Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Albert,

Do you remember what happened on the day we met? All those years ago?  I remember it like it was yesterday. Not because it’s a pleasant memory or anything, but because it’s the exact opposite. A bad memory.

Maybe I’m being unfair.

Maybe I’m not.

I willingly walked into that situation, so I actually can’t blame anyone but myself for that.

I wanted to blame you though. I did at the time, didn’t I?

**

July 1990

It was hot.

Too damn hot.

Only 0900 and already it was thirty-three degrees Celsius—

Oh wait, they don’t use Celsius here...

Fine—it was ninety-two degrees Fahrenheit in the shade; a typical summer heat for the great basin. Or so she had been told by co-workers. Meh, Ioana would take their word for it—she personally wouldn’t know, as she’d only been in the states for five months; having arrived at the tail end of winter.

Ah, winter...now that she was used to. But this—

Jesus H. Christ!

It was like the sun itself was enacting a personal vendetta against the whole of mankind, and sitting in the back of an un-airconditioned army transport truck was the proverbial extra kick in the ass! Ioana felt she’d kill over at any second—just melt away into the floorboards. Lord, she should have removed the leather chaps from her jeans before departure—but she hadn’t known she’d be abandoning her motorcycle for a freaking hotbox! She’d figured her...hosts would at least pick her up in a normal sedan or something, but nope!

Silly her. What had she been thinking?

It’s hot as balls in here!

Well, at least she had worn a tank top beneath her moto-jacket. Ioana cringed as a bead of sweat trailed along her temple to tease at her jawline, and she quickly wiped it away—irritation growing at each bump in the road the vehicle struck, as though the driver had a strange attraction to every single road hazard in sight. How much longer until they got to the damn place? Where the hell even was the place?

An internal groan. A desperate attempt to keep her demeanor calm and professional, ‘cause well...yeah, it was all about “appearances” wasn’t it? But inside Ioana really just wanted to dropkick something, and quite honestly, she was beginning to wonder what was grating on her nerves more—the lousy heat, or the impeccably dressed woman sitting on the bench across from her who had yet to break a freaking sweat!

What was her name again? Petra Becker? Beaker...Baker? Eh, who the fuck cared, the point was that not one single sign of perspiration had appeared on her brow or neck. Seriously! The woman’s flawless makeup hadn’t even begun to melt!

Pfft! What brand does she use, Krylon??

Lord almighty, this woman must not have a working thyroid, and the dress suit she wore just made it all the more perplexing. Tight pencil skirt and long sleeves—well, at least it had a plunging neckline to offer her some ventilation.

Yeah cool those tits, hon.

Harsh. Ioana knew it, but honestly, this...Petra had been less than pleasant from the very start—and what was that old saying about first impressions? Yeah, the woman had blown that the day prior...

The wailing of hydraulics and the hiss and spitting of pneumatics echoed in the garage, and Ioana cursed herself for forgetting her earplugs. She could’ve grabbed another pack from one of the tool cabinets, but she was at the end of a routine tire rotation—she’d survive another minute before taking a break to escape the cacophony.

The small shop in which she had become employed could only accommodate two lifted vehicles at a time, and over the past several days, they had fallen behind. To add insult to injury, they were short staffed.

Which is why when a tow truck pulled up with a brand new Acura NSX hitched to it, and a highly agitated designer label woman in the truck’s passenger seat—the day went to shit.

Immaculately groomed with her heavy red lips and asymmetrical bob haircut, the woman had positively oozed pretentious affluence, and sure enough—as she crossed the shop floor on stilettos to meet with Connor, the shop’s manager, she had promptly demanded that her vehicle be expedited. Connor, bless his heart, had assured her that in no uncertain terms would that be happening in their universe, and oh boy did the woman have some choice words for him after that.

Ioana had been stationed close enough to observe the entire confrontation—and though she remained focused on her work, she couldn’t avoid shifting a few side-eyes to take in the building chaos. The woman’s tone was harsh—volume increasing to be heard over the wail of machinery, but Connor stood his ground; meeting her with equal conviction. Honestly, Ioana admired Connor’s patience—she would have knocked out the bitch’s teeth by now.

