.
I'm just a voice. I could be in your head. I could be in a dream. Would you like this to be a dream? I can make it very pleasant. Don't fight your passion. Give in. Enjoy my touch.
Miniature responses from his body, a slight bend when his spine wanted to arch. A sigh when he wanted to groan. Only his breath had freedom, his thumping heart. Who was this touching him?
Tread softly with your thoughts. A heavy step will spoil the dream. And it's such a nice dream, isn't it? You want it to keep going. You're close, aren't you? Yes you are. Don't fight it. Let your passion take over. That's right. Just let go. Beautiful. So very beautiful.
Lips pressed against his temple. Breath harsh, ragged. His. The hand between his legs urged his pleasure higher. A burst of sensation. His peak rose from nowhere and everywhere. A sense of contracting muscles, of release. A long caress down his cheek, a gentle pat.
That's a good boy. Let's hope we have more success this time around.
The gray valley tilted into the sky. Stars like gems crushed and scattered. Swirls of colors more vibrant than any painting Spencer had shown him. Endless. He would never find his way out. Nebulas and galaxies spun together, created universes of pure light. Blinding. He shielded his eyes, climbed inside a tiny blue moon.
The moon was full of water, the same ocean he had drifted on before. No raft, just him. So heavy. Sinking. Gravity captured his legs, dragged him into awareness.
The world returned with sound and feeling. Cushioned material beneath his neck, his body. Softness like the down of a baby lamb. Reclined in an S position, knees raised, back aligned. Beeping. Steady and lethargic. Low frequency whirring. The hum of lights. Familiar. Sounds from the Old World, comforting, like a heartbeat to an unborn child. The scratching of a needle against paper, the whisper of pages folding.
Eyes weighted shut by invisible coins. Silver dollars of lead. Arms and legs would not move. Bones turned to stone. Beeps increased. Steady incline. His heart.
His eyes opened inside the blue moon.
Metallic bubbles above him. Scores of them. Polished chrome reflecting the ambient lighting. Lamps of some sort, a ring of bright azure at their base. They arranged themselves in circular patterns on the white ceiling. The ceiling itself, a snowfield, contoured, sloping.
Naked. Electrodes all over his body. Readouts from two data machines spat into a plastic box. Monitors with his vitals. An IV stand next to his bed, the drip secured in the hollow of his elbow. The bed itself, decadent. Out of place. Padding that had conformed to his body: sapphire blue.
A desk to the left, cluttered with knickknacks, files, a bobblehead of Obama, books, and bottles filled with unknown substances. A rolling chair, height adjusted for someone tall. Benign objects occupied a mayo tray: plastic wrapped syringes, slender tubing, gauze, and medical tape. Scalpels and their ilk, thankfully absent.
A frosted curtain enclosed him halfway. The open space revealed –
The beeping canter of his heart shot to full gallop.
People on the beds.
Unconscious. Naked. Two males.
Not plaga. Not human.
His people.
The Worthy.
Pure elation. Profound relief. All had not been for nothing.
He devoured every detail like a starving man with a banquet mirage. If he blinked they would disappear. Their eyes darted under their eyelids. Dreaming. The one to the left, no more than a boy. Perhaps fifteen at most. Brown hair, curly. Smooth skin with a hint of tan. No abnormalities that he could see. Perfect. The other male, mid-twenties, head shaved, stocky, hirsute, ruddy complexion. He lay on the bed, limbs askew.
Well, look at that. You were right, Chris said. Grudging respect. The Sore Loser Chris. At the gun range, he had used that same tone at the end of every session. Never could win against his Captain. The memory tried to rouse a smile, but his lips stayed unresponsive. But Your Holiness, where the hell are you? What are they doing to you? And what are they doing to them? Those guys ain't getting a pedicure, or their hair styled over there.
Something in the IV drip stitched him to the bed. No response from his arms or legs. A wad of sour cotton stuffed his mouth. His throat, a barren stretch of land in need of a strong thunderstorm. Glaring at his big toe for five minutes produced a feeble spasm. Not encouraging. His Worthy no more than ten feet away. He could not touch them. He could not see if they had his eyes. The monitors evaluated his mounting frustration. Blood pressure rising. Heart rate high.
No alarms. Yet.
Who would come if he set them off? The lamia?
