|No Time for Reparations
Author: Potiphar's Wife PM
Chris' world begins to change drastically on the day of Albert Wesker's execution. After the attempt fails, history seems to be repeating itself in the worst way possible for the troubled heroes of RE5. A revelation will threaten to destroy the personal relationships he shares with these characters. TITLE CHANGE FROM REPETITIOUS HISTORY(bleh!)Rated: Fiction T - English - Angst/Friendship - Chris R. & Josh S. - Chapters: 7 - Words: 21,874 - Reviews: 21 - Favs: 7 - Follows: 7 - Updated: 02-15-13 - Published: 08-13-12 - id: 8424917
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Gionne Supermax Penitentiary was an intercepted apology by the United States—an apology the irate ministries of West Africa quietly rejected at the Gionne family's offer to build a prison to hold a sole occupant: "the world's most nefarious terrorist". The tri level penitentiary housed the aforementioned terrorist in the pits of the earth, built in Alcatraz fashion in the midst of the Pacific, just barely visible from the coastline, shrouded behind the ever present veil of sea born mists. From its rocky and towering cliff side sharply plunging into a bottomless ocean, heavily armed marines were on constant patrol; the supermax prison was surely so failsafe that their only service seemed to allow admission to breach the invisible sea space to well paying seamen. Access on and off the island was limited to air traffic.
Leading scientists on site toiled in silence, producing things of clandestine value, somehow unconditionally backed by certain US statuses with a hand in the stocks. Political and economic conspiracies abound, the facility was brilliantly and dangerously built with enough explosives to level the island, should the sole occupant defy all odds, all manner of architectural design and failsafe technologies and man power and manage to escape. It was not a task too daunting for the occupant. Though there was nothing attractive about the gray, block- like jutting structure, coastline viewfinders raked in a fine penny for a glimpse at the prison name alone adorning the outside wall simply because of whom it housed. And with the name came the nod of thanks to the beneficiaries while an unknown percentage of revenue was donated to rebuild Kijuju in the guise of American charity.
Father Gordon was a slight little man of the cloth in his seventies with misty, contemplative eyes and a long, pale face. While he was stupefied with thought, he seemed anxious to depart and flew through the security gate with inadvertent disregard. A reluctant guard stopped him for a pat down. Though he was compliant enough, it seemed rather sacrilegious to question the piety of a man of cloth by subjecting him to a pat down. To remedy the awkward situation, the guard directed a question at him, snapping him from a thoughtful trance not uncommon of the perceptive priest.
"How did it go?"
His response was unexpected considering the source, but not surprising given the subject.
He replied in a hapless tone that steadily soured. "In all my years of counsel I have never met a more debase and immoral creature. If anything he has reaffirmed my faith; an evil so profound must have an antithesis. It is the balance of nature. I spoke into a void and my words returned to me empty. And never even an utterance of rebuttal! One of comparable nature had been thrust from paradise already. If he has taken a form of all the vices of man that representation sits anticipating his execution to return home to his lake of fire. There is no place for him in paradise, no patience for him in purgatory. It is the humble opinion of this priest that Albert Wesker is a Godless man!"
He ended in a huff, snapping his arms down to his sides again. The guard had no words for him. His silence condoned his opinion. He watched Father Gordon gather his belongings from the security desk before stammering after him as he was halfway out the door,
"Will you be at the execution?" At the moment, it didn't seem likely.
"If the state wills it," He returned. He bristled past Chris Redfield with barely an audible pardon.
Chris couldn't hide his contempt, either. It made little sense for tax payers' money to sustain a man—a term he used loosely and always with heavy disdain—that shat in a Plexiglas toilet. The same security guard met him with the handheld metal detector and a crooked smile. Chris didn't even bother to oblige. He had been invited to the island and already he had been through so much security that they had taken the change in his pockets. What were they expecting now? A gun? There weren't any guns, per se, on the island. Brooding vents were ready to discharge mephitic gas, sprinkler systems offered sterilizing agents, flammable, and the only projectiles were needle tipped vials with enough tranquilizers to kill a herd of elephants.