“Hey, Ioana?”

Her attention was drawn to the other tech addressing her—Spencer. Shaggy hair tucked beneath a trucker’s cap and a beard that hadn’t been groomed in months on his bony face—he approached her with a toothy grin as he attempted to wipe the grease from his hands.

“How do ya say ‘Dumb Cunt’ in Edonia?” He asked.

Ioana snorted, nearly dropping her socket wrench at the sudden verbal brutality. She chuckled nonetheless—feeling Spencer’s uncouth insult was warranted, and proceeded to answer him in her mother tongue’s equivalent.

He tried to mimic her, but his clumsy American drawl couldn’t quite nail the subtle rounding of the vowels and the glottal stops necessary for proper pronunciation. But that didn’t stop the man from loudly trying to declare it—resulting in a boisterous bellow of laughter from another nearby co-worker. Big burly Damian and his contagious humor, it never failed to infect everyone around him, and Ioana found herself laughing along...and then abruptly cut herself off when she caught sight of the woman staring directly at her.

Fuck, had she heard?

Though her eyes were hidden behind rather fashionable shades, Ioana could absolutely feel them boring into her. Yeah...the bitch had definitely heard, and Ioana figured now was as good a time as any to take that break she was long overdue.

“Connor!” She called out, “I’m taking a cig!”

She didn’t bother waiting for his affirmation, and quickly vacated the garage—digging into the pockets of her jumpsuit as she circled around back to the designated smoking area. Goddamn was she long overdue for a stick, and she wasted no time in lighting one up as she perched upon a weathered picnic table in the shade of an oak; arms resting upon her knees as she took a long and nerve-steadying drag.

A satisfying exhale, and she closed her eyes from the burning sun; instantly regretting not grabbing a bottle of water on her way out.

She achieved exactly two minutes of peace before—

“Excuse me, little girl?”

Ioana bristled, and opened her eyes to greet the woman who addressed her with a scowl, watching the “dumb cunt” from before slightly stumble as she approached; designer pumps and loose gravel clearly not a match.

“...shit.”

She heard the woman hiss beneath her breath as another wobbly step nearly rolled her ankle.

Ioana’s eyes narrowed, “I ain’t no little girl, MA’AM.”

She harshly emphasized the word “ma’am”—ensuring the insult wasn’t lost. Clearly, the woman caught it, for when she removed her shades, her long lashes were heavy on glaring eyes.

“Noted,” She sighed, coming to stand before Ioana, “You’re Edonian?”

The woman cut right to the chase, her expression stern as she fixed Ioana with a pointed stare.

“Uh, yeah.”

Ioana cocked a brow and took another drag, unsure where the conversation was headed, and made all the more perplexing when the woman quickly retrieved a billfold from her small purse, flipping it open for Ioana to catch a glance of a most “official” looking badge and ID inside.

“Special Agent Petra Becker.” The woman recited—as though she’d given the introduction a dozen times already that morning.

Ioana’s eyes automatically fell upon the badge, but honestly, she hadn’t a freaking clue what she was even looking at.

FBI...CIA...KFC?

The fuck should she know? She was new here.

“Ok. Congratulations.”

Ioana dryly responded, flicking some ash to the side as this...Petra-woman returned the billfold to her purse; addressing her once more:

“You’re a native speaker then, I take it?”

“What gave it away?”

Ioana snorted, but Petra ignored the sarcasm, continuing on,

“I would like to request your services as a translator. Please make yourself available for tomorrow.”

Did...did she just...

Was this bitch for real??

“Woah, hold on,” Ioana sneered, blowing smoke as she shook her head, “I don’t even know you, hon. And where do you get off trying to tell me what to agree to—”

“You’ll be paid.”

Petra had cut her off, smoothing a lock of dark hair from her face as a most welcomed breeze passed, and at the word “paid”, Ioana found her interest teased.

Money. She could use some money. Actually, she desperately NEEDED it at the moment. Perhaps...this was a godsend...