The equipment looked maintained, the bubble lamps retained their bulbs, no stains or decay anywhere. This place stank of humanity, not plaga. Lamia would not care for such things. Their idea of luxury was a derelict hovel with tasty snacks they could pick off the walls.
The boy and man drew him again and again. No mirage. They dreamed. They breathed. They lived. Years of hopelessness evaporated like sunlight to mist. Uroboros had succeeded. Mankind had evolved. No matter the flaws, no matter the suffering, his design had fulfilled its purpose.
A moan, behind where his curtain met the edge of the boy's bed. Another Worthy. He strained his head the barest inch to the right. Salty dew blossomed on his upper lip. Tendons in his neck stretched taut as violin stings. The monitors blipped in distress. Another bed, a feminine curve of leg. White skin. A lock of hair the color of dark autumn leaves hung over the side. Face obscured.
Whistling in the distance. Cheerful. Annoying. Coming closer.
Footsteps, the flipping of pages. A soft grunt of satisfaction truncated the tune midway through. Silence. A brush of fingers skimming the page. The whistling began again. A different song. Even more irksome than the last. A willowy shadow outside the curtain. It hesitated, reading. Then the shadow bobbed into view, became a lanky man.
He sniffed. A slight grimace cracked his frozen features.
A human man.
Unkempt dark hair, dressed in a dingy labcoat with a black shirt underneath. Logo: "I Bring Nothing To The Table". Expressive eyebrows, narrow-set eyes with protruding sockets, nose far too long for his face, hooked at the end. Small mouth, narrow chin. Cheeks gaunt. This human could use another twenty pounds, and a day's worth of sleep.
Many years ago, under the weight of Umbrella's incessant glare, he would have appeared as this man. Exhausted. Drained. Too many hours locked away with a microscope and a Petri dish.
Solemn hazel eyes scrutinized him, then glanced at the Worthy. A knowing smile, sad and shrewd at the same time. Long knobby fingers grasped the curtain, snapped it shut.
"I left those open on purpose...so you could see them." Oil and grit, a hint of European accent. The voice from his dream. Whether the context had been real or imagined – this human had some explaining to do. "You're not alone. All that searching is over. Bet that feels nice. Do you want to know about them?"
Vapid idiot. Of course he did. The man said no more, busied himself with standard routines. Checked his vitals, nodded at them, then tinkered with the IV drip. The tape peeled free. The needle slid out, fingers rubbed until he healed. A pat on his arm afterward, pleased.
A novelty. This man shouldn't exist. Not in his world.
"The two in front are recovering from feedings." One bony shoulder lifted, apologetic. A penlight appeared. Fingers lifted his chin. A camera flash of a weary smile. "Rather ardent feedings. Look up please. Thank you. The female is new, like you. Been here only a few days. Already she's giving them hell. Not smart, but brave. Look to the right. Good, good. Pupils are settling down – I'm Clive by the way, their pet scientist, and now your shepherd. You're my flock, for better and for worse. Look to the left. Excellent. Almost back to normal – I keep you all fed, hydrated, expedite your healing, and give you a place to rest without them jumping on you. This is Sanctuary. They're not allowed to come in here. You're safe for now."
Safe? Hardly. And neither was Clive once mobility returned. Nor were his masters. Nor was anyone else he found aiding the lamia. They touched what was his. Hurt what was his.
"Paralytic will wear off in a few. You'll get vocals first, then the rest. I have some good news." Clive's skinny body folded itself into the rolling chair, legs spread wide. Checkered pants of blue and green. Interesting choice. Clive heaved a weary sigh, some great arduous journey completed.
"You and I have been through a week of intensive fertility treatments, most experimental, most I've never even tried before – completely new cocktails, dosage adjustments, ingredient swapping – trying to get past that damn rampaging bonfire you call a metabolism. I think I've done nothing but eat, drink, and piss flat Mountain Dew, and expired caffeine pills for the last five days. And you slept through it all, you lucky bastard. Ah, but my endless suffering and toil has not been in vain. The test results are in, and we have, finally, a success. Congratulations, sir, you...are fertile."
He forgot to blink. The monitors flashed his reaction in a series of angry red numbers. Alarms bleated.