The guard relented and beckoned Chris to follow him through the security gate into Subsector B. So far, Gionne Supermax, or G. SM, was more laboratory than prison. The above ground level was sectored off and more technical personnel wandered about in plain clothes with security cards clipped to their outerwear than did guards and now. The sweeping hallway he was walking through was littered with rotating security cameras, whirring in their efforts to keep pace with him.
The door to the witness room the guard held open for him, and Chris passed the threshold where few state selected individuals would entre to bear witness to the death of a tyrant in the coming days. It was a decent sized room, breaking standards, and crisp with the evidence of either recent construction or lack of habitation. Chris suspected the latter. The room on the other side of the one-way mirror was dark.
Doctor Frazier Lund, the biochemist who arranged to meet with him was sitting alone in one of the chairs, legs lapped at the knee, unkempt and sullen. He had the weight of a burden on his shoulders, and they hung forward under its heaviness. The man before him was aging early in his troubles. He wasn't a day over forty-four, but his graying temples and gathers of worry lines on his forehead catapulted Chris' guess into the early fifties.
When Chris entered he got up stiffly to meet him with an odd greet,
"I'm up for a Nobel Prize in my field." The two shook hands briefly. He offered Chris a seat and sank back into his. "And yet, I need your help."
"I'm not a scientist." Chris returned, crossing his arms. His defiant position didn't discourage his wayward company.
"I'm commissioned by the state and ordered by the US Department of Defense to develop the lethal injection for Albert Wesker. Do you know how hard it is to kill a man who can't seem to die?"
Chris, sardonic, shrugged his shoulders. "I can't imagine."
"You can't shoot him…he's immune to disease…his body composition is foreign to us. We've tried in vain to kill the virus via radiation. A technique that worked for former President Graham's daughter and Leon Kennedy but the contraindications only opened a profitable market in pharmaceuticals—as you may know. It did nothing for the subject at hand." Lund wasn't even looking at Chris. He was staring down between his legs rambling into his gesturing hands. Yes, the resulting sterility of Leon Kennedy had urged the hand of the European government to extract the plagas from the ganados by any means necessary and tame it enough to safely offer the imbecile version to the public as an acceptable form of birth control. The then President's daughter, dubbed a mule by the media, already tormented by her own traumas, met her grave early. Lund continued.
"I haven't done anything spectacular. There is no genius involved in The Final Solution."
Here, Chris interrupted his soliloquy. "What are you referring to?"
Lund looked up at him from over his wire framed glasses. "Oh, sorry. It's what we call the lethal injection we've developed. All it is, Mr. Redfield, is a hyper-concentrated version of the PG67A/W. You can take it to the press and finish me, but if it doesn't work, I'm prepared for a quite ignominious dismissal."
Chris unfolded his arms and started at what Lund had admitted. "You mean you aren't certain if it works?"
"And how can I be? It's not like we can try it out." He turned to Chris desperately, finally asking the question he didn't have the pluck to ask over a monitored telephone line. "I just want to know what to expect. What happened when you injected him the first time?"
Chris' mouth opened but the words died before they left his lips. What happened was an immediate evolution that nearly cost him his life. If The Final Solution was nothing more than ironic, he doubted the failsafe ingenuity of G. SM. He doubted any feeble manner of incapacitating Wesker. The mere thought of failure was enough to shift his mood from dispassionate to high anxiety. Suddenly, he was sharing the fears of the despondent scientist.
Chris never answered him, although his response was anticipated. When some seconds ticked by in silence, Lund didn't push him. Defeated, he had nothing to offer Chris but an opportunity.
"Do you want to see him?"
Chris' yes had him traveling down an elevator with the erratic Lund, taking to raking his hands through his thinning hair in nervous habit and jittering about from the effects of sleeplessness. Did he really want to see Albert Wesker? He didn't anticipate the privilege, if one could call it that. He hadn't seen more than a glimpse of him on television, but the same fascination that tempts the moth to the flame coerced Chris to see the monster, prowling about his Plexiglas prison in stalker fashion. He followed Lund through a narrow hallway in the Subterranean Sector where all the guards on the island had been saved for duty, each greeting him with a passing salute. His fame preceded him in most his trespasses. He returned the gesture heartily to hide his trembling hands. At long last, the door to a control room slid open and the pale faces of attending personnel greeted him with surprise. He was an outsider stumbled upon the tribe of never before discovered natives, and they all scrutinized him with the same eerie fascination.
