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Optio	By : Ripsi Category: +M through R > Resident Evil Views: 8319 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Resident Evil fandom/franchise or any of their characters. I make no money from this fanfiction. It is merely a piece of fiction written by me.

Chapter List
- 1-Annus Novus
- 2-Domus
- 3-Calor
- 4-Posco
- 5-Ludus
- 6-Felix Dies Valentini
- 7-Desiderium
- 8-Dormientes
- 9-Curre
- 10-Gravatus
- 11-Vita
- 12-Vigilo
- 13-Arcanum
- 14-Phasma Phasmatis
- 15-Possessio
- 16-Mutatio
- 17-Anniversarium
- 18-Monstrum
- 19-Lues
- 20-Vita Post Mortem
- 21-Iterum
- 22-Eam
- 23-Fidelitas
- 24-Veritas
- 25-Pacisco
- 26-Mundus Novus
- 27-Febris
- 28-Chemia
- 29-In Aeternum
- 30-Frater
- 31-Historia
- 32-Familia
- 2
- 3
- 4
Optio
Chapter 3: Calor
January 4, 2001, Thursday 11:13AM
Sitting in the shower, I ignored the water pelting me in a constant flow, not wanting to move at all even if it meant saving my poor hair from being dried out any further. I had been here for three days now and I didn't feel any better, and I still felt like this whole situation was all wrong. There was no warmth in this house yet, so I decided on telling Wesker (not asking him), that we were having this soiree that Mary Luoma had hinted at so much. Living here was in no way healthy for me; there was all this space with just Wesker and me. I was lonely because the person I lived with was Wesker, and the move had me fatigued.
What was that saying? Give a girl the world and she'll ask for the sun… or something like that, hell, I didn't know.
I'd spent my morning trying on the formal dresses he'd supplied me with, checking tags to see exactly how much he'd spent. It turned out he'd spent my entire tuition. Maybe he thought I still had proms or something.
Speaking of the enigmatic Albert Wesker, I had not seen him at all this morning, nor had I even heard him leave his room. Although I did feel the need to wake up at about five, maybe he was moving around then and I became alert. That was the best thing about him being human now: the ability to feel his presence. Our first two meetings, however, hadn't been that way, and he'd snuck up on me like Death minus the tell-tale iciness that supposedly wafted from the well-known figure.
Ugh, it seemed like the more that I thought the more that I was reminded of all of the things I didn't want to be thinking about but things that needed to be considered. I kept thinking about dying. If Wesker was discovered, then I would most likely be killed as well just because I was here, and I really didn't want to be remembered as the "bimbo who died for her brother's enemy slash bioterrorist."
"What am I doing here?" I asked my feet. If anything, I needed some sort of relief and working out had only reminded me of why I needed to stay in tip-top shape, further depressing me.
How could I possibly relieve this dread that had managed to canopy my existence? I remembered Chris explaining how sex felt to a guy -of course, he then warned me of all of the consequences at least six times after letting me know that I was missing out-, and I wondered if it was the same for a woman. If that feeling of tension just being let go wasn't exclusively for those with a phallus, then I had been missing out, but there was nothing I could do about it now other than to masturbate and wonder if it was as good as any other form of sex. Though it appears women are taught to be ashamed of pleasuring themselves, it kept me from giving myself to some jackass at a frat party when I got too drunk.
Why was I even thinking about sex as an alternative stress reliever when I was here under the pretense of a relationship? And as for the alternative I couldn't even imagine masturbating in a house with Wesker in it, hell I wasn't even comfortable changing here out of fear he had skeleton keys, one-way mirrors, and security cameras everywhere. Rather than be a slave to my desires of the flesh I stood up and turned off the shower. This would be a long six –if that- months.
January 6, 2001, Saturday 5:00 PM
In two hours the place would be flooded with locals, something that I found out in a phone call from Mary yesterday. She told me that she would invite the people who we should be knowing (AKA the people who in her opinion mattered), and that all I needed to worry about was a caterer, decent music that the older people could relate to (so I chose a lot of 80's stuff), moving all the furniture against the walls, and despite it only being thirty degrees I needed to set up tables outside for the people who chose liquor to shield them from the cold and also for the smokers. All of the food was in the dining room, spread out on the long table but those who would be eating would have to sit in the gym at the cheap storable tables Wesker had kept in the shed farther out in the yard or one of the ones in the living room.
I also found out that one of the many locked doors upstairs was a restroom for guests, and it had been opened by Wesker for them since he saw no point in everyone crowding around the one in the back of the gym.
Our bedrooms would be locked to ensure that no prying eyes dared to trespass, it would have been a self-inflicted anguish to explain to the people why I had my own bedroom if we were a couple, and even if we managed to invent this marvelous tale they'd still draw their own conclusions about the inner-workings of our relationship.