One moment of silence—

Then two—

Ioana’s mind raced with clashing thoughts. The based human side of her screaming not to miss the opportunity to line her pockets, while a more paranoid survivalist tried to rationalize the wisdom of not taking candy from strangers. Besides, her schedule wasn’t exactly open...

But still...

She made sure to steel her tone as she answered, “I’m a student. I have class tomorrow.”

It was the truth, and she felt a pang of regret as soon as the words left her mouth. Such an out-of-character excuse—for Ioana had never been a dedicated student. In fact, she never made it through her upper grades; dropped out in year seven.

Nonetheless, it was her ticket into this country, and she was paranoid enough not to risk it.

Petra eyed her with a growing impatience.

“It’s the summer.”

Catty. Haughty. This woman clearly didn’t tolerate being told “No.”

But Ioana was just as headstrong.

“I enrolled for the summer term.” She didn’t bother hiding her own irritation this time, “I’m on a student visa—I can’t afford to miss any classes.”

But for whatever venom she allowed to coat her tone, Petra spat it right back.

“I highly doubt skipping a class or two is anything new.”

Ohhhh, she wanted to play that game, huh??

Ioana should pop her in the lip—teach her that NO ONE talks to her that way. But that was just immature...and then she’d lose her job.

Instead, she stuffed the cigarette out upon the table and quickly rose to her feet—a firm scowl affixed to her mouth.

“Piss off.”

Were her final words on the matter, and without so much as a backwards glance, Ioana stepped away; making her way back towards the garage.

“How does $5,000 sound?”

Her boots scuffed on gravel—and Ioana came to an immediate halt.

That’s all it had taken. A high enough number.

Five grand for a single day of just talking? Fuck school, count her in!

It had been straightforward enough—Petra telling her when and where to meet the following day, emphasizing the great importance of discretion, yadda, yadda. And so, Ioana had saddled up her bike and rode out at the crack of dawn—meeting the woman as instructed.

Now here she sat—trying to keep her balance as the goddamn oven-on-wheels rocked about on uneven pavement. Her fingers curled upon the vinyl padding beneath her, arms locked in place as she held tight to remain upright, and she cursed beneath her breath as a particular bump in the road caused her to bounce hard—bringing an ache to her tailbone. The ride was literally busting her ass.

Her gaze fixed upon Petra, irritation growing as she watched the woman barely flinch at the shifting around her, her attention fully immersed upon the contents of a faux leather portfolio in her hands—and Ioana could see her steely brown eyes scanning the sheets of paper clipped within. A rustle of parchment as perfectly manicured fingers flipped the portfolio closed, and with an air that betrayed haughtiness, Petra crossed her nylon legs and checked the rather upscale looking watch on her wrist.

“We’re precisely on schedule, Miss Muller. I appreciate your punctuality.” She spoke as she folded her hands upon her lap—eyes shifting to meet Ioana’s own.

Her voice was stern—devoid of feeling, as though she encompassed the very persona of the term ball-buster.

“When we arrive you will be briefed on your role and what will be expected of you. There will be no time for questions, so please, refrain from asking them. As I said earlier, I trust you to understand that discretion is key.”

Ioana’s brow quirked slightly—eyes narrowing, “Why can’t you just tell me what’s going on now?”

It hadn’t made sense to her. Yeah, sure, government secrets yadda, yadda, yadda, but the fact that she hadn’t been provided any information whatsoever—

Not the who—

Not the what—

And not even the where—

Ioana’s concern was growing along with her temper. Was it really, truly too much to ask for clarification within the confines of a truck when they were the only two passengers? The walls didn’t exactly have ears in the back of this thing.

She could see Petra’s lips tighten—clearly annoyed at Ioana’s breaking of her first rule: no questions.

“As I said,” her tone became more patronizing, “you will be briefed when we arrive. Regardless, it is not my job to school you in details. Those in charge of this operation will deal with you.”

Bitch.

The woman’s clear disproval of Ioana’s presence in her life was palpable. Speaking to her as though she were a clueless civilian far beneath her in pedigree—

Well...Ioana was, wasn’t she?

