2011

Unnamed Holding Facility, Cuba

"That's her?" Alex Wesker asked. She kicked a dead soldier's hand out of the way to stand closer to the two-way mirror. Her eyes squinted into agitated slits. "That's the girl?"

On the other side, a defeated-looking woman with white-blonde hair sat huddled in a corner of the padded cell. A medical gown hung from her emaciated shoulders. She hugged her knees to her thin chest and buried her face there, shielding herself from the blinding lights of the lab.

"That's her, ma'am," the soldier replied. He flipped through a chart.

Alex yanked it from his hands. She scanned each page, her manicured fingertip tracking the lines of doctor jargon and filler. She sighed. The girl was repeatedly referred to as "P-30". Patient 30, perhaps? Alex thought to herself. Was it the drug? Maybe the device that had been on her chest? Her brother had been so cryptic. He believed he was so clever, so special. The worst part was that it was true; Albert Wesker was everything he'd imagined himself to be.

Alex had hated him in life…

And now she hated him in death.

"Open it up," Alex said, handing the clipboard off to one of her men.

"Ma'am, you realize —"

"Open it," she repeated, her feline eyes flashing.

The airtight door sprung open, hydraulics pulling it back into the reinforced walls. The girl barely stirred. She stayed in the corner, her face remained hidden.

Alex stepped into the holding cell, her Louboutin heels made silent on the leather floor. Hands in the pockets of her wide-leg pants, she stared down at the skinny girl, and then surveyed the room. Thickly padded walls, as white as her own suit. Nothing else. They'd stripped everything out. Alex wiggled her nose, sniffing in the sterile scent of the lab.

"I would wager that… you already know who I am." She strolled while she orated, as full of herself as her brother had been.

The girl in the corner didn't reply, but she'd revealed half of her face - just to the eyes. And such strange, cold, blue eyes. Alex tried not to stare.

"I'm sure you know why I'm here," she said.

The girl was silent.

"And thank your lucky stars that I'm not half a day later. These conditions are deplorable. Have you been living like this for two years? Truly?" She sneered.

"Yes," the girl said. Her voice was deeper than Alex had expected, and gravelly with disuse.

Alex turned to her then. She thrust out her hand, forceful. Hesitantly, the girl reached out and shook it, her unsettling gaze on Alex the entire time.

"Jill Valentine," the living-dead girl said in her raspy tone.

"A pleasure… But if you wouldn't mind, we really must to be on our way. Our little ambush was agreed upon, of course, but under the condition of seeming like a… search and seizure." Alex replied.

She was punctuated by breaking glass as her men tore the lab apart.

She smiled.

Alex Wesker was a well-connected woman. The team flew out of the José Martí airport in a luxurious private jet bound for Russia. No security checkpoints, no waiting, no fuss. It was a straight shot, all the way to a little island just off the coast of Paramushir.

Jill sat exactly where she was placed - as silent and still as a little doll. She watched the world pass under her six hundred miles at a time.

Albert Wesker's sad little doll.

Alex led her through the mansion, gesturing left and right, talking incessantly. She took her up wide, grand staircases, and down narrow, winding stairwells; into opulent rooms with gold crown moulding, and through desolate, suffocating dungeons. Jill followed close behind, nearly draging herself in her exhaustion. Alex though, seemed not to notice.

"I came here to Paramushir in 2004 to escape Spencer, you see. He was bound and determined to kill us all. We Wesker children, I mean. Even the two of us… the survivors of Progenitor." She waved a graceful hand, dismissive. She spoke in quick, uneven spurts, her unconnected thoughts babbling up like a fountain. "Albert was always the favorite. Always." Her lip involuntarily curled at the memory. "And when my dearest brother went off the tracks, Spencer had a conniption. He became a man possessed, completely unhinged. And Albert… well, you know."

Jill leaned against a brocaded wall, sagging. Alex turned to look at her.

"I imagine you're in need of a shower. And a good meal," she said, finally acknowledging her.

"That would be nice," Jill said, her voice deadpan.

Alex looked her up and down. The sarcasm didn't seem to register. "Absolutely," she said, ever the gracious host.