"Calm down. Hey, it's okay. This is good, really good. Trust me. Fertility in males is less than fifty percent. Body temperatures are too high, kills the swimmers. And no swimmers means no babies. And having babies determines your role here at Zion. The Colony, or the Heart. The ones I can't...fix are taken to the Heart. The deepest part of their nest. Once there, you don't come back. Ever."
Information stacked itself as dominoes in his mind. Round and round the questions tumbled, no answers to stop them. Zion. Tricell's corporate lab now a lamia Nest. Heart. Colony.
Keep up, Captain, said Chris. "I don't think slim here is going to slow down for your doped up old brain.
Clive leaned to the side with a pained groan and fished inside his pockets for something that evaded him for several moments. Hand emerged, victorious. A small, transparent rectangular box. White lid. Orange pills inside. Over his mouth it tipped, half the contents tumbling into his gullet. Not pills. Tic Tacs.
Crunching. Swallowing. Big bloodshot eyes evaluated him from head to toe. Not the clinical detachment of a scientist. Intimate. Inappropriate. This human's hands had been on him. Molesting disguised as "sample gathering". Never again. Not to him. Not to the Worthy.
Thin lips parted, secrets on the cusp of reveal. Then they closed. Reconsidering next words. That shrewd look again, this time softened with a grin. "The infamous Father. Wondered when I would finally meet you. They've been hunting you for over two years. I admire your stamina. Kept slipping right through their slimy little fingers. Pissed them off – especially her. The queen. Her Cuntness." A sharp giggle at his own joke, then he sobered as if slapped. A glassy sheen to his eyes, his gaze on a distant point in time. "She almost didn't let me have you. Her handmaidens – those are the females – wouldn't stop feeding. Couldn't get enough. Greedy bitches. You're one of a kind. It's your blood, your taste. You're practically cat nip to them."
More dominoes fell. Fast. Furious. A whirling cascade that had his hands clenching into tight knotted fists at his sides. A good sign. Mobility at fifty percent. Stitches were stretching, fraying like scorched twine. Freedom soon. And soon the end to this monkey's witless babble.
"And that's going to be a problem, even with your new Breeder status. The rest here aren't like you, don't have your level of sweetness. You'll have to tiptoe around the handmaidens from now on, keep your head down and that mouth shut. I'm saying this not to be an asshole, I'm saying this because I put a lot of work into you. I had to keep promising things to that bitch. More like you. More with your blood. That's the only reason you're here."
"The only thing I'll be tiptoeing around is your corpse." A menacing whisper. A dark promise. His hands jerked, Clive's throat already between them. Mobility at seventy percent.
"Ah, he speaks. And with threats. Predictable."
"I don't know how you survived, and I don't care. The only thing that matters is lying on those beds. My clothing. Now. And you will delineate every ingredient in this 'cocktail' of yours. I will know what you've been doing to them. Everything."
"And now come the demands. I've been through this before with the others. Your 'attire' remains as is. It's practical, really. As I said and you ignored, you are a Breeder – and you're meat. When you're not fucking or being fucked, you're a walking appetizer. Why wear clothes when they're just going to tear them off? Defeats the purpose, don't you think?"
Laughter. The force of it scraped his dry throat. Audacious little monkey.
"You're taking this so well. Most of you cry, throw temper tantrums."
His voice spooled silk laced with slivers of glass. "Your status as last human on earth is in jeopardy, Clive. I suggest you comply. My clothing. My gun. And my bag."
"Which one?"
"Excuse me?"
"Which bag? The first or the second?"
They stared at each other. The Tic Tac container tilted once more. Loud crunching. Clive rocked back in his chair. Composed. Unafraid. A shadow crossed his lean features. A spontaneous decision. The desk drawer opened and out came a familiar leather-bound book. Initials "A. W." engraved in gold on the bottom right corner.
Clive tossed it onto the nearby mayo tray. Clamps and instruments clattered. So much for sterility. "Albert Wesker. Been missing that haven't you? Oh, yes, I know your name – we all know your name. United Nations even had a reward. Lots of zeros. Toward the end, they didn't want to lock you away, they wanted you to cure it. They even begged on national television. But by then, the outbreak went global. No one cared. Every man for himself."