The alcoholic beverages were on the counter which pretty much went the length of the oversized kitchen and they consisted of a bowl of spiked punch, a bottle of Vodka, champagne, wine, gin, Jack Daniel's, Tequila, and for the faint of heart there we had wine coolers and daiquiris. I even did what a nice hostess would do; provided cut lemons, limes, and even margarita salt. Once I tallied up the damages due to the expenses of alcohol, I noticed Wesker's demeanor had changed suddenly, but I knew it was not because of how much I bought, it was because there would be both food and alcohol being served which usually led to puking up your guts. To ease him I went out and purchased a dozen cheap, plastic waste bins of assorted colors and placed them in the dining room, kitchen, front porch, gym, den, living room, and at the top of the stairs for the champs that made it so close to the other restroom but fell short.
I didn't bother with decorations; it wasn't a birthday party it was a nosey-townies-need-an-excuse-to-come-over party, and I had only met four people in Red Lodge so everyone else owed me- well actually Wesker, but all he had done whilst I planned and worried about the short amount of time I had to get everything together was work out and eat. Oh, and I couldn't forget that he slept like a fat, nipped-up housecat.
With a hand that I had to force to become steady, I applied my eyeliner best as I could before putting on my mascara. It sort of felt nice to be dressing up like this, so I decided to have fun with it. My hair was parted to the side, wavy since I decided not to do anything with it after my shower an hour earlier, and I fluffed it to give it a seductively tousled look. There was some pink lip gloss in one of the drawers of my makeup area and I put just a bit on my lips so that it was only a tad noticeable, and I decided on a dress that was a bit more clubby than formal. It was black and sleeveless, yet it still provided me with the extra oomph I needed to pull off the ruse of me actually possessing cleavage. I mean, I did but it wasn't the kind women envied and had to do a double take at.
Recollections of dozens of college parties made me smart enough to remember to wear some underwear that actually covered my cheeks this time in case I somehow lost the tight dress that seemed to fit well in all the right places. I completed my outfit with a pair of black stilettos, and just when I thought I was ready to head downstairs I saw Wesker standing at my door in a pair of black pants and a black button-down.
I half expected him to try to match me for the party -since he knew I loved a certain color more than others- and wear something red. Ha, I laughed to myself at the thought of Wesker wearing a red shirt and looking like a salsa dancer for the party. It seemed that he anticipated for me to deviate from my favorite color though, or maybe I wanted to believe that he cared enough about our ruse that he'd go to the lengths to pretend he gave a damn about color coordinating.
I noticed the necklace he held gingerly in his hands, and he walked over to my chair without explanation and fastened it around the back of my neck. It was a set of pearls that made my dress look a lot classier than it truly was and it amazed me how the product of an oyster managed to increase the value of my ensemble so easily. Wesker's bare hands brushed against the warm skin of the back of my neck and I exhaled in disbelief at the gift, almost blushing once I entertained the idea that there was some thought behind the gift.
"Sara Ivanov deserves to be able to show off how much her partner cares." And those words brought me back down from the clouds, the disappointment being displayed by the mirror in front of me.
Giving my hair one last tousle I said, "Of course she does." In the last effort to pretend that I wasn't really bothered I turned around in my chair to look at him, his blue eyes not concealed by his black shades. "Nice to see you don't have on the shades tonight. Maybe you can even have some fun." They were his shackles it seemed, his unwillingness to part with them being their inexplicable ability to reign in both his awesome power and his standoffishness. When he removed those shades my brother almost died, and I surmised that with them he would have never offered me or Sara any token of kindness.
As I stood I heard him chuckle for the first time since we'd been here. "Miss Redfield, I hardly consider this amusement. This party of-"
"Hicks?" I finished for him, earning me a scowl, but honestly, it was a relief that Wesker was showing me some emotion. "What?" I asked, spraying my wrist and torso lightly with the bottle of perfume that had been here before my arrival, "My blunt vocabulary too brutal for you?" After dabbing the perfume from my wrists behind my ears, I tried to walk off, but he grabbed my arm as he did the first night we arrived. This time there was no emotion of surprise.
"Attitude," he warned, eyebrows drawn inward with a scowl to rival the ones that were often exchanged in the Redfield household in my younger days. Christopher and Edward Redfield's showdowns were almost impossible to watch and cringe-worthy to hear.
I matched his glower. "Unless you want me to kick your ass like I did a few days ago, I suggest you watch your attitude." I had to snatch my arm away from him; it seemed that my words had shocked him back into this reality where he was my equal. "You're just as human as me." I stormed off, my hair bouncing around my face, but I could imagine that Wesker was smirking right now.
