It’s 1988, and you’ve been abducted by Umbrella. You know little, only through hushed whispers and barely intelligible mutters do you understand that you’re here as an experiment. Something more sinister than you can comprehend.
You recognise Umbrella as a pharmaceutical company, who strive to create vaccines and cures for viruses. A reputable company garnering such great wealth and success. But, when you awake, disoriented and questioning your whereabouts and why they refuse to let you leave, an uncomfortable understanding settles within your chest that this company is more than they let on…
You live with your wrist chained to the metal bed where you lay, the sterile and cold frame clinks and screeches when weight is shifted. You’re surrounded by 3 blindingly white tiled the walls, the polished flooring matching in material and shade. The wall that opposes you, is glass. You reside in an observation room. White laboratory coats hang from every employee that strolls past, their heads turned in your direction. Watching. Cautious and analytical expressions plastered on the mugs of those who poke and prod at you, they look quizzical and bemused that you haven’t reacted like everyone else has.
The wails and cries that once filled the surrounding cells have been replaced by an eerie silence, one that provides little to no comfort. You recognise that you are alone, isolated, the last remaining test subject. You fear what will happen to you. But nothing ever does.
You understand that you are a part of program of some sort, one you know little about, only that you didn’t respond as predicted.
You see more of the same man, and he’s unforgettable with the black shades that conceal his eyes, hiding every little micro expression from you as you stare back. He accompanies a gathering of scientists who appear fearful over him. They fawn over him, obeying every little order. They gaze up at him with weary, uneasy eyes before being ordered to analyse another sample of your blood. Overworked, yet too eager to please.
All you can deduce from him is that he is someone of higher authority. He’s a superior, someone of more power than the canon fodder that run around analysing every sample of blood, urine, and spit they have of yours.
He makes you feel weird. Something akin to anxiety and something else becomes the norm when he spectates you. He’s charming, disgustingly so, and a threat your being.
You can tell he’s staring. You can feel his eyes wandering over your body. He takes in the sight of you, hospital gown hanging loose from your form, dark under eyes that signal a lack of rest, face appearing gaunt and fatigued due to your refusal to eat all of your food. An act of rebellion, he assumes.
No matter. He’ll break in that obedience soon enough, and you’ll be at his feet like every other unworthy researcher he has working overtime for him.
Weeks pass without communication. Your food is delivered and you manage with one hand to scoop the sludge into your mouth, the other held above you, exhausted from the weight of your restraints. Your stomach has gurgled and wept enough from your lack of cooperation. So, with a heavy chest and eyelids that threaten to close if you lack the willpower to keep them open, you obey and scoop the tasteless, bland mush into your mouth.
You angle your face away from the observation wall, though you know it’s useless. That man, the one with the black shades and the smug, know-it-all, cocky expression on his face analyses every movement of yours. Whether your hands remain still or tremble, if what is running down your cheeks is sweat from your body reacting to the substance pumping through your blood stream, or if it’s the tears you let out in your misery.
Only, this time, he enters.
It’s the first human contact you’ve had since you arrived at the centre. Last time, you were restrained and sedated for thrashing and biting the hand of a security guard. An act of defiance so fruitless all it did was exhaust you and leave you chained to your bed.
You can feel the rise in your heart rate. The way your heart pulses and pounds against your ribs as he approaches. Suddenly, your nape is coated in a sheen of sweat, your breathing heavy and your eyes widened in trepidation. You wonder if he’ll backhand you—it wouldn’t be the first time it had Instead, a gloved hand slides into his lab coats pocket and pulls out something silver. A key. It’s slotted into the chains that bind you to the bed frame, which now fall to your thin and hard pillow beneath you.
“Come now, no need for this shyness…”
You can barely muster a word. You nod meekly, and avert your gaze.
You can’t place a finger on his tone. Only, that you feel inclined to behave and slowly rise. Your knees that were tucked beneath your chin in an attempt to draw less attention to yourself now buckle and tremble beneath your weight. It’s the first time you’ve had the pleasure (or displeasure) of using them, and the burn that follows lies somewhere between agony and satisfaction. They click as you stretch them, muscles working overtime after the long bed rest.
Two black gloved hands grip you by either bicep, and he shoves you forward as he walks. Your feet stumble back to life as you trail ahead. You walk in front of him in his grip, and your eyes drift to his black Oxfords. Polished and smooth, impossibly clean. He must take care of his belongings, or perhaps he doesn’t leave the facility often. They click repetitively, a sound too stimulating for your ears. The man presses digits into the locked door, before it slides open with a hiss.