"How much did you r – "
"All of it. Once I read the first page I couldn't stop. I had to know why. Your reasons – fucked up as they were. Then I realized knowing isn't so great. Knowing doesn't help you sleep at night. Doesn't help the dreams. And the worst part? You made it seem so rational. Logical. We were ants. Annoying little ants in need of a good squashing – but it's alright. You're caught. You're contained – better late than never, right? The man who ended the world is now laying naked and drugged on my bed. My, how the mighty fall."
Electrodes popped off. Vitals flat-lined.
He backhanded Clive right out of his chair. The curtain collapsed. Metal rings clattered to the floor.
A fish in a plastic net, floundering, gasping. The Worthy stayed asleep, oblivious to their shepherd's plight. His hands found Clive's neck past his thrashing, gangly limbs. He held him aloft with one, kicking and gagging. The other became a claw, fingers of steel.
Tribute to the lamia queen: Clive's heart on a stick. Hers would join soon after –
A pained scream. His own. He dropped Clive, then joined him on the floor. Convulsions racked him. His body became a ridged stick in someone's electrified hands. Back and forth they bent, his spine splintering with every pass.
Clive's voice above the anguish, a tired wheeze. "No restraints, Albert. Why do you think I had no restraints? The implant keeps you from hurting the lamia – and me. It keeps you from escaping. Red lines. When you finally stop twitching, take a look down the hall."
Bending reduced to flexing. He let himself go limp. Hands could bend him how ever they wanted. Gradual decline in spasms. He rode them out. Endured.
Bored with their toy, the electric hands discarded him.
Legs would not support, so he knelt. Everything shook. Even his vision. Blood dripped from his nose. When the tile lines stopped vibrating, he lifted his head. At the end of the wide room, past several empty beds, a curved hall. Red glow. Soft. Deceptive.
Red lines.
"If you go past those, an electrical charge will knock you unconscious. I suggest you don't test it. I can't be there to drag you back to Sanctuary. Your lamia lurk around red lines. Easy pickings. Especially the new ones who don't listen."
"I don't understand you. Why help them? You should be helping us!"
"Don't pull the indignant act, the 'how dare you' bullshit! They hunted you. And you ran. You ran for two years. You know exactly why!" Clive held his throat, trembling with outrage. A front. Beyond his infuriated mask, shame sparked in his eyes. Then that spark changed to concern. Then fear. "Shit...shit. You're bleeding. Here, take these, hurry up."
Wads of kleenex thrust in his face. He refused them. Those fingers posed too great a temptation. One shock had been enough.
"Damn it! They can smell you, Albert. Shove this up your nose and get back on the fucking bed."
"Cooing in my ear and collecting semen samples does not grant permission to use my first name. It's Wesker."
"Fine. Wesker. Clean yourself up before you bring the handmaidens up here."
"Fuck you, Clive."
"I don't have time for this shit." Clive's labcoat brushed his back. The sour smell of one who hasn't bathed in days. "Wipe off the blood, or I'll do it for you."
"All this emphasis on mating. Fertility. There must be children. Where are they? What becomes of them?"
Clive's eyes skittered away. Mouth pinched tight. "They're safe. In the Nursery."
"How many?
"Twenty – no – twenty-two now."
"Do they touch them?"
"I don't know what you –"
"Answer me! Do they TOUCH them? FEED on them?"
Adam's apple bobbed. Face ashen. Shame again in his eyes. Clive uttered each word with care. The wrong one spoken might combust in his mouth. "Not until they reach puberty. And before, they are trained not to fear them. Al – Wesker. Please. Wipe your nose."
"Your fertility drugs. Breeding us. Making more for those leeches to feed on. No. This is – no. NO. I will not tolerate this. We are not livestock!"
"What about OUR children? The ones your black worms swallowed whole?" Face to face. Kissing distance. Guilt had vanished. Rage streamed from Clive like heat from asphalt. "Your world, Wesker! You made it! What did you think would happen? Huh? That you would have your Olympus and your golden circle – your Athena, your Poseidon, your Ares, and you would all have your perfect society, perfect world? Sorry, my deluded Zeus, you fucked up. Take a good long look at the mess you've made!"
His mouth opened to answer, but the walls began to shake, the floor, the monitoring equipment. The tinkle chimes of tubes rattling in their holders. The boy woke then, startled out of his dreams. Skin slick with sweat, breath puffing too fast. His eyes. Golden. Luminous. A candle flame behind glass.