My demeanor coupled with my outfit must have been a sight to behold. Good.
January 6, 2001, Saturday 7:00 PM
I have no idea to what song Mrs. Luoma was bobbing her head; I just knew that she looked odd doing it in her six-hundred dollar dress. Coincidentally, I had been hoping that she would wear a black dress as well, but hers was a softer material with ruffled straps. Her hair was styled the same as it was a few days ago when she showed up on Wesker's porch, better yet Mr. Saunders's and Miss Ivanov's porch. Not a hair was out of place, and Frank looked as dapper as he had that day.
"Oh where is that girl?" she asked, abruptly snapping out of her trance. "How long does it take to get out of the car for God's sake?"
Just as Mary finished her complaint about her belated daughter, the rude cashier I had the displeasure of meeting a few days ago came into the house wearing an outfit that looked like it was painted on her unnaturally bronze skin. She had to have left her coat in the car.
Stephanie proudly wore a purple camisole with a built-in bra, but I could tell she wore a padded pushup to help her out. Not a bit of fat poked out either, justifying her choice in outfit. Her dark jeans had deliberate rips in many different places, and her purple, heeled boots stopped at her knees. The teen's trimmed fingernails were painted black, shining under the light in the den, and her brown hair was loosely curled, almost reaching the middle of her back. The girl's eyes were the same forest green like her mother's, and her face still had that baby fat that mine did.
I wouldn't lie, the girl was gorgeous.
"Stephanie this is-"
"Miss Ivanov." She had interrupted her mother, but she didn't look like she minded, however, she seemed to put a little more into pronouncing "Miss." Our introduction ended there, Stephanie had walked over to her father and pretended like she was actually enjoying his company.
I could not wait until the party actually started so I could begin drinking.
Then I heard him coming down the uncarpeted stairs, wanting to be heard most likely because he wanted me to prepare. Jeffrey, not Wesker, I chanted in my head, over and over so I wouldn't slip up and call him by his last name in my apprehension. Shades in place, much to my disappointment, he walked over to me and placed an arm around my waist to assist in the authenticity of our farce of a relationship.
Almost jumping out of her skin, Mary practically screamed, "Oh, Stephanie!" Gesturing excitedly with her hands once her daughter's attention was focused on her, she cried, "Come meet Mr. Saunders!"
With a smile on her face, something I'd yet to witness on the mini-Mary, she twisted over to us, eying my faux beau with interest. Oh yeah, this is why Mary cared that we knew her daughter.
The urge to roll my eyes at such a desperate attempt was strong, although I managed to fight it fiercely, and accomplished something I rarely could: keep my composure when someone was intentionally being an asshole.
"Stephanie Luoma," she said, extending a hand to "Jeffrey" but he did not release me in order to grab hold. Instead, Wesker held onto me, making the handshake short and quick. After the salutation was over, we stood there silent, making this one of the most awkward moments I'd experienced in this house. Although, nothing topped seeing Wesker in a towel without his shades so that one had not lost its position on the top of the list.
"I must make a trip out to the shed," he whispered in my ear, and he swept away in a hurry, leaving me as the subject of everyone's attention.
Thankfully, cars were pulling up now, and it seemed the whole town had made a decision to leave at the same time because I heard quite a few doors opening and closing. Boy was I in for a night.
After auspicating the shindig, I greeted people, showed them around, explained to them that Mr. Saunders and Miss Ivanov were not married but boyfriend and girlfriend, something that seemed to shock the conservatives once they heard that we were shacking up. I was asked to speak some Russian, however, I told them I was unable to because my parents did not teach my brother and me. I was unable to leave Chris out when a family was a subject for some reason… People asked what church we would be attending and since I didn't know if Wesker even acknowledged theology as a valid study I just told people we were Catholics that were "coming home," which earned me great praise and many invitations to places of worship around town. They asked about my education and the career that my character had been assigned by Wesker: "company owner."
Speaking of the blond, I saw him every now and then, conversing with a visitor and his shades hid any disinterested glares that may have offended any of the locals. As for the Luomas, well, they were gorging themselves with the free food while keeping the townies intrigued with family stories and crazy business deals. And me, I was having another shot of tequila, tired of the repetitive question of, "Where's the bathroom?" and the constant introductions were starting to get aggravating.
People talked, laughed, drank, ate, yelled, and some danced. I just couldn't really get into the party spirit tonight, and my fake smile was hard to maintain when I thought of how not a soul here cared about me and how the only person I knew that was here thought very little if anything at all of me. So I continued to drink, throwing back shots like it was my last night on the planet. In this current gig, I might very well have been.