That’s not the point!

Her resentful thoughts were disbanded when she felt the heavy sensation of brakes being applied, and the truck began to slow. Voices outside—the driver clearly addressing someone as he brought the vehicle to a complete stop. Were they at a checkpoint or something? Ioana tried to picture in her mind’s eye what was unfolding, and the rumble of additional engines and rubber upon gravel signified they had reached some sort of outpost.

The pause lasted under a minute, and the truck began to roll once more—voices growing louder, and the vibrations of other passing vehicles rocked Ioana in her seat slightly. It sounded a bit chaotic to her ears, and for the first time since she had agreed to the job, she began to feel a tingle of apprehension. What exactly had she just walked into? Was this a full on freaking military operation? True, she had been surprised at the sight of the transport when Petra had escorted her to a second rendezvous point—but her annoyance at having to play a game of “musical vehicles” had snuffed out the suspicions; jumping from motorcycle, to Petra’s rented Mitsubishi, to military truck. Ugh! She had become more concerned with the utter stupidity everything seemed to function under, that she hadn’t stopped to ponder what exactly she was being brought into.

It was pretty fucking shallow of her.

Christ...

The squeal of brakes as the truck stopped once more, and Ioana listened to rapid boots on the ground approaching—flinching as a full blast of sunlight struck her face when the canvas was lifted and the tailgate dropped open, revealing two armed soldiers.

A tremor of something old yet familiar passed through Ioana—the cold at the back of her neck that banished the summer heat for a split second as she her eyes took in the sight of uniforms and shouldered rifles—

It was...it was...

A beam of light that stretched along a tiled floor—

The thudding of rapid feet—

Her mom’s scream as faceless soldiers invaded—

Her home...her room...searched with charcoal colored weapons that absorbed no light. Lifeless. Truly dead.

Nine years old—young enough to know...to understand that she needed to lay still. Not to move. Not to breathe.

To just watch.

And so, she just watched.

As men in uniform dragged her dad away.

Mom still screaming.

Stop! Stop! ENOUGH!

Ioana tore herself free—breaking the chain of memories as she returned to the now. Focused once more on what was unfolding before her.

You’re fine. You’re fine. It’s fine.

A mantra to steel her nerves—to help her to ignore just how fucking reckless she had been to accept this job so blindly.

“Let’s go.” Petra directed, and Ioana watched her tuck the portfolio to her side as she exited—taking the offered hand of a soldier who helped her down.

One last moment of hesitation—

$5K, dumbass. Get a move on!

Ah, you gotta love money; greatest motivator in the world.

And so, Ioana grabbed the helmet and jacket at her feet and hopped from the truck; without assistance. A satisfying pop in her back and knee as she straightened, and she took a moment to glance about her surroundings.

It was indeed some sort of “pop-up” military base. Was that even a thing?

The location was small. Crowded with what appeared to be large canvased tents camouflaged perfectly for the surrounding vegetation. Over a dozen vehicles of various types and sizes were both stationary and moving, while US army men quickly went to and fro. By the looks of the place, it may have originally been a designated parking area that accessed a hiking trail—a graveled clearing surrounded by heavy woods clearly nestled in a mountain range, and Ioana suddenly became deeply struck by just how lost she truly was. She really had been dragged out completely blind into the middle of nowhere.

Yep, this is how horror movies start.

She snorted. Well...thank god she loved horror films, right?

“This way please, Miss Muller. Let’s not dawdle about now. You’ll be having homework to make-up, yes?”

Was passive-aggression Petra’s trademark? The bitch had it down to an art form.

And just for that, Ioana made sure to follow her...one...slow...stride...at...a...time, as they made their way to one of the tents—passing beneath canvas flaps, and into what was obviously meant to be a command center.

Pfft! “Command center”—do they actually call it that in real life? Lame.

 A series of folding tables stood in the center of the modular post. Stacks of binders and loose documents covered nearly every inch of space, while various electronics were peppered about—from computers to the most basic push-button telephones; all powered by a generator rumbling behind the structure. It really did look like something out of a Hollywood production, and Ioana suppressed a scoff at the utter surrealism of it all.

