AN - This is a dark little something that has been on the back-burner for a while. It is a prequel/companion piece to Corrosive, and I started writing it round about the same time but kept stalling. The reason? Well, this was an idea I was really unsure about and also, I hate writing Wesker. I am always afraid that I will screw up. But in the end I decided to finish it off and while it didn't really come out like I had envisioned, I hope it is at least enjoyable. This and Corrosive are prequels to a story I've been toying with the idea of for months now, and I kind of wanted to put a few oneshots based around the events before the story. Corrosive was Claire's, this is Wesker's and I have a Chris and Jill one that may or may not see the light of day. Anyway, part of the inspiration for this story came from a Disney song - Hellfire from The Hunchback of Notre Dame. I don't think I need to explain why -_- .
I would like to thank both .-SnipingWolf and xSummonerYunax, both of whom gave me advice and generally listened to my neuroticism over this story - so both apologies and thanks!
Please leave a review and let me know what you think - I would love to hear your thoughts. Just be warned that it is a little dark.

Mea Maxima Culpa

'Confiteor Deo Omnipotenti,
Quia peccavi nimis,
Cogitatione,
Verbo et opere.'

The waves crashed upon the rocks, rolled over his body. Jagged peaks seemed like mountains then, the roar of the ocean so loud yet so distant. And when he turned, she was there, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth, staining the water around her. They had hit the oil-slicked surface, pushed to shore by insistent waves. It made no difference; the height and the speed ensured that the blow was severe. Had it not been he who had hit the water first, she on his back, he was sure she would not have survived.

Yet she did.

His eyes remained on her bruised features as Chris's cries faded to nothing. There was not much time; in perhaps ten minutes, the BSAA's boats would ride onto the beach. Their facilities were inadequate on this side of the world. If he left her, she would not make it through the night. If somehow she did, she would likely never walk again, perhaps remain in a state of limbo until someone ended her suffering.

Wesker drew his flashlight, shone it into her eyes as he tentatively held back lids. Pupils responsive; no sign of brain trauma. With his staff, with his expertise, she was sure to achieve a full recovery.

A sliver of something foreign, something bitter, slithered into his mind. He knew then that he would take her, but the reason eluded him. Was it pity? Hatred, perhaps? Her fate in his hands would be far worse than her fate should he leave her to die. Yet nature seemed determined to assist him in his vendetta.

Sirens in the distance. He had to think fast.

And so, without thinking at all, he pulled her body into his arms, not wasting the effort to be careful. If she died, then so be it.

But as he limped into the darkness, he found that his grip loosened, consideration sneaking in.

It was morning, January. The air was warm, but his skin remained dry. Temperature was just another concept he no longer understood. The virus had changed many things, its symptoms primarily negative.

But something stirred within him as he observed her, serene in the blue light that bathed her. The altered colour of her hair was an unexpected side effect of the treatment; similar effects had been observed in other subjects, but he had not expected the mutation to produce blonde from chocolate brown. It was a very...fortunate alteration. So fortunate that he had Excella dye the hair that remained brown, ensuring that it was not simply a halo that drew his attention. She seemed affronted by the suggestion but obeyed as she always did.

"The antibodies are viable," Excella droned at his side. "They should stabilise the virus, but there is no getting past her immunity. Not even the T-virus will affect her now. Shame."

"Perhaps not," he mused. "I'm sure we will find a use for her. I think it is time she woke up."

Excella scowled, lips parting then sealing immediately. She never voiced her reservations, always agreed with a smile and the purring of his name. She appeared to believe that she had something to gain from their relationship, that he held her in higher regard than the other faceless drones.

He did not.

"As you wish," she agreed with that sickly smile. "I may have a few projects she could participate in."

Ten years flashed before his eyes. The moment she walked into her interview, the moment he decided that she was perfect for the team, her first day on the job. He had been a mere man back then, and had possessed every weakness that resulted from such a curse.

He flexed the hands within his gloves, the stiff material pulling taught against skin.

"What am I going to do with you, Valentine?" His voice was barely a murmur, barely a sound at all.

The glare was as moonlight upon her skin, lips positioned in a perfect pout. Her eyelashes were long, skin flawless and smooth. There were thirty-two years in her possession, yet she appeared so youthful still.

And he had aged enough for both.