Soon the world was beginning to change before my eyes, things looking very clear and oddly a lot more vivid than before. I squeezed through the chatting people in the kitchen. My face scrunched up in a look of disgust that was aimed at their rudeness and refusal to make way for the lady of the house.
"So what do you think of Miss Ivanov?" someone asked, but I couldn't find the voice.
"Well, after hearing how she and Jeffrey met it's pretty obvious what she is. Can you say homewrecker?"
"He was married?"
"On a business trip when he met her. What do you think?"
My breath caught in my throat, and I held the wall as I made my way through the crowd of people who were probably all beginning to believe that Sara Ivanov had taken Jeffrey Saunders away from another woman. Though it shouldn't have mattered because I was Claire Redfield, I had to begin to accept the possibility that I would most likely be a social pariah in this town because people chose to look too far into things. So maybe we should have gone into detail about our meeting and relationship then. These conclusions and balls of knotted yarn that were being spun to create a very ugly yet cohesive story could have resulted in my isolation from anyone but Wesker. Such an imagining made me want to vomit on my own feet and curl up into a corner to die of panic and regret.
I needed to get upstairs. Everywhere I turned I heard, "Sara this" and "Sara that." People were staring at me smugly, laughing, whispering, throwing glances that they thought were unnoticed and tactful, and the anxiety I begin to feel was building in me to the point where I had to escape the noise. Without grace, I climbed up the stairs on all fours, desperately trying to keep from falling on my face, but when I made it to the top, I couldn't stand back up, and so I continued to crawl. I made it to my door, but I couldn't reach it, and as I gave up I fell to the floor and I was unable to resist the sleep that came next.
January 6, 2001, Saturday Unknown Time
My body was floating through the air, and I felt that the direction was constant as I puzzlingly floated down the hallway. Was this a dream, I wondered? Then I could feel the pair of arms responsible for my perceived levitation; however, I didn't know who they belonged to at first, just that we were passing up the door to my room. As I mumbled incomprehensibly, the person carrying me made his way to Wesker's bedroom door, unlocking it with ease before carrying me over the threshold. When the lights were turned on I was blinded, unable to see what his room looked like at the moment, and the person placed me gently on the bed.
A cool hand removed strands of hair from my face, and I fought just a little against the assistance of the Samaritan.
I heard a long and drawn out, "Shhhh." Just by that, I could tell that it was Wesker.
"My room," I croaked, unable to pick out words so that I could successfully string together a sentence. I felt my stilettos being removed from my feet, and the covers of the bed were pulled up over my body and tucked in around me. I didn't open my eyes or protest anymore, because honestly I was just tired right now. Tired of the lies already, tired of the phony smiles, and I was tired of this nightmare that was designated as my life. Being drunk and emotional was not a good mix.
Then I remembered that I was in Wesker's room, in his bed, and I shot up like I was possessed with a mystical surge of power. "I wanna go home," I mumbled, almost falling in my attempt to get out of the bed, my legs caught in the tangle of sheets.
Once more the blond shushed me, gently pushing me back with his hands on my shoulders which allowed him to successfully pin me down beneath him. "You don't know what you're doing," he warned, obviously convinced that alcohol-impaired my judgment just like any other light-weight, college prep, but that wasn't me at all.
"Fuck you, Wesker," I growled, my arms crossed over my breasts that I believed to be spilling over the top of my dress, although I was only mildly concerned with modesty. "You fucking… you…" It became even more difficult to remain conscious now, I thought maybe I should have been feeling a sense of urgency to escape his hold, but I wasn't. "Puddin…" Despite knowing the words made no sense, they kept spilling from my lips, and to me, they meant something at the time.
I swore I heard him chuckling at me right now when it would have been expected that he shook his head in disgust at my drunken display of defiance.
"In my… purse…"
I could barely make him out through the haze, but I think he looked pretty confused right now. "Dear heart, your purse is in your room."
"Nooo," I halfway howled, shaking my head from side to side, and I could picture that my undone hair was looking less sexy and more like something unusual had nested in it now. "Wesker?" I groaned loudly, feeling a familiar yet almost-forgotten pain that felt like a dagger had been thrust into my gut.
"Yes?" he asked in a voice that one would use for a curious child.
"I'm drunk."
"I figured." He'd almost sounded defeated by my admission. "However, I must return downstairs to the party, and I will provide an explanation for your absence. Stay here." He once again tucked me in, pausing for a moment before he left the room, turning off the lights on his way out and locking me in.
I was expected to lie there until the guests decided to go home, however drunk I was I still kept in mind that it was a Saturday and though the churchgoer's Sabbath was tomorrow, I doubt that they cared much about a night of debauchery resulting in broken covenants and commandments. It was, "Walk with the Devil today, follow God tomorrow."