Their gazes locked. And the Behemoth roared.
More vibration than sound, it rolled through the sanctuary, a cresting wave of a giant tuning fork. It penetrated. Resounded. Inside him, Uroboros rushed to meet the invading force, two tides clashing, exploding. Mental shrapnel pierced him. Tissue ripped open. Nerves burst. The intense weight of a million emotions bore down, driving him to the floor. Voices seethed in his ear. Inside his mind. His Uroboros became a receiver, transmitting a barrage of wordless accusations. Images of a black ocean. People not people between the waves. No eyes. No noses. Mouths. Yawning open. Soundless screams.
Europe. The reason he had run from the first Behemoth. Back then distance had aided his flight. Full impact had been avoided.
Now, it was right on top of him.
Broken crying. The boy could not cover his ears. The other two Worthy cried out, awake at the wrong time.
"It's alright. Let it pass. Let it do its thing. It's ending...ending...see? Its leaving. All done. Matthew, don't cry. Calm down, please. It's over." Nonsense words spoken to all of them. The images and voices receded. Uroboros slunk back into its cave, bewildered. It wasn't the only one baffled. Clive's hand, warm on his shoulder. He yanked free, stumbled to his feet.
"Oh here we go. Wesker, stop it. Get on the b –"
A charging elephant hit him, sent him sprawling thirty feet. White stars twinkled in his vision. Something slinky and agile pushed the stars out of her way. Not an elephant. Lamia. Handmaiden. She plucked him up by his neck – feet dangling – then slammed him against a bed. He balanced himself in reflex, found purchase in a stiff, smooth leg. The female Worthy. The handmaiden's tail strangled his thigh, inched upward. Groping bitch. Her breasts pressed into his chest as she sniffed him, the blood crusting his upper lip.
"No, no, no, no! You can't. Please! This is Sanctuary!"
The lamia hissed at Clive. He retreated, face flushed, eyebrows knitting themselves into an angry V. She resumed her inspection, tail curling under him, inside him. He grabbed it, snarling. Bad enough the Behemoth assaulted him with its strange visions, now this tail up his –
Her petals opened. Barbs readied. His breath stopped. Fingers loosened. He let his hand fall. A pause. Sensing compliance, the tail slithered deeper inside him. Seemed those hooks had other uses besides swinging through trees. He sucked air through his teeth, but did not move. The woman's leg became his talisman, her skin and scent keeping him rational, keeping him compliant.
Delicate flicks of her long proboscis cleaned his face. The meager amount on his lip did little to satisfy her. The tapered end of her inquisitive appendage slid up his nose, wanting more. He snorted and growled. The skin stretched thin over her skull. Barbs wiggled in their sheathes. An unspoken threat. Do not defy. Obey.
"Please. He's a Breeder. You can smell it on him. You can't take him to the Heart. Here, Kyle is awake. Take him." Clive hovered like an anxious bee, no stinger. The handmaiden sniffed at him, dismissive.
"Clive – "
"Shut the fuck up. I'm trying to save you. Your hissy fit isn't shitting all over a week's worth of effort." To the handmaiden, he pleaded: "Kyle's sterile. Found out this afternoon. You all kept feeding on him. I told you that makes it worse. The treatments have nulled. There's nothing I can do for him now. Take him."
The stocky Worthy, Kyle, made a noise in protest. His complexion deepened to scarlet, then to purple. Furious tears leaked down his face. His monitors shrilled one word. Betrayal.
The handmaiden considered. Her tail withdrew, swished back and forth. He remained still, hand on his talisman. The woman's pulse throbbed in a frantic dance, muscles flinching every time he adjusted his fingers. An apology was in order if all went well. To her and to Kyle. To all the Worthy.
"Please. Don't take him from me. He's a scientist. You've been wanting me to train someone, right? I could teach him what to do." Clive placed his hand on the handmaiden's arm as one would upon a bristling dog. That voice, the same lulling whisper from his dream. It had magic. Even the handmaiden couldn't resist. "See how flushed Kyle is? All that blood surging inside. He's ready for you. Go on, he can't move. He won't fight. Take him. Bring him to the queen. She loves fresh blood. She might even reward you."