Her people stood just outside of the shower as if there was some possible escape from the island. Jill slowly, painfully scrubbed the stench of the lab off herself. Her milky skin was marred by bruises and cuts and intravenous ports that fed in her chest just under her collar bones. The steam clouded up around her as she worked the soap into her hair… her poor hair. Clumps of it, white-blonde and tangled, gathered at her feet and swirled down the drain. Jill watched herself fall apart.

From the head of a dining table that could have seated twenty guests, Alex watched her. She ran a long finger around the edge of her wine glass, her glossy red nail glittering in the low light. Her patience ran very thin. Jill had requested food, and she'd gotten it - plenty of it. Bitochki and belorussion draniki and gouryevskaya kasha and a thousand other finger bowls full of dates and nuts and little pickled vegetables. Still, she did not eat. Instead, she sat, staring.

Occasionally, she would frown to herself. It was almost as if there was something going on behind her eyes… a conversation, an exchange. Alex had imagined she might be paranoid, perhaps even violent, but not certifiably insane.

"Not hungry?" Alex finally asked.

Jill took a deep breath. "I just need a minute."

"We have a lot of everything, but not minutes, I'm sorry to say." She picked at her nails.

"Let's cut to the chase then, Alex," Jill said, her voice somehow different, her phrasing strange. Alex sat back in her chair, silenced by the change in the girl.

"What was the nature of your relationship with my brother?" she asked after she regained her balance in the conversation.

"I was his slave."

"If you think I believe that for one minute…" She narrowed her eyes, uncrossing her legs and leaning forward.

"Well, what was I to him? Tell me."

"Ms. Valentine, I don't know what your relation to Albert was, but you were not his slave."

Jill laughed, scrunching a cloth napkin in her bony hand.

Alex swallowed, made suddenly nervous. "I have reason to think you were his partner and —" She stopped.

"I wasn't his partner. Not ever," she snapped.

They stared at each other.

"I was his lover," she admitted.

Alex arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow.

"I was his lover from the very start."

In 1997, I was only twenty-four years old. I was young and bright and hopeful. I'd just gotten out of the military - U.S. Army Delta Force, can you believe I'd give that up? I can't, definitely not now - and I was basically… well, I guess I was scouted. I got a phone call from a man named Brian Irons. I remember the conversation like it was yesterday…

I had been digging up an abandoned garden patch for my mother on the side of her two-story house. The smell of the dirt and the earthworms was as comforting to me as the midday sun on my back. I yanked up roots and weeds and tossed them into a pile.

"Jilly?" My mother's voice floated down to me from the kitchen window.

I looked up, brushing hair out of my face. "Yeah?"

"Phone call for you."

Phone call for me? At my mother's house? Who would have known I was there - I'd only driven home two days ago.

I pulled the canvas gloves off. "Coming," I called back.

My mother stood in the kitchen holding the phone. Little styrofoam spreaders were wedged between her toes, her nail polish half-applied.

"Who is it?" I mouthed.

She grimaced and shrugged, unknowing. "A man," she whispered.

"Chris?"

She shook her head.

"Then who?" I hissed.

Exasperated, she thrust the receiver into my dirty hands. I glared at her and leaned on the partition to the dining room.

"Hello?"

"Am I speaking with Ms. Jillian Valentine?" A deep, serious voice.

"Yes, this is her."

"Ms. Valentine, this is Chief Brian Irons, of the Raccoon City Police Department. I got your name and number from a —" he paused, and I could hear papers shuffling. "A Christopher Redfield. You two grew up together, did you not?"

I frowned. "Yes. We did. I'm sorry - what is this in regards to?"

"Well, in case you didn't know, Mr. Redfield accepted a position on our elite force. A new unit: Special Tactics and Rescue Service, based here in Raccoon City."

"Uh-huh…" I had no idea where it was all going.

"He mentioned you recently retired from your position in the Army."

"I did," I said. "Yes. Again, I'm not sure—"

"There's no formal way to say this… but if you're looking for an employment in Ohio, we would like the opportunity to meet with you."

My heart pounded in my ears. "I'd be interested, definitely," I said, trying to keep my voice from betraying my excitement. I was fresh out of the military with a sorry little savings account and no viable skills other than obeying orders. I'd never imagined I'd have a chance to land a position I had experience in so quickly. "When, uh… when could we… arrange this?"