Oh damn, I hope they don't expect me to be in the pews tomorrow, I thought to myself, failing at kicking the covers off of my body. Had no one told Wesker that too much alcohol made one overheated? My thoughts were all beginning to run together too rapidly, so I decided to take it one thing at a time, and right now I just wanted this tight dress off. It took me a while but I managed after writhing and wiggling this way and that, but the dress was lost in Wesker's sheets now, leaving me in my red panties. It hadn't occurred to me though that maybe Wesker would thoughtlessly throw back the covers when it came time to move me to my room which he should have done in the first place, but I guess he didn't want me roaming around in there when he knew I would keep still in his chambers out of fear of stumbling upon some red button that could detonate this entire property.
With the music that was playing downstairs though, I found myself getting tired once more. The love song was almost like a lullaby to me, and sleep was a much better alternative than pondering why the blond chose a certain fabric to sleep on. And with the decision to sleep came the depressing thought of how no one was here to tell me goodnight except myself, not even a phone call from Chris or a bothered, "Sleep that shit off," from Byron.
So I closed my eyes and whispered into the pillow beneath me, "Good night, Claire."
January 7, 2001, Sunday 10:33 AM
There was warmth beating down onto my face, and from behind my eyelids, I could tell there was a source of light that was responsible for the disturbance. Slowly, I opened my eyes, sensitive to what I discovered to be the sun's rays shining in through the window to my left. Beneath that window was a wooden desk, and next to that an armoire. Wesker's room was much like mine, except his bathroom and closet were to the right when you walked in. Strangely enough, though, I didn't care to check it out; I was too busy wondering why he let me sleep in his room the entire night. I was also searching for the dress that I'd drunkenly discarded.
I managed to find it after a few minutes of feeling for the material of it, and I stepped out of the elevated bed to slip it back on before tiptoeing down the hall. The door to my room was cracked, so I considered the possibility that maybe Wesker had slept there, but when I peeked inside I was oddly disappointed that no one was there.
I couldn't wait until this was over so that I could return to real, genuine, and far more interesting human interaction. I could understand why it was believed that solitary confinement was considered a form of torture now, and I had the privilege to roam freely. It didn't matter though because eventually, I'd begin talking to my reflection, the television, and maybe even the dust particles that floated by whenever a fabric was beaten.
I showered, threw on some sweat pants, a tee, and I made my way downstairs to assess the damage and shake my head about it over breakfast. The sight of a spotless house caught me off guard though, and I was grateful that I didn't have to play maid today, but at the same time, I was confused. Wesker couldn't have gotten rid of the food, the mess, or the tables all by himself. Looking skeptical, I made my way into the dining room where the scent of food wafted from, and I found the blond at the end of the table drinking coffee whilst reading the paper. This was like the fucking Twilight Zone.
In the center of the table sat a few plates with egg whites, bacon, waffles, and sausage. Once he realized I was there he put the paper next to him on the table and gestured for me to come in. Hesitantly, I walked over to the table, taking a seat a few chairs down from Wesker, and he waved his hand at the food signaling for me to help myself. Since I was starving, I did just that, and he stared at me with what appeared to be intrigued. I got that he was getting used to being human again, but did he have to study everything I did like I was some fucking experiment of his?
He watched me silently, and I tried my damnedest to ignore his stare, but he was definitely making it difficult for me to eat in peace. When I finished, -which took a long time since being watched while I ate made me self-conscious- he finally spoke to me with his fist holding up his head and a smile of amusement pasted on his face.
"Dear heart, I see you took it upon yourself to establish to the town that we are Catholics. You didn't even consult with me." I wanted to believe that he was teasing me, but I didn't want to assume that of Albert Wesker.
With a sigh, I pushed my bare plate away and looked at his shades to see my reflection staring back at me. "That's because every five seconds you were running off to ‘Tend to important matters,'" I replied, harboring a bit of resentment. "What else was I supposed to say? ‘Oh, J's a scientist so you know what that means and I haven't cracked open a Bible since the time I desperately needed paper to roll a joint?'"
To my surprise, he chuckled at me, and it was a lot louder than I'd ever heard him chuckle before so don't blame me for almost fainting when I found that he had a sense of humor. Although, I was very curious to know whether he was laughing at what I said collectively or just the last, embarrassing part about pot? Since I felt strange admitting that to him in the first place I chose not to ask him; he didn't need to think that I cared about whatever judgment he chose to pass on me. Come to think of it, he had done WAY worse than me so why the hell should I have cared if he was judging me in the first place?
I must have been frowning at my own thoughts because his voice held the slightest tone of compassion. "Miss Redfield, I take no issue with you stepping up and providing answers to the locals."