There were three occupants that she could see: A petite pixie-haired brunette scribbling upon a clipboard, a pale blond man in dark aviator shades seated before a computer, and an Asian man speaking into one of the many phones—glancing up as Ioana and Petra approached. From the looks of him, he was the one in charge, and as Petra came to stand before him—offering up her portfolio, he took it graciously with a nod, and completed whatever discussion he was engaged in; hanging up the receiver.

“Captain Park,” Petra began, “This is Ioana Muller. She will be assisting with the translation.”

“Excellent.” The Captain acknowledged the woman’s words, but gave Ioana herself no affirmation—quickly opening the folder to peruse the documents within, and as Ioana stood in silent observation, she came to a highly unnerving realization—

  Wait...are those...files on me??

 What the actual fuck?!

Her heart skipped—muscles tensing as she quickly pondered over what Petra could have possibly dug up on her. She was an immigrant who had only been in the states for several months! She was a nobody, and shouldn’t have any records outside her school arrangement! Unless...unless some way, somehow they had looked into her family name in Edonia—

But HOW??

No. No, there was no need to worry—she’d done nothing wrong. She was just a student here on a visa, and very much alone. No connections. No affiliations.

She took a deep breath, and repeated those words in her head. Doing her best to maintain a poker-face as the Captain finally laid eyes upon her, looking her up and down briefly before speaking.

“Miss Muller, thank you for aiding us in this.”

Hmph, Ioana didn’t even know what this was! Still, she held her tongue.

The man continued, “I take it you understand that discretion is of the utmost importance. Whatever you see and hear today is to be kept completely confidential, and any violation of this will not be tolerated.”

The fuck did that mean?

Yeah, warning bells were clanging. Yet still, Ioana remained silent—scrutinizing the man and his words. She wasn’t in Edonia anymore. America they...they didn’t drag you out and shoot you in the streets here, right?

RIGHT?

“You will be compensated for your service to the country afterwards. I trust this is acceptable?”

She startled for a moment when a question entered the lecture—realizing he was indeed asking for her approval on the matter and not simply speaking in a rhetorical fashion.

“Oh, uh...” Ioana blinked rapidly, “...um, yeah, that’s cool.”

Cool?!

The hell was wrong with her? She cringed at her own clumsiness—mentally kicking herself and hoping that she hadn’t painted a complete image of a fucking idiot to him. Lord knows Petra was probably getting some entertainment out of it.

Fortunately, if Captain Park had that impression, he gave no indication. Instead, he closed the portfolio and turned his gaze over his shoulder—looking towards the man still typing away at the computer set-up.

“Wesker.” The Captain called, and the blond man wasted no time in rising from his seat—making his way towards them in a few short strides.

“Sir.”

He acknowledged the hail in a low monotone, eyes shielded behind tinted glass while his visible features were devoid of feeling. The cold stature of a soldier—and for the briefest of moments, Ioana felt a chill run along her spine.

Memories of such demeanors—

Of such imposing presences that brought nothing but fear and pain into the world—

Eyes that followed her as she walked to and from school with her friends—watching them as though they were threats to the well-being of the state. Something that needed to be contained. Something to break.

She was just a child! They were only children!

But their parents were not so innocent—

And uniformed eyes knew it.

She shook herself free from cruel recollections, and focused on the present as Captain Park addressed her once more:

“Lieutenant Wesker will be in charge of the operation. You are to remain at his side and follow his instructions exactly as given, is that understood.”

He passed the portfolio to the Lieutenant as he spoke, and Ioana cleared her throat before answering, “Yes.”

“Good.” Park nodded, “Go with him and he’ll brief you on your role. Thank you once more, Miss Muller, for your contribution.”

With that, he returned to the phone—picking up the receiver and quickly dialing out. She had been dismissed.

And that was that. Ioana was locked in, and honestly...she wasn’t sure what the proper etiquette was in that moment. Should she thank him back?