I looked at my mother, wide-eyed. She was standing on the other side of the doorway, her arms crossed, listening. I cradled the phone between my face and my shoulder and made a writing motion. She darted out of my sight and returned with a pen and scrap of paper.

By the end of the infamous phone call, I'd gotten an interview date.

"So?" My mother asked.

"So… I might have a real job."

The interview itself was pretty standard. Question and answer, some description of responsibilities, a brief summary of the station's history. I was sure that I had been composed and competent, even though I had been quaking in my boots.

Chris walked me out, and we spoke conspiratorially.

"And? What did you think?" he asked, barely containing his smile.

It was contagious. I bit my lip and smiled too. "I think it went well… Thanks for this, by the way."

He dismissed my gratitude with a toss of his head. "Not a problem, Jilly. When did he say you'll hear back?"

"Soon. Yeah. Like, today maybe. He said that they're on a tight schedule to fill these positions," I told him.

"Right, right… It's been pretty busy around…" He trailed off. I followed his gaze.

A voluptuous secretary passed us on the grand staircase. He all but bored a hole through her cleavage with his eyes. The same skirt-chasing Chris.

After some effort, he turned his attention back to me, trapping me between himself and the wall. One hand planted behind my head, the other on his hip, he almost comically cornered me. People, officers, paper-pushers streamed past us as we stood there, in the middle of the busiest staircase. And despite how cliche it was, whenever Chris turned up the voltage on his charm, I never ceased to be fooled. "What's the plan for tomorrow night?" he asked.

"I dunno." I'd worn my hair down that day, and I tucked some of it behind my ear. "Whatever."

He looked around, scanning the crowds of police men and women. He rubbed his jaw, thoughtful. "Frost and me and Vickers were gonna slouch around in J's Bar… if you wanna make an appearance. I'll introduce you to the dumbasses you'll be working with," he offered. I knew the bar very well - it was a nasty little dive, and one of the only places that stayed open in good old Raccoon past seven. An older guy walked up to Chris and they bumped shoulders in greeting, exchanging a laugh and comment about hating work.

"Sure, I'll be there," I said. I was so eager then. "Sounds good."

"Alright." He straightened up, his thousand watt smile beaming down on me. "'Bout eight, yeah?"

"Yeah." I smiled again, nodding.

"Okay, Jilly-Bean. Got my fingers crossed for ya." He winked at me and took off back up the stairs, two at a time. I watched him go and sighed.

Five years I'd been on and off his trail. Five long years.

And as I stood there, contemplating my half-decade flirtation with Chris Redfield, someone ran into me. Papers everywhere, coffee spilled, the whole nine yards. Straight out of a movie. If it hadn't happened to me, I wouldn't have believed things like that actually occurred in real life, without a script.

And the guy… the guy who ran into me… towered over me then, looked down on me, his mouth twisted into an absolutely cartoonish expression of disgust. My breath caught in my chest.

With a sigh, he leaned down to retrieve the file folder and crime scene photos he'd dropped. I bent down to help him, sweeping the glossies into a pile and handing them back. He stopped then, and we looked at each other, crouched among the legs that walked past us.

He was wearing very dark sunglasses, and he peered at me, or through me, over the frames. I might be romanticizing the memory a bit, but his eyes were hypnotic. Hypnotic, empty blue eyes… even then.

I felt compelled to apologize. "I'm sorry," I said.

"Accepted. Be more careful next time, hmm?"

And all these years later and I still don't know what came over me at that moment, but this gem escaped me: "Maybe don't wear sunglasses inside. So you can see where you're going."

He blinked. Just once. Disbelief, I'm sure. He looked like a guy who wasn't told to shove it very often.

I regretted it the very second the words materialized. "Jill Valentine," I said. I didn't extend a hand; I'm fairly certain he would have rejected a shake after my explosive self-introduction.

"Captain Albert Wesker," he replied.

My heart dropped. "Sir." There was no recovery at that point, but it couldn't hurt to acknowledge rank.

He filed the photographs into the manilla folder in his hand and regarded the cup of spilled coffee. He stood, leaving the mess where it was. And then he brushed past me. The ache in my chest told me I'd lost it - I'd lost the job before I'd even gotten it. Dejected, I picked up the cup and started down the rest of the staircase. My feet felt leaded.

I'll never forget his voice, calling my name for the first time.

"Ms. Valentine."

