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Apicem Rapax	By : Ripsi Category: +M through R > Resident Evil Views: 2156 -:- 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
- 7
- 8
- 9
A/N: I am updating four chapters on the site. I usually update on FF.net first.
“The bird of Hermes is my name eating my wings to make me tame.”
November 9^th, 2014
“Yes. It is closed.” I was certain that the lack of awe present in his voice was due to all that he’d seen lately in the underground. After all, reanimation sounded far more amazing than a wound healing, not matter the rate. My colleague went to the sink to wash his hands, drying them with a paper towel afterwards. “And your hair is growing back,” he added with a bit more fervor, and I instantly was aware of the joke hidden in there; Will ignorantly surmised at some point in his life that I had an unnatural obsession with maintaining a perfect coif. As if I didn’t have better things to preoccupy myself with… “You know a normal person would be freaking out over this.” He leaned against the countertop next to the sink, crossing his arms as he appeared to be studying me.
As I stood up from the chair I rolled up the sleeves of my black shirt, matching his stance. “Can you remember normalcy Will?”
He chuckled to himself, “Let’s see… I’m 36. I started working for Umbrella at 16 which means that I graduated college at… Nope. Can’t recall a lick of normalcy.” Will’s reply would have been a sad one had I not known what became of the underachievers of the world, and rather than pity his existence I questioned the motives of all others on this planet. If excellence and obtaining superiority were not the goals in this life then what was the point of us possessing what made us better than chimps? We had mastered complex speech, evolved opposable thumbs, and obtained a wide spectrum of emotions and moods that were both awe-inspiring and deplorable. Will needed to be thankful for the route his life had taken; had he not ended up in such a coveted and prestigious position, he could have easily become a test subject if one went with the assumption that someone other than us could have accomplished what we had.
My teen years were just as atypical as Will’s, filled with long nights of cramming an excessive amount of information into my brain, killing myself more so with obtaining knowledge than a football record. Yes, I played sports as a child, and my father encouraged my endeavor to the point that it did not truly matter if I became a scientist with intellect to rival his own or a meathead that could dodge others whilst running a ball down a field. I pushed myself for me, and I challenged myself to one day earn the right to say that I had surpassed the man who had in essence been responsible for my creation. Girls gave chase while jocks envied my ability while resenting my apparent indifference to both my gift as an athlete and the attention I attracted. Whichever path I had decided to take though, I was sure that I would become number one. Of course then I met William, Alexia broke his record, and I had begun to think that perhaps I should have followed the athletic route. Where was the fun in that though?
“We can still do some blood work,” my friend offered, his head tilted down as he mentally prepared himself for a possible verbal lashing from me that I’d truly had no intention of giving him.
“We both know what happens if you find something,” I reminded him, allowing thoughts of our friendship to prevail over my desire to know. Will would find something, Spencer would find out, he would play games with Will and exploit his inquisitive nature, and then he would kill his top researcher. I would not allow my friend this, to risk his life all to attempt to sate an appetite for the unknown that could never be satisfied. I believed that I was better off not knowing. After all, I was alive, living day to day, and thus far I’d suffered no serious physical or cognitive issues. So I would let Spencer win for now, however, it was just for now.
“Al, I’m worried.” His statement came so easily that I began to worry myself. It was no abnormal occurrence that Will fretted over something, but when he felt the need to voice his concerns in such a simple yet disconcerting manner I felt the need to listen. Such bluntness was far easier to notice than cryptic messages and his usual barrage of “what ifs” and the inclusion of infinite variables.
“What is it?”
His eyes moved to the door, as though he expected someone to interrupt us, yet I knew as well as he that the door was locked. “The attack on Spencer, your recovery, the decision to back-burn Batna… all of this is happening in such a close proximity on a timeline…” His inability to continue a sentence told me that he was more confused about the situation than me, and I’d lived through it. “Your father comes back to town and suddenly everything is going wrong?”
Spencer had made an enemy in Ashford; I chalked up the shooting to pent up yet misplaced anger. My recovery was a result of the shooting at the mansion, and therefore I did not draw a distinct separation between the two. They were merely two parts of the same story to me, however, I was sure that my friend was referring to the accelerated rate at which I’d healed. That left the decision that Spencer had made to back-burn a project that he’d been threatening us over, and I began to feel worried myself.
Leaning over the counter now I asked, “Have you been looking into Batna again?”