The P30 suppressed her fighting spirit. Each blow she landed was calculated, analysed in every aspect from the trajectory to the force. Harder, faster, less predictable; whatever he barked, she would obey.

The blonde ponytail whipped flushed skin as she spun, thrusting out her left leg to catch him off guard. But her strength was always in the thigh, too high to keep the ball in her court, so to speak. Wesker grabbed the ankle, twisted until she too twisted, and crumpled in a heap at his feet.

"S-S-" she spluttered. Was it that time again? "Stop!"

Her voice was not a command; it was a plea. The exhausted mind begged the body to cease its torture, but the body knew only what he instructed.

Control faltered, and Jill's natural strength shone through. Trembling hands dragged her frame across the floor, until the wall impeded progress and she scrabbled up the smooth surface. Wesker watched as she rose unsteadily to her feet.

"W-What are you doing?" she demanded, voice possessing the strength that had escaped her limbs. "Wh-Why?"

He considered her question, knowing that he would not answer. Truthfully, he did not know himself. Why had he kept her alive when the opportunity to end her worthless life had presented itself on many occasions? Why did he train her? Why did he mould her into the perfect warrior when naturally existing skill had thwarted him in the past?

"Because I can," he growled, cornering her as she turned from him.

He barely moved an inch, but she squashed herself into the wall, suffering the pain of the uneven surface digging into her flesh rather than be but one inch closer to him.

Everything about him seemed to repulse her. Her expression became distorted by the only emotions he knew. And he pressed a hand to her jaw, turning to lap up her misery.

Because that was where the strange appeal lay, where she entranced him in a way he did not understand. Once so strong, now so weak. Weak because of him, because of his power. There was something sincerely erotic about the feeling.

Tears fell onto his glove, and she fought back fiercely.

Before the third tear fell, he threw her to the ground in disgust.

Her poison was felt beyond the fabric of his gloves, beyond the skin that burned. He felt her in the pit of his stomach, searing through intestinal muscle. She was in shock, he could tell, but he did not rush to her aid, could not care less if she choked on her own tongue.

But deep down, he felt that he was wrong.

The final Petri dish smashed upon the worktop, his anger cried out into the emptiness. Even with her antibodies, the virus was not proving viable. Genetically, humans were perfect, but physically they were weak, fragile, and more pathetic that he would lend thought to.

He seethed, locks of hair dislodging as he ran his fingers through the mess.

'Is it the virus?' he wondered. 'Or is it them? Insipid, empty creatures that they are.'

The door behind him whizzed open, her cloak swishing through his thoughts.

She was the key; she always had been. But the key to what? His thoughts blurred whenever he thought of her, and that sensation returned. It bore tones of familiarity, but he did not recognise its sheen. His reason told him to kill her, to crush her throat and watch as she begged for life. But something dulled his anger, something pulled him towards her, brought his fingers to her hood and the hood to her shoulders.

"You always come back for more," he chuckled.

The syringe had been prepared in advance; no risks taken this time. If she lashed out, he may just strike her again, may just keep beating this time.

Her eyes silently hated him as he touched upon the zip, slid it slowly down. And he paused at her collar bone. He could see the blood pumping beneath her skin, that swollen artery deliciously inviting. He brushed a rough finger against it, her skin unbelievably tender. She was pale beneath the suit, much paler than he. Veins stood prominently against her skin, framing the device.

The device was empty, and her knees began to buckle. But he caught her with one hand, waiting for the moment her mind would catch up.

He pulled the zip lower, floating over the curve of her bosom. Something urged him on; something guided his hand, sliding it past her rip cage, past her navel until thick material brought the flimsy metal instrument to a halt. His fingers brushed her stomach as he raised his hand, the touch of taught muscle to his skin electrifying.

The door swung open, distracting him momentarily. The office was empty, the recruits long since retired and Marini retreated to God knows where.

He was hit by the scent of delicate perfume as they approached his desk; a far cry from the tobacco-reeking form of Irons he had expected.

"I forgot to give you this, sir." It was Valentine's voice, her long fingers clasped around the report he had requested hours ago. Neatly-trimmed fingernails were painted an alluring shade of golden brown, a ring he knew had once belonged to her mother decorating her right hand.

Whatever compelled him to look up, he did not know. But he did, and he paused momentarily, taken aback by her somewhat inappropriate attire.