I turned and stared up at him. He was on the very top step, just before the second floor of the bustling police station. Even then, he looked like he didn't belong - like some piece of art that had walked off into another frame.

"I expect we'll see you Monday morning. Seven. Do not be late."

I struggled for a beat to find words. "But… Chief Irons… and —"

"Do you want the job or not?" He barked.

I nodded, looking absolutely terrified, I'm sure.

"Monday morning then."

And he strolled off, lost in the sea of blue suits and shining badges.

"She was fucking hot, wasn't she?" Chris took another swig of his beer.

"She was, dude… she was. If she didn't tug your heartstrings, no one will," Brad Vickers said, stopping to drink his own microbrew.

"You've got to settle down sometime, young man," Barry Burton added. He wasn't drinking; something about his wife hating how sloppy he got.

"I don't have to do anything but pay taxes and die, old man," Chris smiled, taking a sip.

"True, true," Joseph Frost agreed, holding up his empty glass for cheers. They all suddenly pointed at each other with their best attaboy grins and everyone but me belly-laughed at their inside man-jokes.

I sat on Chris's left, awkwardly nursing a seltzer water. The entire hour's discussion since I'd arrived had been limited to the best hunting ammo and all the women Chris had bedded in the past year. I wasn't sure what I'd expected, but this wasn't it.

Every testament of his consummate bachelorhood disappointed me more and more. I think that bothered me more than any of the gory details - the fact that I somehow felt saddened by it. I was just starting out, the job was a godsend, in a few paychecks' time I'd be in my own apartment and out from under my mother's thumb. I couldn't have asked for more at that moment in my life, truly. I guess a greedy part of me was hoping to have the romantic situation figured out too. Having kept in touch with him for all those years… he was always in the very back of my mind, no matter what guy came in and out of my life - and truthfully, I'd let some pretty fantastic men go. Maybe I'd imagined that he'd see me after the four years we'd put between us and… and… He wasn't a bad guy, really. Not at all. He was just… he was just a guy. A regular guy with regular dreams.

I knew, even back then when I hadn't yet acknowledged the darker parts of myself, that I could never really be with a man like him.

"Cindy! Another round, yeah?" Vickers called to the pretty bar maid. She was pleasant enough to our table, but Chris's co-workers tortured her. I'd cringed more than a few times in our short night: Vickers had dropped a glass twice just to watch her bend over and pick it up; Frost kept writing his number on napkins left conspicuously in her line of sight.

So Chris had been right - I could now absolutely agree that the men I would be working with were dumbasses. I was beginning to regret coming out… but the topic of conversation mercifully changed to something more interesting…

"Fuckin' Wesker, man. Fucking Wesker. Did I tell you what he said to me?" Vickers asked.

"Nah," Chris said. He rubbed his beer bottle between his hands.

"He says —" Vickers turned to Barry, who was already rolling his eyes. "No, no dude. I'm serious. Listen to this shit—"

"I don't even need to hear it, Brad. I already know he's an asshole, alright?" Chris said, his voice uncharacteristically angry. He was so breezy… and friendly. I wondered at the bad blood between them. "Just… just the fuckin' sight of his hair. That hair… And the sunglasses… what is that shit with him wearing them inside?"

I halfway smiled. Chris looked at me, almost as if he'd forgotten I was there until that moment.

"Oh yeah? What do you think, Jill? What's the feminine perspective?" He air-quoted feminine perspective condescendingly.

I cleared my throat and tried to excuse my way out of the conversation. "Well, I mean… I only saw him once. I can't really comment."

"No, that's perfect. Tell us what you think now. Right now, before you really get a feel of him," Chris demanded - half-serious, half-joking.

"Do women really like that?" Frost asked, leaning in towards me. He gestured to his face and hair. "That whole pretty boy act?"

All of them were staring at me as if I had become the spokesperson for the entire female population.

I took a deep breath and proceeded as carefully as I could. "Umm… sometimes… yeah. It's nice to date… a man who, you know, takes care of himself. A well-put together guy."

They all frowned.

"Rugged is good though," I tried, backtracking enthusiastically. "I like woodsy men. Axe-swingers. Cowboys. Stuff like that." The hole I'd dug was getting deeper with each ill-chosen word.

"And here I thought you were a country girl, Valentine," Barry said, smiling. "Sounds like you've spent too much time in the city."