You want to whine as you leave your holding cell. The sounds that were dull and tame from within your room, are massively intensified. You’ve given little time to react before your feet spring to action, the man steering you into hallway after hallway. Everything hurts, only now do you realise how weakened you’ve become. Your biceps ache beneath the pressure of the doctor’s fingertips, you’re certain they’ll reveal a nasty bruise soon. Your thighs burn with each step, and your legs feel as though they’ll give out if you don’t soon reach a stop. A sudden, splitting migraine rips through your head at the intensity of the overhead lighting, sterile in its hue, and all too powerful for the eyes that have grown accustomed to the shadows of your room.
Another door opens with the input of a code you didn’t care to check. No use, or at least certainly not now. Now when you’re trying to focus on not fainting or sobbing from all the new sensations bestowed upon you.
This room is much, much colder. Darker, too. It’s soothing and you feel yourself ease up. You didn’t realise how much you were burning up in the corridors of the facility. You’re uncertain if this is your body’s reaction to being held in that room for so long, or if it’s the consequence of whatever they implanted into your system.
Your backside meets a metal chair and your body goes slack at the chance to relax your tired muscles. You lay limp as he moves around, managing your limbs with a firm touch. Listening to the sounds of clicking and a metal tray moving around as you shut your eyes tightly, the instruments clicking together uncontrollably loud for your over sensitive ears. Suppressing a whine, you try and draw in on yourself, to wrap your arms around your centre in an attempt to self soothe.
But, your wrists and ankles meet restraint.
Your eyes widen as you gaze downwards. Cuffs hold you to the chair, and they’re much too thick and impossibly tight, that there would be no chance you could slip from them unknown. You frantically pull and push regardless, only to be met with cruel mockery.
“Aw, no need for that, now. I wouldn’t want to sedate you,” he begins, practically cooing. This time, you can read his expression clearly. His lips curl upwards at the sides in amusement, pleased by what he sees before him—vulnerability.
“Where would be the fun in that? I want to see every little reaction.” A sick tone that laces his voice that makes you feel like prey. You shake your head, stumbling over words that never manage to leave your quivering lips. You struggle to make his face out through the blur of your tears.
When did you begin crying? Or are you so out of tune with your emotions and feelings, that they came and you never noticed the tingling and the burn?
“Shh, shh.” You back away from the hand that closes in on you. It cups your jaw, somewhere between firm and tender. He holds you like a lover, one who wants control, who wants compliance. A thumb rubs at your damp cheek, swiping at the tears before they have the chance to roll down your face and drip from your chin.
“You can be good for this, can’t you?” His free hand finds itself on the metal tray. Your eyes bounce between your restraints, to the large hand that’s far too firm on your jaw for it to be soothing, to the face attached to the hand that finds satisfaction in the power dynamic, and to the needle that he now holds cautiously.
“No, no, no! You- you—” You shake your head rapidly—or attempt to through his hold—eyes now full of despair and terror at the weapon. The needle is large, much larger than anything you’ve ever seen more. It mimics a halloween or horror film prop, but you know that nothing here is for the amusement of an audience, or just for show. You gulp, and suck in a sharp breath—or at least try to. It comes out stuttered and hysterical, your breathing has turned to panting and your eyes look up, an attempt to plead for mercy.
Your eyes catch the name attached to the white lab coat. A. Wesker.
“Now, now. Let’s relax. Have some faith, will you? This should correct you.” The glint of Wesker’s grin terrorises you, he pulls the cap of the needle off with the hand that was once cradling your face. It resumes its prior position, only now forcing your head to the left, revealing and exposing your neck for assault.
The inside of the needle is full of a glowing cerulean, radiant, and luminous fluid. Certainly not something that looks like it belongs anywhere inside of a human’s body. Your eyes water in anticipation, and your sobs come out wrecked and pained. Sounding like an animal who’s being prepared for slaughter, merely trembling in his grip as you try and fight his impossible firm hold. You whimper as you feel the ghost of the needle against your skin, eyes round and looking into his.
“And if it doesn’t?“ He starts, cocking his head to the side knowing that there’s nothing you can do to overpower or free yourself. His tone is playful, as if this is casual banter and not a threat to your entire being. He doesn’t finish his sentence as he pokes it into your jugular vein. You grit your teeth together, scraping them in an attempt to hold yourself together.
He pushes down, allowing for the fluid to slowly travel into your body. A steady stream which provides nothing but intense agony and disorientates you until you’re nauseous.
His hand drops, so too does your head, now too weak to stand on its own. You can feel your vision darkening at the edges as your consciousness threatens to slip from you. Can feel the tingling sensation that rushes down your body in response to the lightheadedness, starting from your cranium, and traveling down your neck, to your arms, and to your feet.
Your world goes black before you can conceptualise the extent of your situation.
“I’ll see you when you awake.”