Her petals folded into place. Pretty again. And hungry. She chuffed a final warning at him and Clive, then darted to Kyle's bed. Twice her size, but she carried him from the room without effort. His moans ceased once past the red line. Kyle slumped in her arms, unconscious.
Like a sleepwalker, Clive floated to Kyle's bed. Hovered over it, placed his hand in the center. Meditative. His mouth drooped in regret. His hand swept over the padding. Electrodes pinged one by one on the mayo tray. Stiff, methodical movements. He unplugged the monitors. Gathered the IV line and stand.
The woman behind him made a strangled noise. Full of tears. The muscles beneath his hand shrank into themselves, tried to escape. He let her go, an eloquent apology rehearsed and ready.
It never made it past his lips.
Several moments passed. He did not move. Neither did she. No IV drip. Clive's concoction was not in her system. Her hands gripped the sides of the bed as his had her leg. Her eyes. Golden like the rest, but a starburst of blue clung to her pupils. An echo of her humanity.
Fear and fury made them radiant, the candle a shooting flame.
Antarctica. He had his arm around her throat, and then in her thick ponytail. It wrapped around his fingers. Satin. Her slight body strained against his. Her scent had been arousing even then, but she was human, beneath him. The sister of his enemy.
Monitors flashed with her panic. Her breasts drew his gaze, their gentle swell and sway a contrast to her violent panting. Then rest of her, bared to him, the arch of her collarbone, the svelte lines of her thighs, the curls between them. Red. Like her hair. Her scent, redolent of spice and jasmine and something he could not name. Nostrils flared as he inhaled. A low sound came from his throat. Not a growl. Something more primal.
Her vitals sounded the alarm, shook Clive from his stupor. Bony fingers yanked him from her bed, shoved him toward the fallen plastic curtain. "It's alright, Claire. Settle down. Cool off. It's okay. He won't bother you anymore."
"Touch me again, Clive – "
"And you'll what? Writhe on the floor? Bleed again and make me give them someone else? There's only two more left in here. Both are quite fertile. Selfish bastard. You realize what I had to do. Don't push it. Now get on the bed. I have to take some blood."
He would not obey. Her heat called to him. He felt her eyes on his back. Claire Redfield. A Worthy. Astounding. What were the odds?
"Wesker, please get on the bed. See, I said please. Now do it."
"I'm not a horse you can order to trot. "
Clive's leer looked more suited on a mental patient. "With the right motivation, any animal can be trained. I do have a little button I can press to instantly knock you out. Would you like to experience that?"
He said nothing. He idled a moment more for good measure, then he began a lazy saunter that took him to every corner of the room except his own. He ran his hands over the beds, smelled them. A trace of a male here, a female there. He kept his distance from her, but caught her gaze often, held it when she tried to look away. She did not speak, though he knew she could. She seemed riveted by him, a doe entranced by the wolf.
Matthew had dozed off, exhausted by the excitement and whatever sedative Clive had given him. He stood over the boy, watched him sleep. Damp curls stuck to a wide forehead. High cheek bones. Angular jaw. Youth took beauty for granted. Age reminded. But no more. This boy would enjoy several lifetimes of perfection. His gift to them.
The price paid, irrelevant.
"Wesker, I don't have patience for this."
"Where is the Behemoth? It sounded very close."
"I guess you could say that."
"Don't play games."
"Says the patient who's purposely wandering everywhere but his bed."
"Just answer the question."
"Since you asked so nicely. It's here."
"In Zion? Impossible."
"It's right smack in the middle. At its core. It fused itself to the building. Most of it is rooted in the lower levels and the Heart. The lamia, as you call them, don't seem to mind it. It keeps your Unworthy away. It's not in your journal, but your kind can summon the roaming bodies, the Uroboros failures."
So this ability was not unique to him. Intriguing. "I know. I've done it. But that's not all the Behemoth does."
"True. It seems to have a strange...effect on your kind. I can't explain it. Nightmares are the common aliment. When it cries - and it does seldom, thankfully – it seems to cause both auditory and visual hallucinations. But only for your Worthy. The only thing that bellow does to me is tip my coffee over."
"You're beneath its notice."
"I'd rather be beneath its notice than its focus."
A wry smile at that. "Touché."