“It’s far too frustrating. Because we’re on a hold I decided to tinker around with some blood samples to see if it was even remotely possible to gain success -whatever that may be- results with a human specimen.” I didn’t have to ask for an elaboration on what he meant, merely for his pause to finish. Will knew the importance of sharing all findings with me. “I’ve had a lot of free time so it doesn’t matter what I do does it?” He stopped again, taking a seat at the desk near the door. “I used a few samples to test the viability of infection on samples from known specimens. Annette would not survive.”
I felt the muscles in my face relax as my frown disappeared, replaced with a blank stare that was brought on by an emotion that felt a lot like incredulity. Will knew the dangers of testing loved ones; if Spencer found out that we carried potential then we would follow the way of the Trevors. Surely he’d been desperate to pull such a stunt, but if he were going to continue down a list then I’d have to up his status to idiotic.
He shook his head quickly, biting his bottom lip as his eyes searched the desk for an unknown subject. The harsh, fluorescent light from above hit his cheeks, revealing hints of stubble, some bits gray, some still blond. The stress was finally getting to him. Somehow though he’d yet to earn a wrinkle. “Then I tested myself and the results were much better. It’s safe to say that I’d survive infection but the effects would be unpredictable. Then I tested Sherry-”
“William,” I seethed, teeth clenched.
“Despite being a female,” he continued strongly, staring into my eyes, “she’d survive it Al. I don’t know how it’s possible but Sherry would survive infection from Batna with little side effects from what I could see in a dish.” Nervously, he nodded to himself, taking his time to continue as I had nothing to say that he didn’t already know. “Then I tested your blood with a sample before from October 31^st. Al, you’d live. Not only would you live, but Batna failed to recognize your blood as a host. It was like it was going home.”
“This is why you want to run tests now.”
I heard him stand up, the sound of his footsteps nearing me as I gazed down into the gray stone beneath me. “I know you’re tired of hearing what happened but I feel as though you have yet to grasp the seriousness of this all Al.” He waited for me to look up at him before reciting off the lines I’d first heard from Claire Redfield. “You were shot in the head. You died three times on the operating table. You were in a coma. You went into cardiac arrest.”
We both knew I wasn’t supposed to be standing here. Without another thought I said, “We’re not doing it.” Whatever had happened in that hospital would remain a mystery to us all.
In all my years –and there were many- I’d never been able to come upon another creature that quite adequately replicated the persona of “Isabella.” She’d had many names throughout the millennia past, and at some point she began putting less and less effort into her aliases, now settling for a meager -to her- four syllables. Her true name was not spoken as it evoked an agonizing grief over the lost, golden days of our kind. To most, it was an unintelligible tangle of the alphabet, and any criticism of it would bring about a surge of rage that no one should witness or endure. Yet, it seemed that even without this provocation, she wished to force the world to understand what many had fallen prey to.
Cinema had depicted our kind as awakening from a deep slumber, taking in the newer world around, indulging in every fashion fad and copious amounts of sex with humans. This, however, never seemed to be the case with Isabella. She was uninterested in even the finest garments available. Gucci, Prada, Chanel, they all fell short of her expectations. The Georgia era had spoiled her. It almost sickened me to watch her purchase cheaper clothes based on their simplicity, but if nothing else possessed the grandiosity she desired I would allow my money to go to the less fortunate designers' businesses. Honestly, I was starting to feel that she'd lost all zest for life, and would've gladly preferred for ancient Roman attire to suddenly sweep up this easily captivated nation.
Since she’d had time to feed she began to appear more like herself. Her skin had somewhat changed to a pale, olive tone, her previously black, scraggly hair fell in dull, dry locks that appeared to dream to become once more lush with shine and bounce. Her lips remained chapped, the skin still slightly torn but they were beginning to once more show promise, and that deathly, gaunt face was appearing fuller as the hollows of her cheeks fattened a bit more. Now she tinkered with the iPhone I'd given her, scrolling through images of people I wanted her to know. With a voice laden with the sleep of centuries she asked, “Qui est hic?”
I looked over her shoulder, instantly recognizing my son in the photo, his usual gaze of boredom of the world and superiority over its creatures on his face. “That is Albert, my son.” Of course she would immediately find him.
“Qui est matris suae?”
“It matters not.” Her question hadn’t evoked the slightest feelings in me of morose. Albert’s mother was inconsequential.
“Si vivit.” She turned her gaze upon me, those pale, blue eyes boring into me so that if I had been lying she would have shaken it out of me.
With less conviction than she’d manage, I said, “She’s not.”
“I oderunt hoc vulgari lingua,” she said in disgust, changing the subject, more than likely to save me from myself. “Credo te non recordabor.” It seemed the hits would keep coming.