Christ, I’m out of my element right now.

Her gaze drifted—freezing when she caught Petra sparing her a glance, and Ioana took note of the tiny curl at the corner of the older woman’s lips. Something so smug that it lit the ire inside her once more, and though it was brief, it was obviously one final snarky gesture from the woman.

Hmph! Hag!

It took all her willpower not to say it out loud.

“Follow me, Miss Muller.”

That empty drawl again—bringing Ioana’s attention to the Lieutenant as he stepped past her without waiting for an assertion, and he was out the exit before Ioana had even spun upon her heel; forcing her steps into double time to catch up.

Passing through the flaps, the boiling heat hit her full force, and Ioana squinted as the sun struck the glass of several parked vehicles; blinding her for a second. Still, despite the colored spots dancing before her eyes, she was able to reach Lt. Wesker’s side; though not without a struggle to keep pace with his long strides.

Crap, he’s tall.

Indeed. Tall enough that he possessed greater ground clearance, and most certainly had a good foot in height on her; the top of her head just meeting his shoulder. Yup. Tall and lean. Which meant he was probably damn scary in a fight. Oh, Ioana had seen guys like him in scuffles plenty of times—their agility and reach giving them an advantage on supposed heavier hitters. Guys built like him required skill and intelligence—precision strikes that made them dangerous.

And he definitely exuded that.

Wonder if I could get a hit in if the situation called for it. Knock him stupid for a sec and then run like hell...

Haaa! She was foolin’ no one but herself on that front.

He said nothing as they walked. His attention occupied with the open portfolio in hand as he flipped through the papers—reading through them quickly. The hell was he reading? In all honesty, it was still nagging at Ioana’s brain. The confusion over what could possibly be written about her, and she strained her neck just a tad to try and catch a glimpse of the documents over his arm; nose scrunching to play at harmlessness.

“My old parking tickets in there?”

She tried to make light of it—smirking to emphasize her banter, but if it landed, he gave no indication; closing the folder and letting it rest in his hand at his side.

And then FINALLY, he spoke:

“As you’ve been made aware, Miss Muller, you will be tasked with translating a conversation between myself and another party in real time. You are to repeat only what is said, and exactly as it is expressed. No deviation whatsoever.”

Did she detect an accent on some of his words? She knew that American’s had regional dialects—just like every other country in the world—she’d heard southern twangs and midwestern nasally chirps before, but the Lieutenant...he sounded more English. Something upper-crust in his diction.

Is he an immigrant too?

He went on—ending her musings,

“You are not to speak unless indicated to do so. You are not to use any identifiers regarding yourself, myself, or anyone else whether present or absent. As far as all parties are concerned, you are invisible. Is that understood?”

Ioana blinked, “Well, yeah, but I got a serious question...”

He remained silent, and she took that as an invitation to continue—and since she now had his attention, Ioana wouldn’t mince words.

“What is actually going on? I mean—come on.” She sighed, waving her hand as she gestured to their surroundings, “This whole cloak and dagger shit. Bringing me out here with no information whatsoever—I mean...all we needed was a potato sack over my head and we’d have ourselves an Oscar Stone flick. So now I’m here, I’ve agreed to help you guys, I promise to follow the rules—can I get some info in return, pretty please?’”

She hadn’t meant for the last part to sound so...bratty, but there it was. And fuck it, Ioana really didn’t care how she sounded to him right now. She’d run the gamut of emotions since she’d flopped out of bed this morning like a fish on a dock—not enough coffee and a crippling summer heat beating her down before she could even stand.

It’s been a bad day as yet.

In all seriousness though, it wasn’t unreasonable of her to be asking about such things. Anyone else in her shoes would have done the same, right?

A second’s pause.

And then—

“Miss Muller,” Lt. Wesker’s tone revealed how clearly unaffected he was by her annoyed rambling, “Clearly, you are indeed a most perceptive individual, and as such, I find it rather perplexing that you would feel the need to express such an asinine request.”

Oh ho! Oh no he did not!