"Oh," I said, looking down at my clasped hands in my lap and feeling quite foolish.
"Also, I am neither an atheist nor a Darwinist."
My head shot up in his direction at his admission, and he grinned at my astonishment. I guess he really was an attention-whore, something that Chris said about him when Wesker was new to the team. My brother had insisted that Wesker's shades, hair, and customary indifference towards just about everything were all a front to gain some responsiveness. It made no sense to me at the time but lately, I was seeing that Wesker enjoyed shocking people.
The blond leaned forward, his arms on the table and he looked like he was ready to pounce while I was still stunned. "It is best that a scientist keep his personal beliefs personal so that he may avoid being ‘blackballed.'"
"So you're Agnostic?" I asked, treading lightly just in case he wasn't.
"I suppose I am. If you meant to ask if I believe that some things just cannot be explained, then yes."
Silent, I nodded. "I haven't been to church since my parents' funeral." Once it was said it couldn't be taken back, and I wondered if I should have even said that to him.
"Who killed them?" He didn't ask how they died, but "Who killed them." It was a safe assumption though that they were killed since both of them died at the same time; also Chris may have opened up to him in the past about it, but apparently not enough.
It took a moment for me to put the words together, and I had to chew on my bottom lip before I uttered those words. My heart was pounding so hard at the memory of the funeral that I was sure it was visible through my chest. "I just know one of the murderers was God." The words left my mouth in a whisper since I was unable to muster up enough strength, and I knew if I had been any louder my voice would have broken just as badly as my heart had. I didn't look up to see what emotions Wesker's face held, I didn't stick around to joke about how drunk I had been either, but instead, I just got my plate and headed for the kitchen.
This was only getting harder.
January 7, 2001, Sunday 1:15 PM
I heard my "partner" leave an hour earlier, probably because he thought I wanted to be alone, and he was right. It was also a relief to see him get out of the house finally; I just had no idea what he'd do in this town. When I heard the BMW pull out of the driveway I tried to watch television, but it seemed everything was about family or love. Then I attempted to work out, but I couldn't get up after I'd finished limbering up, just stare at my reflection in the mirror. I walked to the phone at some point, intent on calling Chris since I hadn't heard his voice in a while, but then I felt guilty that I even considered calling him from one of Wesker's phones.
Then I laid in my bed, facing the window with the curtain drawn over it, and I tried to force myself to take a nap. Sleep was a much preferable alternative to sitting around not knowing what to do with myself, and I didn't need to further question why I had come here in the first place. It was for the greater good, but I knew that Chris would argue that an act for the greater good would have been me shooting Wesker between the eyes when he came to me for help. I almost let that thought sink me, but then I caught a hint of a scent that was completely foreign to me. Had he slept in here last night? At some point, I ceased to think and let myself go.
Now I was wide awake though, except it was not because I had been oversleeping here. That intuitive feeling of oncoming danger was keeping my eyes wide open right now, and it was the same feeling I had the night Wesker broke into my apartment.
In case my host had decided to turn on me one night I had reverted to my habit of sticking my weapons beneath my pillow, but I wasn't looking for my knife this time. The steel of my gun was cool in my hands, untouched since the day I moved in, but it had not been forgotten. There was the slightest noise that let me know that something was off: a doorknob down the hall being jiggled.
Wesker didn't jiggle handles because he knew which ones he kept locked, and he had keys. There was an intruder. They made their way down the hallway slowly; checking doors as they went, and not one was unlocked, not even mine. The sound of heavy boots retreating down the stairs was my signal that it was safe to go down and confront whoever the hell dared to come into my home- this house… My bedroom door opened quietly, but the sound of something being moved caught my ear; they were downstairs.
My first thought was that this person was after Wesker and that they were not just looking to talk to him. Gun pointed down at the floor, I crept down the hallway on the balls of my feet so that I would not give away my position in the house. The intruder was now very quiet and I hoped to myself that they had not caught on to me; the people that Wesker dealt with were dangerous and extremely skilled, just as he was before he was turned into a weak, little kitten that had to resort to hiring a 115-pound girl for protection.
I heard more noise, and so I took this to my advantage. I rushed down the rest of the way and aimed my gun at the back of the intruder's head. "Don't move!" I commanded, and I saw the black duffle bag he was holding fall to the floor. I saw nothing of him except his shape beneath the black clothing, and what appeared to be a black stocking covered his head, something that did not seem so professional.
My curiosity was stronger now as I continued to think of reasons why an assassin would be equipped with a duffle bag and a stocking. "Turn around." My voice was strong, not betraying the fear that I had felt at all once I realized that someone was here, and the sadness that had been upon me earlier disappeared as adrenaline rushed through my veins, making me feel more alive. I felt a warmth from this, and I had no doubt that what I felt inside was coming off of me waves it was so strong. I needed this action, and since the action was what I was lacking I would have to take it in this form.