“It has been a while,” I admitted regrettably, taking a few seconds to understand what she was saying.
“Preferite italiano? Qualcosa di moderno?” Her desire to compromise was both a compliment and a blow to my ego. For many years I’d had little use for the dead language of Latin unless I was deep in research, and now that was left for the grunts.
Pained by my own neglect I said, “It is all right.”
“I prefer the oldest tongue.”
“You’re one of the few that knows it.”
“Things may change again.” Though she lacked the enthusiasm required to show hope, I could tell that in her own way she was still hoping against all odds that things would return to what she considered normal. “This face,” she said with a bit more energy, reaching over to touch the palm of her hand to my cheek, “it suits you so much better.” And she was correct. My younger form was my favorite, the one that showed the true me. The me that would remain for eternity. I detested that old, decrepit disguise that I wore to appease the people of this town, however, that face had allowed me to remain in the public eye with less questions. “Your own son could not match this face.”
Closing my eyes, I smiled at the compliment, turning my face into her small, cool hand. Wearing my true face brought me great joy, but having someone who admired my true face brought me even more. She’d owned me, and on some level she’d loved me. Base of an emotion as infatuation was, when our kind felt that way it was equivalent to a deep obsession that ruled your mind for decades. We could drown in you and drown you in the overwhelming torrent of emotion that we had not yet understood how to handle. Perhaps it was because we assumed we possessed an eternity and what was 30 years to waste on utterly consuming the core being of a human? However, Isabella did not waste time on neither human nor our kind. She fucked, she desired, but sooner than most of us she moved on with the respectable preference of consuming culture over disposable beings. This both inspired and embittered me to some extent.
The ringing of the doorbell interrupted my musings, not surprising me as there was only one person that could be coming to the condo. Before I answered the door I stopped in front of the mirror on the wall above a table that held a pointless arrangement of fake flowers. Adjusting my blazer, I stared into the pair of vibrant, blue eyes that stared back, smirking at the opportunity to be whom I truly was, even if it was only for a few nights. I ran my fingers through my long, black hair just because and turned to the door, opening it without checking the peephole.
“Cynthia,” I greeted mildly, stepping back to usher in a rail-thin woman with dull blue eyes and hair that was dyed coal black. Somehow she’d found a black dress that was tiny enough to cling to her frame.
As she stepped inside I took note of her timid posture as she walked with her shoulders slumped forward, her arms wrapped around her small waist, and her temperament was at best considered sniveling. Her black, sleeveless dress reeked of a downtown club that specialized in sex, cigarettes, and cheap liquor. I was sure that she’d imbibed in all tonight, and yet that was barely enough to ruin my appetite.
“Oz, I don’t think I can do this anymore,” she began, pausing when she noticed Isabella sitting in a relaxed position on the black, leather couch. As she displayed a few jittery movements I stepped closer to her, attempting to take in her scent in an effort to ascertain why she was behaving so diffidently. As Isabella chose to ignore her presence, Cynthia turned back to face me, shaking her head quickly. “I can’t.” She tried to walk past me but I sidestepped and stopped her in her path.
“Are you using again Cynthia?” I asked, managing to not sound as though I cared, merely searching for an answer for her behavior.
Nervously looking back to the couch she whispered tearfully, “I just wanna go home.”
Ignoring her blatant fear and desperation, I smirked and ushered her towards the center of the room. “But I have a guest.” Isabella failed to rouse, but I was determined to reignite the dying flame within her. “I’m sure she’s hungry?” My statement to Cynthia was more of a question to my old friend who’d yet to comment on the scenario.
Finally, looking the junkie up and down she asked nonchalantly, “What does she use?”
“Her drug of choice is Cocaine.”
“No. I want something more mellow…” she replied, only familiar with the effects of the drug because of my own recommendations and warnings. “Also, this one is not healthy,” she whispered loud enough that only I could hear her.
Grip tightening on Cynthia’s arm out of anger for her ruining my dinner plans, I leaned down and spat into an overly-modified ear, “The NDA covers the presence and demands of my acquaintances as well.”
Nodding quickly she prematurely attempted to leave, but for a moment longer I maintained my grip on her arm until I felt satisfied with the certainty that I had that she wouldn’t run to her closest girlfriend to spill her guts about what had been the cause of her absence lately on the party scene. In record time she fled the condo, slamming the door behind her.
“You have been feeding on the unwell. Do you have something or not?” Her harsh accent distracted me from my judgments. I’d deal with Cynthia later.