"No! I'm not speaking for myself, I'm just saying, objectively… yes. Objectively, some women would think that he was handsome." I tried desperately to extricate from the conversation.

"Ohhh… so he's handsome now," Frost teased. "Tell us what you really think, Valentine."

I must have turned six shades of red. We laughed - the guys laughing at my humiliation, and me laughing at myself.

"I think he's queer," Chris said, leaning back and crossing his arms.

"He's not gay," I rolled my eyes.

"How do you know?" Frost shot back.

"Because I do. He's not." They all looked at me. "I'm serious."

"You'd fuck him, wouldn't you?" Chris asked, quite serious. I stared at him, wide-eyed. I was stunned that he'd try to embarrass me like that in front of my new co-workers. I stammered.

"I don't believe it's any of your business whom Ms. Valentine takes to her bed."

We all whipped around at his voice.

Captain Wesker stood at the bar, his back to our table. That shock of white-blond hair still slicked in place, his spotless police uniform still immaculately ironed and crisp. His head was cocked so that, I imagined, he heard every word of our unsavory conversation. I hadn't seen him come in, hadn't seen him place an order at the bar. All of the color had drained from our respective faces. Chris turned back around, his shoulders hunched up to his ears. He knocked down his final swig of beer in the awful silence.

"Did you wanna… have a drink with us, sir?" Barry asked. His voice had gone up an octave, and it quivered. If Barry was made nervous by the Captain, I knew we all should be.

Wesker shook his head. "No, thank you." He reached for his wallet as the bar maid approached him, a bag of take-out in her hand. He must have left the girl a big tip - she smiled at him, all big dumb eyes and fluttering lashes. "I'm afraid my hair may be too much for Mr. Redfield," he said, casting a glance at our table.

And then he walked past our table and out the door.

I turned to Chris. "Oh my God. Are you serious?" I hissed.

He shrugged at me, helpless. "I didn't know he was there, Jill. If he wasn't fuckin' sneaking around everywhere, Jesus H…"

"I have to… should I say something?" I asked him. I turned to the rest of the group.

None of Chris's friends said a word. The mortification was palpable.

I stood then. They all looked at me.

"Let it go, Jill. He'll… he'll forget about it. Don't worry," Chris tried. "It's a small town. He's the new guy. Shit gets talked."

"He'll forget about it? Does he look like someone who forgets?" I almost yelled. "He's our boss, Chris."

In the background, Bad Moon Rising played on from the little jukebox. Chris stared at the empty beer bottle in front him.

This was the same exact shit that got him booted from the Airforce.

Insubordination. Disrespect. Oppositional Defiant Disorder.

I pushed my barstool back and stormed out of the bar.

I jogged out into the parking lot, looking around the cars. Truck, truck, beat up Honda Civic, my Jeep.

He was getting into an Audi under the single light pole, balancing the take-out with one hand and unlocking the car door with the other.

"Captain?" I asked.

He stopped what he was doing but didn't turn around. The keys dangled from his fingers.

"Sir, can I speak with you?" I had no idea what I was going to say.

I could see him sigh.

"I would like to… seriously apologize for my terrible first impressions," I began. "You must… I can't even imagine…"

He did finally turn then. I noticed that his sunglasses were off. His eyes were so strangely pale in that light. Almost clear.

"Anyway," I took a step back, jamming my hands into my jean pockets. "You have no idea how much I'm looking forward to working for you… and I hope you have a good weekend."

"You're from the area, are you not?" he asked.

I was startled by his voice. "Yeah. I, uh, grew up - just that way." I looked back down towards Fox Street.

He set the take-out bag on the roof of his car and turned to face me completely then. "Is there anywhere else to eat in this hell hole?"

I laughed. "A few. There's a mom n'pop place off Warren. Burgers, pizza."

"I assume it's just as inedible," he said.

"It is, yeah." I tucked my hair behind my ear. His eyes followed the path of my hand, and then stayed trained on face. I noticed how little he blinked. It should have frightened me. "If you want anything halfway decent, you've gotta take a drive."

He was very still, watching me. I couldn't tell if he was interested, or bored, or flirtatious. He was a blank canvas.

I didn't know what to say.

"Do you know Wisner Road?" he asked then, saving me.