One wall of the large room was made entirely of twelve foot thick tempered glass, providing the only view of the caged Albert Wesker. His cell was spacious, immaculately clean, with the bare essentials; a bed with pristine white sheets; a central desk and chair bolted to the floor by unseen means; a bookshelf pushed up against the wall, and a suspended television with a shattered screen. In his cell also hugging the four corners were security cameras, and the same vents that hung menacingly overhead on every floor. The famed Plexiglas toilet at the foot of the bed was unblemished. The cell was distractingly bright from ceiling lights and the pensive sole occupant sat comfortably in the chair next to the table, dressed in a white uniform, nearly as white as his own skin, blond hair neatly brushed back away from his face and molten red eyes ahead.
Though he was doing nothing, his calm pose and calculating eyes fixed on the glass wall in front of him as though he was aware he was being watched and perhaps intentionally, he unsettled the entire room. His ankle was lapped over his knee, his hands cupped his elbows and he sat as a king on his throne, almost catatonic, with all the patience afforded to Job. If he was aware he was set to die in a few days, he was unaffected. There was no satisfactory remorse or angst about him and Chris found the rest of his body trembling to match his hands. His complexion drained, his heart beat just a little faster, and had not the fear of shame sobered him he would have passed out. Remarkably, understandably, after all these years, Chris was still afraid. Lund, having been well acquainted with Wesker and his antics, seemed the only one unimpressed.
Lund gestured toward him. "There he is in all his glory, sitting mockingly," he muttered.
Chris approached the glass slowly. The cell was on a platform three feet off the ground and separated by machinery designed to monitor or subdue the prisoner with a touch of a button.
"C-can he see me?" Chris stammered.
Lund shook his head. "I would venture to guess no. If seeing you couldn't get a rise out of him, I don't know what could. His holding isn't designed for him to see us anyhow."
It was one thing to be this close to his nemesis, and it unnerved him, but Wesker was a living enigma and from fear Chris set his mind upon one very obvious thing. Lund must have read his mind.
"You're wondering why he hasn't aged? Well, Uroboros is preserving him in the same state the virus was introduced to him. He doesn't thirst or tire. I haven't seen him close his eyes for more than a minute at any time. He doesn't eat anything. We haven't fed him in eight years."
Chris pocketed his hands. It wasn't enough to know that the lethal drug was only presumed, experimental, potential in a vial—but to see the smug Wesker perched in a simple desk chair defying time swung another blow. He was untouched by the years, unblemished, physically faultless and without vulnerability. Chris was biologically older than Wesker.
"What happened to the TV?"
"He broke it."
"How do you get in the room?"
Lund shrugged. "We have to gas him. But the window of opportunity is small. Oh—" He walked over to one of the supercomputers, "And he doesn't respond to anything." He pushed the intercom button and spoke into it, an action that had Chris holding his breath as if the slightest particle of speech would give away his presence. The dreary control room natives joined him in a communal hush.
"Albert? Is there anything you want?" He held down the button for a few moments in wait of a response but all that returned to him was the ominous silence he expected. If Wesker had heard him, he played well a deaf man. Lund released the intercom and looked to Chris.
"I would agree our approach isn't humanitarian but I'm not sure if he is even human anymore. Come his execution, he will either slip away silently, or endure insufferable pain—the latter I hope to avoid in face of the press. Assuming The Final Solution works."
But there was no room for assumption, just absolution. Chris could not tear his eyes away from the living horror; seeing him set his mind back to the day of their last confrontation. Albert Wesker was a volatile substance. The potential behind that glass wall was a sleeping giant. Chris forced himself to look up into the amber eyes of his nemesis, ignoring the shudder that passed through him but he could not bear the torment that he had bullied himself into enduring. He turned away just as Wesker repositioned himself—a simple movement of un-lapping his legs that drummed up more attention from his audience than necessary. Chris had had enough.
Lund, rubbing his sleepy red eyes, adjusted his glasses and lit up again with anxious hope of a helpful word. "Yes?"
"Do not fail."