“I know the perfect person.” She would have no complaints to make about this one.
The end of the semester. Crunch time. I’d been spending so much time preparing my notes to cram that I hadn’t had time to think about the Halloween from hell, and for that I was grateful. It seemed like mundane life was a better cure than I’d expected, and maybe I did need to force myself back into my usual routine to heal. An upheaval of any kind could have exasperated the nightmares and this PTSD, and the last thing that I needed to do was freak out in the middle of a final because I thought someone dropping their phone was a gunshot. I was certain that tonight I’d get some sleep; my brain was simply not capable of even processing new events on the Real Housewives at this point, and so I had to accept the call of my bed. For a long time there was nothing, just blackness, and in that void I found the rest that I so desperately needed.
That night I didn’t have any nightmares of Halloween or being hunted by that maniac. However, though I was happy about that I still woke up feeling odd. I’d dreamt, but something about it all seemed so real. There was a man and a woman in my room, and for some reason they’d been talking about me to one another.
I could recall the woman commenting on me first. “She is perfect.” The voice had a thick accent that I’d never heard before. Its harshness was reminiscent of Middle Eastern dialects, but it didn’t sound Arab or even Hebrew. I’d never heard anyone speak with such an accent.
Things got stranger when I heard a male voice that was vaguely familiar say, “I told you.”
Everything was crystal clear, except for the two beings in my room. They were merely obscure forms, one sitting at the foot of my bed, and a much larger one standing near the door. The smaller figure sat near my head, caressing my shoulder blade as I looked side to side in hopes that my vision was simply taking a while to kick in, but unlike her everything else had still been extremely vivid. The larger figure ran a cool hand down my thigh, the touch even seeming familiar, but I couldn’t recall how.
“She’s pretty,” the woman had whispered, and I felt her hand running through my hair. “Relax,” I remembered her saying. And then things got weirder but it was fuzzy. At the memory of an agonizing pain in my neck I reached up, feeling a tender spot that I didn’t have prior to the dream. I shuffled to my bathroom and looked, finding nothing, not even blotchy skin to accompany the soreness. What the fuck was I doing in my bed last night? I shrugged to myself, knowing that it wouldn’t be the first time that my physical actions during sleep had an effect on my dreams. Maybe something in my bed had been pressing into the spot. Yeah, that was it.
I was supposed to check on Al today. I went back to check my phone. It was already 10:45? It seemed that that dream really had me. It was so strange. I was either having nightmares about Ashford, peacefully surrounded by a black void, or having these weird dreams about people that I couldn’t see. I couldn’t recall specifics from the other similar dreams, and I was sure that the most recent one would also fade from my memory. I was just tired of not having “junk dreams” anymore. They’re just weird dreams that probably have a direct correlation to Halloween night, I thought to myself.
As I threw on some workout pants I reminded myself that today would be the day that I test the waters, and my focus should have been more on that than anything else. Would I say something? Would I just do it? As I drove over I asked myself over and over just what I thought that I was doing. Of course if I wanted to change my mind then it was too late; I was pulling into the driveway now. I wanted the walk to the front door to last forever, but instead I was there before I knew it. Then I hoped that he would take forever to answer the door, but it was almost as though he’d been watching the window.
“Hi,” I greeted nervously.
Wordlessly, but with a grin he stepped back from the door to usher me inside.
I didn’t head to any room, I just stood there instead, anxiously looking around the foyer as he neared me uncertainly. I’d come back here time and time again, seeking refuge in the most unlikely of places, in the most unexpected pair of arms. God, I was so scared, but despite my increasing bouts of panic I managed to swallow it down when I knew that I’d wake up to him checking in on me. “I don’t want to stop seeing you,” I confided, nervous about our closeness, but at the same time I wanted nothing more than for him to just wrap his arms around me. This was something more than fondness, more than some crush between the experienced, established man, and the young, impressionable girl. From the outside this may have seemed like some clichéd tale but it wasn’t that at all; it was brought on by an event that changed both of us forever, and because of that we shared a bond. In the beginning, when I was just Officer Redfield’s little sister we had the potential to be that played-out fad where we skirted around the sexual chemistry we possessed, but the shooting proved to be a curveball that had the ability to shape this into something it wouldn’t have morphed into otherwise.
His eyes were closed as he brought his thumb to my lower lip, and he sighed with what was possibly regret.