Back at his bed, but not on it. He investigated a pile of books on Clive's desk, found nothing of interest. From the mayo tray, he retrieved his journal. It would never leave his possession again. Claire perched on the very edge of her bed, ready to bolt. In this instance, the red lines worked in his favor. The years honing his instincts and abilities had made him more predator than man. If she ran, he would pursue. And when he caught her –
"Stop ogling Claire," Clive said. "If she decides to chose you – which I doubt – she will do so in the Mating Hall. Telling you the details is Thomas' job. He's the Alpha male, though I suspect that title won't be his for very long."
"Contrary to what you assume, I won't bully my people. This Thomas can retain his position without fear of me stealing it. What of the females, do they have an Alpha?"
"We are not your people."
A smile at her belligerence. He replaced it with indifference before he turned. "Ah, Claire, you've found your voice."
Electrodes like scattered petals on her bed. Her hand placement and body like Sandro Botticelli's "Birth Of Venus". Her hair hung to her waist in tangled waves. The bubble lamps darkened the color to burgundy. Nymph. Dryad. She belonged in a forest, not imprisoned inside a glass and chrome laboratory, parasites feeding and breeding her like a broodmare.
"Clive, I want to leave. I want to leave right now."
"Of course you can g – "
"Don't leave. Not yet. I need to know." The catch in his voice, why was it there? He wanted to rephrase, make his words colder.
"What, Wesker?" Wary. A domestic cat turned feral. If he spooked her, she would hiss – or scratch his eyes from his sockets.
"Chris. If you survived, the chances of his compatibility with Uroboros are higher–"
"Dead. Gone." She punched the air with those two words. "He died defending a Red Cross relief effort. I was there. Saw everything. They ate him. They ate all of them. Little kids. Babies. It was after that I – " Candles flickered behind the glass. She bit her lip until it behaved itself and stood still. "Became infected. So there you go. Satisfied? Everyone's dead. Everyone you hated and who hated you. Everyone but one. And I have enough hate left for all of them."
She stepped around the bed, still covering herself. The color had bled from her face, left behind two bright feverish spots on her cheeks. "I'm going to tell Anna who you are. What you did. And she'll tell Thomas. And then they'll all know. We can't kill the plaga – but you? We'll see." An ugly laugh, choked off by a sob. "Not even the Heart is hell enough for you."
He made certain not to mock her. She was riled enough. Tone remained neutral, a thin thread of consideration woven throughout. "Please tell them. All of it. Embellish. Lie. It makes no difference. What's done is done. There are things you don't know, Claire – what you are, what you're capable of. I have much to teach you – all of you. As for Chris. It is unfortunate, but I'm not sorry he's dead. He had squandered his potential, pursued endeavors now no one will remember. Tragic. The white knight becomes a ghost."
And lived inside him. He could exorcise the voice, cast it aside. It has served its purpose when he had been alone, a companion of sorts.
Don't count on it, Captain.
Three nimble steps in his direction before she stopped herself. Those movements aroused him more than her nudity. Such grace. Agility. Had she inherited his strength as well?
Clive in between them, waving his hands, fretting over two planes about to collide. "Hey, hey – knock it off. Both of you. Claire, go on. I'm sure Anna's wondering why you're not back yet. I'll go blue so you can pass. And you, don't even think about following her. You stay put. Remember the little button. See? I have my finger on it."
Several problems needed emending before his Eden could flourish. Serious offenders first.
The Big Ones.
The implant. All future actions decided by a small device resembling a key fob, shiny red button under Clive's over-sized thumb. Disgraceful. Even if he tried for it, the implant would jolt him. If he ran, the implant would knock him out. If he went after Claire – and he had been debating that quite seriously – Clive would incapacitate him.
Clive. For now he would cooperate with the lamia's pet human, see how much control they allowed him. Learn what ingredients comprised his "cocktail". And figure out what weaknesses he could exploit. If Clive could put the implants in, he could take them out. Or at the very least, turn off the red lines.
Once he had Clive under his thumb, the rest should fall into place.
The lamia. The males, handmaidens, and their so-called queen. This Heart would be found. Obliterated. Along with any larva, eggs in their hatchery – and their numbers suggested self-reproduction of some sort. Their host supply had been exhausted years ago. But until he safely gained access to their nest, he would observe their behavior, "tiptoe" around them if necessary.