Her teal dress was cut low at the neck, natural curves filling the fabric beautifully. It pulled in at the waist, flowing over shapely hips. He could not see where it finished, but doubted that it was much longer than what the edge of his desk obscured. And her newly-cut hair was styled, makeup natural yet alluring.

"Going somewhere?" he asked. An uncharacteristic blush appeared on her cheeks and she shifted uncomfortably, tugging at the cardigan that hung over one arm.

"I, uh...I have a date," she revealed, with enough hesitance to widen the employee-employer divide. Because that was all he was to any of them: their boss.

"With Redfield?"

She froze, relinquishing the file in shock. Nerves fell upon her, and he could almost hear the excuses she sorted through in her mind.

"H-How-"

"Nothing remains a secret for long in this office," he reminded her calmly. "The others...they talk a lot. Most of it ends up overheard."

She shifted again, and ran a trembling hand through her hair.

"It's...it's not really a date," she mumbled. "Just dinner."

He did not know if her words were true or merely a means of covering her ass. Whether or not Redfield believed this to be a date, she evidently did.

He did not know why anger built within his chest. His team were not exactly known for being the quiet type, and Valentine herself had shown up late for work in the clothes she had worn home the previous night on several occasions.

As he scanned her report, something told him to deny its flawlessness, to create problems to demand that she fix before she leave. The thought that she could - and likely would - end the night beneath Redfield riled him almost to fury. He may have been one of his best officers, but something about the younger man annoyed him to no end. It was not that she deserved much better, but why did it have to be him?

"I trust you know my policy on inter-office relationships?" he asked. The truth was that he had none. With only two women on the team - one only eighteen years of age - he never believed that it was necessary.

"It's not...it's not a relationship," she protested, though seemed a little disheartened by his words. "He invited me out for dinner, and I accepted."

It was of little concern; in four days' time, they would both be dead, and he would gain what Umbrella were set to lose: everything.

He removed the first sheet of the file, scrawled his initials on the bottom and then turned the paper to her.

"Sign here," he instructed. Filing unsigned reports was not a usual habit of hers.

She muttered a quick apology and reached for a pen at the edge of his desk. A further waft of perfume washed over him as she leaned over. Hair fell into her eyes, and his were drawn to the neckline of her dress, to the breasts that strained against the fabric, to the cleavage that became emphasised by gravity. He could see now that she wore no bra, perhaps deliberately.

Heat rose, suffocating him.

"There," she finished with, adjusting herself to a more appropriate position. But the searing heat lingered, and the gentle pout of her lips teased his senses.

"Get out of here," he demanded.

She struggled as strength returned to her, pushing against him fiercely.

"Get away from me!" she demanded. But her insistence only pulled him closer, trapping her against the bench with his pelvis.

The laugh came of its own accord, but the emotion behind it was true.

"Did he fuck you?" he growled. Fighting gave way to fear and she froze, sensing who he spoke of but not daring to accept.

"Answer me!" he roared. "Did you spread your legs for him?"

"No!" she wailed. It was a pitiful sound. "You...you ruined everything!"

Her fury was delicious, her wrath the accent of the taste. He needed more.

His lips crashed against hers, head held still by gloved hands. Hers beat against him, her screamed drowned by the pressure of the kiss.

He had always known there was something about her that was so...intoxicating. And now he had tasted it for himself.

Blindly, he reached for the syringe, gathering her wrists in his free hand. She could do nothing but struggle uselessly against him, her body rubbing temptingly against his with every movement. And then she folded, weakened by the dose he injected into the device.

"Kiss me," he demanded, anger melting away against her. "Kiss me like I'm your precious Chris."

Fearful eyes pleaded with him, but her body was powerless to resist his command.

Powerless...how he loved the cadence of that word.

He almost fell to the ground as she reached forward, plump lips sliding lustfully over his. Fingers slid back into his hair, separating strands. Her forcefulness was overwhelming, his weakness exposed.

Fury wound its way around his frozen heart, her touch flourishing in his chest. He wanted to take everything from her and call it his own, wanted her, both body and soul. It was pathetic, reprehensible. So his hand found her throat, choking her until she gasped.

Because Albert Wesker did not feel.

It was all her fault.

Her body moved fluidly over his, head tilted back in ecstasy. Her thighs caged him, strong despite the bruising that mottled pale skin. Soft fingertips ran along his forearm, nails breaking skin each time she gasped.

