Chapter Text
It was not often that he dreamt, anymore. Had he ever, really?
What had he to dream of as a boy, but white walls, blue carpet, of wires suctioned to his skin, of faceless people all in white.
He still dreamt of white, when he dreamt.
White tiles, and the wispy crimson veins that bloomed slowly, elegantly, from the quivering corpse-to-be. Of those eyes, white with rage and betrayal and fear, where before he had only ever been so untouchable. A Prometheus defining his fire. Clutching now at the peppered oozing, smoking holes in his lungs and belly, from where the rifles had sprayed into his spine with his back so idly turned.
In his dream, he smiled. Woozy with the power he wielded. Not so much as needing to lift a finger as his companion finished the filthy work – the point of a pistol, the reigning crack of a bullet, and the crumpled entry-point on the old man’s wrinkled brow. His eyes turned glassy, still wide, his lips ceased quivering with the silent expulsion of blood. It trickled down his chin, and fed the white of his coat.
“It’s almost a shame,” the underwater disjointed voice of his faceless companion commented, as he crouched down to turn the man’s head aside, as if to check he might be falsifying his end, “Doctor Marcus was immensely talented.”
“He was a liability,” he heard himself say in mild response, “it was only a matter of time before he would be disposed of regardless.”
“Maybe so.”
Then, together in his dream, they had picked up the corpse and lowered him into a tank of squirming black bodies. Hundreds to thousands of slimy, repugnant wormy leeches, and the sound that they made as they sucked the flesh clean from the bone of their victim. Devoured him in sheer seconds, until white bone was pressed to the glass of the tank.
He knew this was only the first of many rewards. That shivering, pleasurable sensation of watching the leeches in the tank, a swirling, void of all-consuming apocalypse contained only by five walls of glass. And it was here in his dream that it always took that turn – the one that had never happened, and yet felt so horribly real each time.
A palm was pressed between his shoulder-blades, and he was pushed head-first into the slimy ouroboric mass.
Suffocated by sleep, he fought to cry and scream, to try to claw at the glass only to discover he had no fingers. Already he was being sucked from his bones, thousands of little mouths feasting through his skin and sinew and muscle, shredding his veins and nerves open like wisps of unfed roots. He was swallowed into the impenetrable black, paralysed and scared, while the wormy leeches squirmed through his eyelids and into his brain.
“Come, William,” he heard his own disembodied voice say on the other side of the glass banqueting tank, “there is still much to be done.”
It was always at this moment, he awoke.
His cheek was still pressed against the desktop, where he’d fallen asleep midway through reviewing his documentation for the flagship project his entire career had led up to. Outside, a heavy rain was beating on the windowpane and groaning in the gutters. Through the curtains, the world was still dark.
First he searched in the gloom for his sunglasses, and adjusted them over his eyes before turning on the lamp.
The dreams had been more frequent in the past few weeks, and before he could cast the silly notion aside, he checked his fingers in turn to ensure they remained whole.
He received occasional courteous ‘Good morning, Doctor’s as he made his way downstairs, briefcase in hand, from passing employees of his fathers’. Each of them faceless. Just more fodder for the infernal machine of Spencer’s mind. Still, he’d whipped them up to code, and while William was by now the head researcher of NEST, the Arklay Laboratory had come under his far closer supervision.
Lightning lit up the grand entrance hall once he slipped from the oppressive grandfather clock’s ticking in the dining room, where the conference the night before still lay in empty glasses and silverware for some other faceless creature to clean up. Out here, the chandelier was at least lit, barely stretching light into every dark corner of the ornate papered walls. It shivered with a crystalline tinkling with each roll of distant thunder.
“Albert, leaving so soon?”
He diverted his attention up the crimson-bled stairs, to the tall figure of the woman who’d be waiting for him in a long, silky bedrobe. Her hair was uncommonly loose, platinum waves over her shoulders. Though her eyes were as grey and light as his own. She was not of his blood, but they were of the very same maker.
“I have business with the RPD,” Albert Wesker returned coldly, “a final selection for the project.”