The final Big One – no pun intended. The Behemoth. It permeated this facility, caused stress among the Worthy...and himself. These visions. Remnants of a collective consciousness? Scraps of memories? Uroboros linked them somehow. This bond must be severed. Immediately.
"There are a certain few in the universe who should never be this quiet," Clive said. "Three year olds and you, Albert Wesker. It makes me suspicious, makes me think you're up to something."
"He's always up to something. Do everyone a favor and lock him up. Give him his own cage. Lose the key. He's dangerous, Clive. He'll kill you as soon as he gets the chance."
"Weren't you told to toddle along, Claire? Clive and I have things to discuss."
"Oh, but you didn't want me to leave a minute ago." A purring feline, her claws unsheathed. "You wanted to do other things."
His step forward spurred Clive into action.
"Enough. Settle it in the Mating Hall. That's what it's there for. Seems both of you could use a good romp and roll. Get it out of your system."
"Don't count on it." A disgusted huff, the whiff of something rancid. Claire stalked to the red line, waited with her arms and legs crossed. Clive approached the other side, checking over his shoulder warily at the wild animal he couldn't let escape.
"This entire hall is in the red. Even if you make it past the threshold, you won't make it to the end."
His journal in hand, and leaning against his bed. The picture of apathy. "Your precautions are all unnecessary, Clive. I can restrain myself."
"Don't trust him. Not even when he pretends to listen. It's all an act."
"See you in the Mating Hall, Claire."
She glowered before giving him a rather pleasant view of her backside. Clive sighed. Fob button depressed. The hall went blue.
Deliberate steps forward, unhurried, the doe unconcerned how hungry the wolf might be. Safe for now. The leash binding her stretched far. His was tethered to Clive's Sanctuary. The last look over her shoulder would have made Excella proud. A cold mix of haughty and sultry. It lingered in his mind after she disappeared.
Claire Redfield. A tantalizing obstacle to overcome, one that might prove the most gratifying. He had assumed the Worthy would be strangers, children he would lead into the future without the burden of the past holding them back. Some would resist of course, their minds filled with the horror of their birth, the loss of loved ones, but he would win them in the end. Show them a better world.
She will poison them against you, Albert. Use tearful tales of your treachery to sway them. Excella spoke from a box somewhere inside him. Lid open partway. She struggled for his attention with faint words. They will listen to her, abandon you.
But he possessed weapons of his own. Secret. Devastating.
Do you think that Affinity shit's going to work? Chris scoffed at him from a chair in the dark. Shadows smothered his form. His beady eyes, fervent points of light. His voice, that gruff edge. A resilient ghost. My sis is smarter than that. Use that touchie feelie stuff all you want. It won't change what you've done, who you are.
"I'm their creator. And hers. That's all that matters."
"Talking to yourself now?" Clive by the bed, drumming his fingers on the bolster. "Oh, don't worry. You're not crazy – well, at least not in this instance. It's a common problem. A few in here carried conversions with themselves for hours. It's the solitude. Gets to you after a while. Guess not even you're immune."
"Is there a point to your prattling?"
"They'll go away. Your...imaginary friends. There's real people now to intimidate and threaten. Here, get on the bed, you can glare at me while I take your blood."
He shrugged. Got on the bed.
Clive gaped at him in disbelief, then fumbled about, uncertain what to do. Jerky motions, a wind up doll in need of lubrication. Even the plastic wrapping on the syringe gave him trouble. A curt nod and tight smile met every sneaking glance Clive shot in his direction. The sooner the poking and prodding finished, the sooner his work could begin.
Quite the busy day ahead. Meet the Alpha male, Thomas. Determine social and psychological damage caused by the lamia's enslavement. Inquire the whereabouts of key targets. The lamia queen. The Heart. The Nursery. The Behemoth.
The Mating Hall would come last. No hurry. Claire would have plenty of share time with her new sisters, her stories of woe and dear departed brother.
The other females would shun him – evil villain that he was.
His selection would dwindle to one.
One doe who would ensnare herself with vengeance.
She would seek him out, confront him. And he would use her to teach the others. Worthy do not kill Worthy. Not even in retribution.
Once he conquered Claire, further rebellion would be quelled. He needed them united. Strong.
The lamia had declared war by enslaving his Worthy. The first war of the New World.
And he had no intentions of losing.
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Empty Eden