'She loves this,' he laughed to himself. But thoughts did not come often in this state.

Eyes rolled back, hand moving to her hips as heat washed over him, bringing him closer still to the end of their pleasure.

How many women had he pleased in the past? Dozens, perhaps more; he was not one to keep a tally. But none compared to her, none moved the way she did. Eager for more, eager to feel every inch of him. She was a wildcat, and he knew it was not simply because he had made her so.

What would Excella do if she found out about his late-night visitor? It was clear to anyone in their right senses that she longed to be in Jill's position. But would she be as silently obedient? Would she mewl the way Jill did when he pinched the right spots? Would her body be as taught?

The device marred her chest; the blemishes, the veins, the general ugliness of its design. He wondered how her breasts would bounce without it, if it dulled her pleasure.

'What she feels is irrelevant. She exists only to serve me.'

Beneath the cold exterior, he was a man with needs, and she was in a perfect position to fulfil them. But where had these needs been before she appeared? Ten years without a lover, ten years without a single flash of pleasure. It was not something that he needed, human need having been wiped from relevance long ago. But she filled every inch of his mind, crawling into his dreams and leaving traces of her venom for his waking mind.

He craved her because she had once belonged to Chris. That was what he told himself. Whatever the truth may have been, he knew that he had claimed her before his onetime subordinate, and that was enough. To know that Chris had never felt her as he had, had never known the depths to which she could drag a man...it was as close to heaven as he knew he would ever step.

She fell onto him when he pulled, biting her ear as he thrust up against her. His muscles clenched as she shuddered against him, pleasure ripping its way through her body. He was always close behind, the softness of her whimpers enough to drive him over the edge. Sometimes he would gain nothing, providing pleasure simply to hear her squeal.

It was the tears that bothered him. The ones that always found their way to her eyes in the aftermath, sometimes during. There was nothing he could do to prevent them; tears were a physical reaction to emotion. He did not care that she hated their unions, did not care that it was not truly her he melded with.

He only wished that she would stop with the damn tears.

They dripped onto his collar bone, her eyes appearing vacant, pain lingering in the distance. Sneering in revulsion, he pushed her away, and her body crashed onto the bed beside him.

She would sleep now, as she always did when dosed. He would order her to dress, and would march her back to her cell. The moment was over, and disgust was all that remained. She made him feel so weak, so helpless, as though his own thoughts were outside of the realm of control.

Emotions did not present in his mind, had not since the day he relinquished his humanity. There was not a fault in his being, yet she had wound her way inside, had begun to claw from the inside.

But the upper hand was his now, in all that he made her do. It was he who possessed immeasurable power, and it was she who forced him to exert it, to put her in her place every time.

This time, he let her stay. He would not hold her, but he would watch, waiting until her breaths became steady. The sheet barely covered her but he offered her nothing. Whatever the cold nights did to her was none of his concern; the flush the chill brought to her skin was reason enough to leave her in discomfort.

"Are you sure this was a good idea?" Excella asked. It was unusual for her to question his actions. She saw him as the god he was, and a god's logic was always flawless.

The BSAA were taking their sweet time as usual, hovering by the barricades. Bound by protocol, they could not simply march through the village.

"Give it time," he assured her.

"I meant Irving," she laughed, throwing her head back in that irritating way she seemed to assume was flirtatious. "Do you trust him to deliver the virus? He has been loyal, but also...flaky. If he sees an opportunity to run, he will take it."

Her meaning fell in line with his own thoughts. He had never trusted Irving, had only agreed to work with him due to simple convenience.

"Jill is keeping an eye on him. She has no choice but to obey."

Petulant silence fell and she turned from him, pacing to his left side.

"And what if the device fails?" she sneered. "She will run too. And then he will have an ally. You...built up her strength so much that the chemical's effect is almost irrelevant."

Jill would not run. She was weak, held together only by the chemical that animated her body. Whatever remained beneath its influence was fractured, driving her to a near-vegetative state of tears when supplies ran low. It was far more likely that she would collapse, possibly even turn her weapon on herself.

"I installed a small emergency reservoir into the device," he explained, deadpan. "If the primary supply is depleted or blocked, the entire reservoir will be released into her system; it will buy us enough time to get to her."