“Of course,” the woman began to descend the stairs, lazily, her feet bare, her smile tight. “You must pick your subjects well; what did you call them again, I forget?”
Wesker didn’t falter. There was no need to allow himself to be humiliated by this woman. Not when at last he was finally given permission by their father to take the next step she had been coveting in her own labs. Set aside, while Albert proved his crowned faith correctly placed.
“Project: STARS, Alex, it’s rather difficult to forget. Perhaps you oughtn't've had so much of the cabernet last night.”
Her laugh rang in the hall, and she stopped just above the bottom step. Just to remain a head higher than him.
“I was celebrating your win, Albert. STARS, hm?” She tasted the word. Amused, no doubt, at the whimsical nature of Albert’s naming devices. “You’ve never been much good at earning people’s favour before now. Are you quite sure you can keep a grasp on a team of brainless, unrefined brutes?”
Here, it was Wesker’s turn to twist his thin lips into a smile. “You forget again, Alex, I have my own methods of reshaping those who stand in my way.”
In his mind, he could see the tank of squirming black ouroboric worms. And remembered, fondly, how they had reshaped Doctor Marcus to white bone, when the doctor had attempted to selfishly take his fire from mankind. He, like the worms, would devour his opposition. There was nothing now he would not face, to kneel at his father’s feet, and inherit the favour he had always been due.
“Besides,” in his hand, his briefcase was heavy with the files of each and every soul he had to crush to shape, “I have hand-selected each subject carefully. There is nothing that may present a problem that I have not already calculated.”
Alex descended to the final step, and reached out, to idly brush a wrinkle in the shoulder of Wesker’s shirt. “That isn’t all you must be aware of,” she mused, “you cannot grow fond of them. As I know you likely will.”
It was a joke, a tease. Albert Wesker had never grown fond of anybody. He’d let them all die if it meant he were the last bastard to crawl alive from the wreckage of the world.
“That will not happen.”
“It may, it may not.” Alex’ thumb lightly brushed against the collar of his shirt. “If you did, i’d weed the problem for you.” Her eyes glinted white in the flash of lightning. “You know we were not born for that. I’d not allow you to ruin everything.”
Wesker swept the hand from his shoulder away, mildly disgusted by the uncommon contact from the woman who’d become his de facto sister.
“Stay out of my business,” he warned her mildly, “STARS are mine. Haven’t you your own work to see to?”
Alex still smiled. “William called.”
“What for? Am I needed at NEST?”
“He wanted to ask you for dinner on Sunday night,” Alex mocked softly in her tone, “it’s your god-daughter’s birthday.”
It was Alex’ favourite game to play. That light teasing, the underlying threat. She’d poked these pins between Wesker’s ribs enough over his companionship with William Birkin. But as of now, she’d done little more than intimidate the NEST researcher just to make Albert squirm in frustration.
In the dining room, the grandfather clock tolled seven times. The chimes echoed hauntingly in the hall, and finished on a clap of thunder.
“Go back to bed, Alex, you’re still drunk.”
She laughed at him as he turned his back and left. Her mockery stunted only at the closing of the heavy front doors, and the onslaught of hammering March rain that had turned the front of the estate into a swamp.
The patrol car was where he left it, and sitting in the driver’s seat he switched his muddy boots to a pair of clean polished leather. And then, took himself down the long woods-lined drive back to the rain-slicked main mountain road, and on his way to the place that would play host to his unfolding complex for the next two years.
As he prepared, at long last since 1988, when he and William had made their pact, for a brand new dawn.
-
Sea water dripped from his skin and hair as he trudged back onto the sand, board tucked under one arm. Above him, the Spring sunshine beat down gloriously, drying salt-crystals to his tanned shoulders and chest and elevating again the darkness that had finally begun to fade away ever since he’d come here.
The beach was almost deserted — a stretch far from the city, and he’d borrowed Claire’s bike for the day. It waited for him by the side of the road at the railings along the top end of the sandy quartermile. Beside it, another car which had arrived while he’d been in the surf – and against it leaned the figure of a large man who’d been watching him.
Gulls screeched overhead, and behind him the ocean roared. A warning, he felt in the pit of his stomach, not to go to the waiting figure. That whoever it was, was a herald of bad news.