"I do. One of the prettiest roads in town."

The humid summer air seemed like a blanket; I felt the moisture on my skin, the way each breath seemed labored. He crossed his arms and leaned back against his car. "I'm renting the old farm house," he said, knowing that the exact house would be called to my mind. It was on the outskirts of Raccoon, at the end of a long, winding road, overhung by willow trees. The only residence for half a mile. "It needs a fair amount of work," he added.

"I bet. The people that used to live there…" I nodded, knowingly. "They were pretty wild. Five boys. Dad died when they were kids." I didn't know why he was being so personal with me, or why I was going along with it, but it felt okay. It felt comfortable even… though it probably shouldn't have.

He studied me in that ugly street light, as if I was somehow laid bare to him. I wasn't so much leered at as observed. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. "There's a pond… at the back of your property," I said.

"Is there?" he asked. He tilted his head, his interest real.

"Yeah. When I was a kid, we used to swim there, catch fish. It's a nice, clear pond. Deep." I was surprised that he didn't know what was on his land.

"Hmm…," he mused. "I wasn't aware."

The conversation slowed, lulling.

"How… how long have you been living in Raccoon, if I can ask?"

He looked up then, into the starless night sky, thoughtful. "I've been in and out for years," he said. Strange… I had never seen or heard of him, in a town of only two thousand. "I accepted this position about six months ago."

"It must be lonely out there," I said. I could have kicked myself as soon as I said it - what was I thinking, to assume a man who looked like Albert Wesker would ever be alone? What in the hell had come over me? I couldn't function; I was rude, I was reactive, I sounded so dumb.

"Life is lonely, don't you think?" he said.

He opened the car door and put his take-out on the passenger seat. I nudged a few stones with my foot, awkwardly.

He sat down in the driver's side, his hand on the door, the keys in the ignition, and then he paused to look at me one more time.

"It was nice to hear your... objective opinion of me." He almost smiled. "Genuine compliments, of any sort, are so few and far between."

I felt my face flushing. He started the car.

"Have a lovely weekend, Ms. Valentine," he said, and shut the door.

I watched his car disappear around a corner, into the summer night.

"Argh!" He yelled as the rest of the boys counted down from five. When they reached one, Chris groaned and poured himself another shot from the bottle of cheap vodka. "Shiiiiit." He couldn't think of a celebrity name that started with T to save his life.

And I had begun to get concerned for his life. For real.

"Alright… alright," I said over their laughter. To Chris, I whispered, "Don't you think you should slow down?"

He waved me away and returned to the game. "I've got it this time. Tim fuckin' Curry."

His friends, my new co-workers, cheered. It was co-dependency at it's best. Chris passed the bottle.

"What comes after T?" Barry asked, hugging the nearly empty bottle to his chest. They'd convinced him to join in somewhere around ten o'clock.

"… L, M, N, O, P, Q, R, S," Chris recited to himself. He was counting something on his fingers too.

"U, dammit!" Frost laughed.

"U?! Whose name starts with U?" Barry was wheezing as the rest of them fell to hysterics.

"Okay… you know what? Gimme that. Let's go. Up. All of you," I said, reaching for the vodka, pressed to Barry's heart. "And you…," I said to him. "I don't know your wife, but she's going to kill you."

He reluctantly handed me the bottle. The rest of them made little noises of protest.

"What are you gonna do with that?" Vickers asked me. He'd had his head down on the table top for a while.

"Well, I'm definitely not going to drink it," I said.

"I will!" Chris volunteered.

"No, you won't." I held it away from him and set it on the bar, where Cindy took it right from my hand.

Grumbling, everyone started throwing down money.

Chris hugged me, his arm was heavy around my neck. "Jill's gonna be my new mommy," he smiled, talking lowly in my ear. "Right, Jilly? You're gonna take care of me."

We stood up together and he pressed his body tightly to mine. He wasn't quite falling down yet, but I circled my arm around his waist. It was hard to ignore the beer on his breath.

"Hey," Cindy called to us as we stumbled out. "Your boss-man left these. Can you give 'em to him?" She handed me a pair of sunglasses, since I was the only sober party. Before I could refuse, she'd walked away, back to wiping the mirror behind the bar.

I looked into the shiny black lenses and thought about the old farm house on Wisner Road.