Failing that, there was always the failsafe. He could overload the device with a simple press of a button, sending enough electrical current into her body to paralyse her completely. Fatal cardiac arrest was inevitable.

It was the fitting end to the crime of desertion. If she lived, she lived with him. If she ran...she would perish.

"I don't understand why you still keep her around," Excella spoke, casting aside the clipboard she had clutched to her chest for the better part of the last hour. "She has served her purpose."

And that she had. But she was his, until the end.

It sickened him to consider how far he had fallen. He dared not consider love, but the hold she had on him was deadly, and he could feel himself faltering beneath her influence. It was a critical stage in the execution of his plan; one slip and it would all fall apart. He could not afford distraction, yet allowed her to remain so close, allowed her to moan beneath him when weakness became painful.

The figure on the screen caught his eye for a brief second. But a brief second was all he needed to react. Gloved fingers were drawn to keys, operating the security camera.

And there he was. Chris Redfield.

Two years without a sound, two years without any indication that he remained alive.

Surveillance had been placed around the man, monitoring his activities in the wake of their last meeting. His intention had been to tear him apart as he slept, to mail what was left to that insufferable sister of his.

Two weeks was all it had taken before he had recalled his order. Chris had been on a volatile path to self-destruction. The sheer volume of alcohol he consumed was enough to rot his liver, the outbursts enough to lose him most every friend he had. Jill's 'death' had torn him apart. A slow suicide seemed far more fitting than anything he could ever have inflicted. Reduced to nothing, only to wither away.

"Is something wrong?"

A smile twisted his lips. He was sure his nemesis would like to know that his beloved partner remained alive and well, and was sure that he was dying to know just where her allegiance lay now. The taste of her tears would be delightful after she disembowelled her old friend. And then she would have no-one but him. She would fold to him without the aid of the chemical, would learn to love him, and then he would shatter her world and gather what was left in his arms.

"I feel she may have one final use after all."

The magma felt cool against him now, skin peeling away but no pain felt. But the virus kept him alive, sustained him enough to draw a bellowing cry. He could feel his body melting, yet his mind lived on, his heart continued to beat through the suffering.

It was his chest that blistered, blood seeping over mangled tissue. He did not know if the virus would heal his wounds, but still he groped for land, hoping to pull what was left of his carcass from the fire.

His failing senses picked up the distant whir of helicopter blades, his eyes finding the source beyond the steam. Rescue. A faint cry vanished against the sizzling disintegration of his flesh, a ladder thrown from the open side.

And then he saw her, silhouetted against the chopper.

She had come for him, against all odds.

Laughter consumed him, and the warmth that he felt did not emanate from his fiery prison. He had not ordered her to come; this was her own doing.

He did not wish to pretend, did not wish to deny that it pleased him how she cared. He had known it all along, had known that his methods were justified. He had taught her well, and she had learned, had realised that she was nothing without him.

Another figure appeared against the sky, clutching the rungs of the ladder. The African girl. Chris's partner. He watched as Jill reached for her, as she hauled her inside the chopper before reaching down for Chris.

Confusion settled.

'Impossible.'

His vision flickered, offering him clarity that only the virus could present. With this sight, he saw only a blemish against her chest. The device was gone, his influence was gone. And beneath it all, she flourished enough to push on, to live without him.

Agony seized him, the bite of the fire more potent than before.

Chris would survive. He would survive with her. It had begun with the tyrant, with the premature death he had almost forced upon him. And then with Alexia, with T.A.L.O.S. and with Uroboros. And now...with her. He had stolen everything, had claimed what was rightfully his.

A lifetime of disappointment, and only one name to attribute it all to. Decades of hatred piled up behind his eyes, injustice riling him to insanity.

"Chris!" he roared, lashing out with what little strength remained. He would not die alone, would not know the humiliation of defeat again. She would burn for her sins, for choosing him. And he would burn for his.

But then, in a flash of light, everything vanished. He floated in a state of anaesthesia, where the weight of his empire crushed down upon him. There was no relief, only blinding agony, only the splintering sensation of losing everything. She slipped away even in his memory, the melody of her voice lost in the hiss of static, the softness of her flesh merely an indulgent hypothesis.

Then, the final sliver of life committed itself to the lost.

One last time, he had failed.

And the world would know it.

'Kyrie Eleison.'