“I see you’ve still got the moves, kid.” The large man chuckled once Chris was in earshot. His face was friendly, eyes twinkling in the sunlight. Every part the dad in his printed shirt and striped shorts. Though his burliness was the dead giveaway.
“Barry,” Chris called back, “how’d you find me?”
Chris dropped his board on the sand and leaned over the hot metal railings to shake Barry’s huge, rough hand. It still felt the same as it had the last time they’d shaken hands, what Chris had thought to be the very last.
“Claire called me,” Barry explained, “asked me to come talk to you. Said you weren’t doing too good.”
“Is that what this looks like to you?” Chris lifted his board again, and hoisted it over the railings to strap to his bike. “I’ve never been better.”
“I got worried when I heard the news,” Barry carried on talking as Chris focused on the bike, “I tried calling you half a hundred times, kid. Is it true?”
“About the discharge? Shit yeah it’s true.” Chris scratched at his neck, where the metal chain of his dogtags used to itch.
In all honesty, he wasn’t in the mood for this discussion on this beautiful sunny afternoon. He’d been lost in the surf for the past three hours, and he was caked in sand and salt and stinging from the wind on his pleasurable sunburn. All he wanted was to drive back into town and grab himself a couple of cold beers. Maybe go down the boardwalk and see if there was any fun to be had. His first taste of freedom since the car crash that had stolen his adolescence back when Claire had only been twelve.
Chris folded his arms over his chest and faced Barry. “What’s this about, Barry? Have you come here to gimme a lecture?”
Barry chuckled. “I know you’d never listen. Are you hungry, kid? Maybe we’d best talk about this over a burger.”
They’d found a faded diner in town, and sat on cheap plastic seats under the faded-red canopy on the street, sipping on iced sodas while the cars and beach-ready people sauntered past in bikinis and shorts.
“So,” Barry asked casually, “did you try to appeal?”
“Nope,” Chris was lounging back in his seat, distractedly watching as each car drove past, “I was sick of the whole god-damn thing. Realised I couldn’t do it anymore.” He took a sip from his soda. “I appreciate it, all those times you stuck your neck out for me. But i’m not interested in going back in.”
“I’m not here for that,” Barry assured him. “I quit too.”
“Yeah?”
“What with Kathy wanting me home for the girls more, I ended up taking a position at a special police unit. Work’s more rewarding, and I get more time with my family.” Barry scratched his chin. “I know how you felt, Chris. I felt it too, toward the end of my service. I don’t blame you on wanting out.”
Chris shrugged. “Good for you.”
“How’re you coping, kid? Back in the real world.”
“Great. Yeah.”
Barry gave him an unconvinced smile. “You got anything else lined up?”
“Maybe.” Chris shrugged again. “I dunno.”
Chris wasn’t meeting his eyes again. Feeling that squirming sensation in his gut whenever he was forced on the spot of admitting to one of the few people in this world who looked out for him, that he’d almost entirely given up trying to function. He half wished he could sink into the hot plastic beneath him, rather than face the shame of telling Barry any of this.
That he’d entirely given up.
“When Claire called me the other night, she said you weren’t doing too good.” Barry spoke gently now, like he would’ve done to a naughty child and not a young man of twenty-three. “She’s worried about you, Chris.”
“Seriously,” Chris muttered defensively, poking his straw around his glass, “i’m alright.”
“You’re a damn talented young man, Chris, do you really want to waste your life drifting?” Barry’s tone had shifted slightly, as if he were about to descend into a lecture after all, “what were you going to do when your money ran out? Leech off your college-student sister?”
“I’d find something,” Chris said defensively. “I’m allowed to have a god-damn break, aren’t I?”
Barry sighed. “Of course you are. But you’re also not a teenager on summer vacation. I don’t want to see you throw your life away – you gotta pull your pants up Chris, gotta understand this is a pivotal time for you.”
Chris was holding his glass so tight that condensation dripped down his white knuckles. He was staring very hard at the scratches on the tabletop. Trying not to get angry. Not when Barry was only trying to look out for him.