Hands raised, the man turned to me slowly, and I pondered whether or not he was afraid to look at me. Once he saw my weapon he visibly jumped up from the floor, eyes wide inside the crude holes that were torn into his makeshift mask.
"What the fuck lady?"
"I could ask you the same thing," I countered, confidently walking over to him with the barrel of my gun aimed right for his head. Since I was still unsure about him, I wanted to look into the bag on my own, so I bent down with the gun pointing upward. Scowling, I said, "If you as much as flinch I'll shoot you right in your dick." Quickly I pulled open the bag with one hand, finding a few of the decorative items from the living room, and they were either plated in silver or gold. Oh, shit this was only a simple burglary and I was sure the poor guy was about to shit his pants because he didn't know what kind of nut jobs' home he had broken into.
There wasn't even a weapon inside the bag.
Rolling my eyes I got back up with a mocking smirk pasted on my face. "How old are you?" I asked, looking him right in his hazel eyes.
"Seventeen," he answered, and the door to the house opened.
Wesker had returned, and behind his shades, I could tell that his blue eyes were wide. Who wouldn't be curious after walking into their home and seeing a woman with a gun to masked assailant's head? He hadn't stepped over the threshold yet, not sure what to make of the situation: if he should run or stay.
To put his worries to rest I said loudly, "Burglar!" As if I had told him it was tea time he shut the door and walked over to take a look at the trespasser. I didn't know how Wesker felt about thieves, but I for one believe their punishment should be worse than a few months in lockup. "Call the cops." Just what we needed: our first police report.
January 7, 2001, Sunday 1:36 PM
Kennedy, Leon Scott
Before I began knocking on the door, I checked the torn off piece of paper in my pocket. This was the right one. With less force than I usually would use, I knocked, but honestly, it sounded too delicate for my taste. Then again this was supposed to be a surprise visit. I didn't even know I was Colorado-bound until last night; having received a phone call that there was suspicious activity in this region, and I found this call had actually done me a favor by allowing me the opportunity to catch up with Claire. When I heard nothing from inside the apartment I knocked again, this time sounding like the cop that I once was. Where could she have been? It was freezing outside, she had no job, and it was way too early for her to be partying.
"Sir?" I turned to see a woman who appeared to be in her early 20s peeking at me from behind her door.
Deciding to temporarily abandon Claire's door I turned to face the woman responsible for the interruption, walking a bit closer so that I could better hear her. For some odd reason she spoke quietly, maybe she had a baby inside that she didn't want to wake.
"You're looking for Claire?" she asked timidly.
"Yeah, you know where she is?"
"Haven't seen her in days, I was hoping you'd have an idea." Then she stepped out into the hallway, hands on her hips. She was very short and thin, hazel eyes and flowing, black hair that was indubitably dyed that color. Her skin was an olive complexion, and a few freckles were dotted across the bridge of her nose and under her eyes, although because of her skin tone they were not so noticeable unless you were trying to find them. A pair of worn jeans barely hugged her tiny waist, and a maroon top fitted her small frame nicely.
I decided to end my assessment, I was here for Claire. "You know anybody who would know where she is?"
Shifting all of her weight (which was not very much) to one foot she bit her bottom lip. "Try the old man below her, Alexei Sidorov, a real dickwipe. ‘Bangs on his ceiling if she so much as sneezes."
"Thanks…" I purposely trailed off to allow her to give me her name if she so chose.
Cracking a smile she said, "Maritza Arti."
"Leon Scott Kennedy," I said with a nod. "What's Maritza if you don't mind me asking?
"Star of the sea." As she gave a little laugh her nose crinkled, and I think I managed to make her blush with that question alone.
With an unexpected smirk on my face, I nodded again before saying, "Hopefully I'll see you around."
"Sure, let me know how things downstairs go."
As I reached the stairwell I couldn't help but glance back at the woman, pulled in like a sucker once more for a pretty face. Once I was sure I was standing before Alexei Sidorov's door I decided to use my cop knock; I wasn't too happy to hear from Claire's neighbor that this guy was being an ass to her.
"Who is it?" Since he answered right away I assumed that he was the kind of old man that sat in his front room all the time so he could see or hear everything. I was even willing to bet money that his curtains were drawn back.
"Agent Kennedy, I'd like to ask you some questions sir." After that, it wasn't long before I heard him remove the chain on his door and he ushered me in with his head down. Any information from him was going to be given begrudgingly, but I just strolled in past him. He locked the door and made his way over to his chair that set next to his couch, and I had to stop myself from smiling once I saw that the curtains were drawn.