Don’t do something you’ll regret, I begged internally. He could fuck me for all I cared. Fuck me and then be done with it. I wouldn’t just be magically okay with that decision but my heart was convinced that I needed that, and even if he didn’t do it again I would know that it wouldn’t be because he didn’t want to. It would be because he couldn’t. This road wasn’t paved in gold, there was no illusion of some happy future where we would become an accepted “thing” but one night would be enough to supply me with enough happiness to get me through any following phase of awkwardness. In a move that put my feelings at risk I put a hand on his shoulder, the other on the nape of his neck, bringing myself to the tips of my toes, and I pressed my lips into his. A kiss it was not, but initially it wasn’t discouraging me that he merely stood there. Fearful that I’d appear pathetic, I pulled back, staring down to avoid his gaze lest it convey an unwanted judgement. God I was so stupid. I’d given him no choice in this; I’d thrown myself at him and being a gentleman he probably felt too bad to push me away and chastise me like the impulsive child that I was.
Just as I was prepared to apologize for that trap, I noticed that he still hadn’t moved, and I wanted to disappear now. Since that was impossible, was there a chance that I could maybe just run out the front door to go home and cry myself to sleep?
I found it impossible to tell her no, to tell her to stop coming here and to wean herself off of this false sense of security she’d associated with my presence. Her confidence in my ability to protect her was mistakenly founded, as I could not protect myself from the things that I had to contend with. Things were happening to me that science could not even explain, and my entire life was founded on logic, empiricism, and proof. How could I tell her that I craved her in more way than one? How could I tell her that I was torn between fucking her or something far less pleasant? I didn’t trust myself, or rather the person that Spencer had a hand in creating. When I didn’t kiss her back it wasn’t because I didn’t want to, but because if I started there was no way to tell if I could stop. Yet as she stood there staring down at the floor, feeling dismissed I couldn’t shake the feeling that perhaps she could leave here today believing that I didn’t want her. Against my better judgment I once again chose to be selfish in my decisions, and I grabbed her to bring her in for a kiss that I hoped wasn’t too late. My fingers were tangled in her dark tresses as I held her close to me, slightly tugging while my other hand pressed into the small of her back.
Somehow I felt her heart pounding against my chest, a sweet smell that wasn’t noticeable before suddenly made me aware of its presence, and I was hit with a sudden urge to intensify the kiss. I heard her moan in both surprise and pleasure, her determination to match my own relentlessness was very welcomed, and it somehow continued to exacerbate a sudden yet intense itch that demanded to be scratched. The feel of her grip tightening on me almost drove me to madness, forcing my body and hers forward, and the only thing that stopped us was the decorative table beneath a nicely, sized mirror. Even if it was from the back I needed to see her, I needed to know if she felt as desperate as I did. I opened my eyes, hoping to catch a glimpse of her in that moment where she realized she needed to grab the table behind her to contend with my power. I needed to see her heatedly grabbing at me for dear life as I toyed with the possibility of taking her. I needed to see what I could do.
Opening my eyes, I expected to be met with the sight of her hips subtly bucking towards me, but instead my attention was caught by a fiery gaze that stared directly back at me. My reflection’s eyes weren’t my own, and for a moment I was caught off guard. Gasping, I pulled back, only realizing the mistake that was when Claire had seen what I had.
At first she looked confused that I had stopped kissing her, but once her eyes were fully open and focused on me a quite pleasurable sight became one of concern for me. In what was possibly horror she opened her mouth, maybe to scream, and I could feel her heart pounding even faster, hear the blood rushing through her veins. Her own essence feared what I’d seen. I expected her to push against me, to fight me, but she merely stared directly into my eyes in frozen astonishment.
“Claire?” I asked, somehow more concerned with her wellbeing than what I’d seen in the mirror. Taking this moment to glance back up at my reflection, I saw the glowing, red gaze once more, but then a scream tore me away from the sight.
Suddenly she began beating against my chest, shrieking so that my ears began to pound from the pitch. Her attempt to escape was no match for the hold that I had on her, but I knew that her screams had to be silenced.
“Claire!” I hissed, because a whisper would have merely been drowned out by her alarmed cries. Then, I grabbed her by her arms, once more staring into her eyes, and she immediately seemed to calm, once more standing there in a sea of confusion. “Claire? You’re okay. It’s okay. Everything is fine.”
“Yeah,” she replied, now seemingly unaware of what had led to this.
“Yeah?” I asked. Daring to once more look away I stared back into the mirror, the blazing stare from earlier gone. Was I losing my mind? She’d seen it; I couldn’t be.
Pressing the palm of her hand into my chest she inquired, “Al, are you all right?”
What was happening?
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Apicem Rapax