He wanted so very much to be one of the darkly tanned, seasoned surfers wandering by. Lost in a sea of friends, able to subsist on a shitty part-time job and the beach. Draining a life away on weed, beer and records. He’d tried, hadn’t he, for the past month? Desperate to filter into the lifestyle he’d seen on television. It had been distant in the military, but even here on this sunny sidewalk amongst the very lifestyle, he felt an alien.
“I’m not here to try and be your dad,” Barry cut into his depression with a kinder, gentler voice again, “I’ve actually come because I convinced my team Captain of a brilliant young marksman I knew of who’d fill the final position in the unit.”
Chris looked up in confusion then. “A police unit? I don’t think they’re gonna want me, Barry. Not with my record.”
“I was assured they’d wipe it, if you passed the interview process.” Barry was talking sternly now. “This is a fantastic opportunity for you, kid. It’s not the same as the military. You’ll be a member of a Special Tactics and Rescue Service, doing some good for a community that damn well needs it.”
Chris shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The last thing he wanted to do was to fall back into a world where he was made to feel insignificant and stupid. Bound by rules and morals he struggled to agree with, and overseen by people who he had no respect for. In all his thoughts, the police were no different to the military.
By then, their food had arrived by the hands of the very pretty sun-kissed waitress. And she gave Chris a gleaming smile before going again.
Barry chuckled, and picked up his burger. “You don’t need to give me an answer now, Chris. But I want you to think about it seriously. You’ve got the skills, and the right attitude. You can help people.”
Too hungry to help himself, Chris picked up his burger and took a large bite. Savouring the cheap patty, sauce and pickles as though he’d not eaten in days.
“STARS will subsidise meals, and rent,” Barry added, smiling as he watched Chris inhale his food. “All you have to do is not step on too many toes.”
It was Chris’ turn to laugh – bitterly – and he forced a grin to the mentor who’d become so nearly a father-figure since they’d met, now almost five years ago to the date. “You know that’s impossible, Barry.”
“You’re a good kid. I really think this’ll help you get back on your feet.”
“Yeah, well. I’ll think about it, alright?”
Barry’s creased, twinkling smile returned. “Alright.”
When they left the diner, Barry walked with Chris as far as he’d parked his car, before he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a carton of Lucky Strikes.
“I remembered they’re your favourite.” Barry pressed them into Chris’ hand. “The man in charge of recruitment for STARS is Captain Enrico Marini. I wrote his number on the back, in case you make up your mind.”
Chris took the cigarettes, and gave a nod. Touched by Barry’s efforts once again to save him from himself.
“You take care of yourself, alright?” Barry unlocked the door and climbed into his vehicle, leaning over to the window to give Chris a final smile. “I hope i’ll be seeing you again soon, Chris.”
“Yeah. We’ll see.”
He waited until Barry’s car pulled away from the sidewalk and disappeared around a bend. Alone as the world of young party people swanned around him, Chris broke open the cigarettes and lit one up – his first in days.
Half of him wanted to just crumple the box in his hand, and toss it down into the sandy street down below with the other trash. But Claire’s concerned face hovered in the forefront of his mind like an ever-present moon.
A police division… it was so antithetical to everything he stood for. Then again, so had the military. He’d only taken that out of desperation to guarantee his sister security too, when he’d been just eighteen and not much good at anything else but obeying orders. Overruling his morals and dislike of authority was the only route to ensure he didn’t fall into destitution, and cause Claire any further trouble so she could focus on her degree.
I really am a selfish fucking hypocrite.
As if on cue, a police car siren wailed down the main street, blue and red flashing up against the buildings as it sped past after a set of screaming-laughing young men in an open-top convertible.
“Raccoon City,” he said quietly. Somehow he liked the name. As if something in his gut was tugging him toward it.
He’d have to sell the board, and return Claire’s bike. And somehow get a fare all the way across the country to a city that’d be nothing like this.
Chris took a drag from his cigarette, and scratched his neck. His skin was still crusted in sea-salt.
He’d sleep on it. It was the least he owed Barry.
PART ONE
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EARTHQUAKES