The gray-haired man offered no refreshments, shit he didn't even tell me to have a seat, but I would have rather stood anyway than have a seat on "grandpa furniture."
His dull, gray eyes were cold once he looked over me; possibly a bit of resentment at the fact that was I wasn't dependent on diapers. He had long bags under those orbs, a still-full head of gray hair was combed back perfectly, and he managed to move around without the assistance of a cane quite well.
"What did you need?" he demanded grumpily, his Russian accent distinct still after who knows how many years in the states.
I suppressed the natural desire to assess my surroundings; not wanting to draw out this visit that I predicted would be unpleasant and one that I would not want to repeat. "Information about a tenant. Claire Redfield."
His disgust was instantly visible on his face, but it would not deter me.
"Have you noticed any suspicious activity?"
Giving a huff he said, "The cunt's noise hasn't gone down any."
"Sir," I said firmly, hoping he would note that I had no intention partaking in such disrespect, "have you seen her?"
For a while he was quiet, and finally, he answered with, "No. Not since Tuesday."
After hearing that I needed a seat, but instead I just placed my palm to my forehead and gave a long sigh. "Was there anything strange going on? Any noises?"
"All the time," he eagerly mentioned, dying to complain some more about her, and I could hear it in his voice that he wanted to call her out of her name again.
"Mr. Sidorov did you or did you not hear anything before you last saw her?" My patience with him was wearing thin and I hadn't even been in here for that long.
For a moment he hesitated, fidgeting in his chair before finally giving me a straight answer. "She was banging around a lot. I just assumed the whore had another man up there." He knew I didn't appreciate the name-calling, so he ducked his head down for a moment, coming back up with that unconcerned glare.
"Why would you just assume something like that?"
As if he was offended he almost yelled, "Because I saw her leaving with a blond guy on Tuesday morning!"
My eyes lit up at this new information, and the older man noticed, a look of accomplishment showing on his face. I wasn't sure what this meant, but I decided to play the role of a clueless friend.
"You know this man?" he asked, an eyebrow raised high on his forehead.
"Yeah," I stated with a blank expression on my face. "Well, I know of him." I tried to be convincing, even going so far as to paste a smile on my face with the pretense that things were totally normal. "I was worried for nothing. Sorry for bothering you," I added before abruptly sweeping out of the apartment. I needed to call Claire.
January 7, 2001, Sunday 2:23 PM
Redfield, Claire
"This isn't a norm in Red Lodge," the officer assured us, but I could only roll my eyes at Wesker while the burly brunet finished filling out the form on the trunk of his cruiser. I had done my own research on the town and he was telling the truth, but if this was his way of getting me to warm up to the place then sorry man but no cigar. It sucked donkey nuts as far as I was concerned, and the people weren't any better. Well, that was my judgment since I caught one of the locals attempting to steal from Wesker and me. Once again, that was so weird…
After wrapping up our chat with Officer Macready we drifted inside, and I noticed that we were unintentionally appearing like a normal couple whose home had just been broken into. We even went and sat down on the couch together, looking like a scene straight out of a movie, except we were both at our respective ends. I couldn't see myself ever snuggling up close to Albert Wesker for support, even if he had taken care of me while I was a drunken mess. We just sat there though, not speaking, not looking at one another even.
I hated this: the silence when I needed some kind of comfort, and the comfort that I needed could only be provided by my brother. Now that I thought about that it sounded extremely unhealthy, but he was all I had in my life so of course, he was my rock.
"Are you all right?"
I turned my head around so fast that I almost had whiplash. I don't know why his concern surprised me when he had made sure I was tucked into a bed after finding me passed out upstairs. "I'm fine," I answered, my voice sounding raspy. I wanted to cry so badly right now, and him asking me that was the straw that broke the camel's back. Ever since I agreed to accompany him to "Jesus Nowhere" I felt conflicted, and since I got here the feelings of loneliness had piled up so high that there was no way I could continue to carry the burden alone.
His gaze on me, he uttered barely above a whisper, "Don't."
He didn't know what to do. He didn't want me to cry because of his own confusion about how to handle such a situation. Being an emotional woman always made matters hard on men, however, since I was playing bodyguard I felt that I had every right to cry and break things based off of my emotions. Being selfless was so difficult for me, especially when the person whose feelings were being considered belonged to a man who I was supposed to hate.
The sound of the telephone ringing brought me out of my depressing thoughts, and since Wesker did not move to answer I got to my feet and made my way to the table behind the couch, expecting Caller I.D. to warn me of a telemarketer.
"I'll bet it's…" My assumption had been so wrong, and I froze once I saw the name. Redfield, Chris.
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