Heat was rising in Ioana’s skull—exasperation threatening to burn her, and try as she might to glower at the man, Lt. Wesker’s gaze remained forward; focused ahead on where they traveled as he brought Ioana to navigate around a tiny maze of crates and tables. Even with the gap between the lens of his sunglasses and his eye-socket, she still could not decipher anything from him, and it only added to her growing rage. She parted lips to fire back another piece of her mind, but he cut her off before she could utter a single sound.

“This is a military operation. You are a civilian. You are not being paid to ask questions, you are being paid to follow directions and exercise discretion. I take it that’s rather self-explanatory, yes?”

He halted before another tent, calling out to a Private Sanon—or something or other, but Ioana didn’t give enough fucks to be paying attention. She was too busy fuming—too busy honing in on Wesker’s words; on one in particular...

Civilian.

A pretty young woman with mocha skin and a curly ponytail exited the tent—saluting Lt. Wesker before standing at attention to await further instructions. But before the man could offer up an order, Ioana eradicated her censor button and snapped:

“You work for the fucking government, don’t you have a whole batch of people you can pull from to translate for you? Why hire a fucking civilian then? Seems pretty asinine to me.”

Her brows furrowed over angry eyes—glaring daggers into his side, hoping...praying that he would turn and face her wrath. Bear witness to her indignation at being treated as though she were too stupid to understand anything.

I’m not some dumb naive chick!

And she wanted him to know it!

She could feel Pvt. Sanon’s gaze on her, the poor girl most likely confused as to what the problem was—but Ioana’s stare remained fixed upon Wesker. Waiting for a reaction. Waiting for something! It took a moment, but Ioana finally got what she had wanted when the man slowly turned in her direction—looking down upon her with an expression still so infuriatingly blank, and though she could not see his eyes, she knew they were locked upon her own.

He studied her.

One second—

Then two—

Her lips tightening as she attempted to control her angry breath, for the longer he remained silent, the more frustrated she grew.

Calm down—he’s just an asshole.

Perhaps that silent counsel would have succeeded in curbing her rather immature temper under normal circumstances. Bring everything down to a professional level. Well, it would have, if the man hadn’t opened his goddamn mouth once more!

“That is information on a need-to-know basis, Miss Muller.” His voice dry and level, shaded eyes still boring into her, “And You. Don’t. Need.”

He slowly punctuated each word as though he were calmly speaking to an unruly toddler, and in that instant...in that very fucking instant, Ioana’s brain noped on out. She fell silent. Still. Completely at a loss for how to counterattack his condescension, and as she rushed to find something to say—to get the last word in on this man, he turned back to the Private under his command instead.

“Get her outfitted, pronto.”

“Yes sir.” Sanon nodded, motioning for Ioana to follow.

But she didn’t.

Still caught up in the indignation of being so insulted and dismissed, Ioana remained frozen to the spot—her entire form seized in tension, and as Wesker turned back, preparing to make his egress, he came to stand directly before her.

Ioana’s heart was hammering—blood boiling as her gaze remained affixed upon his shades—watching with bated breath as he leaned in ever so slightly, looking down into her seething eyes.

“And it’s Oliver Stone. Not Oscar.”

He informed her in a calm, collected drawl—a voice devoid of any deeper feeling, save for the miniscule flavoring of cheekiness he allowed to slip from his thin lips.

And before Ioana could gather her wits about her, he walked away. Having won the last word.

That...that...

She was shaking. Her head about to explode.

That pedantic mother fucker!!

She wanted to scream every obscenity she could think of in both languages—to pivot about and take a running leap upon his back. Send him into the gravel and make him eat it! Get a few good slams into his skull!

But she wouldn’t.

She couldn’t.

And she knew her face was currently as red as her hair.

**

“Empty all your pockets and place the items in here, please.”

Standing within an enclosed tent, Pvt. Sanon held a small plastic container before her—patiently waiting for Ioana to comply. Her helmet and jacket had already been confiscated, and honestly, Ioana had now reached the point where she was seriously questioning whether or not she should just high-tail it out of there. Forget the cash. Something felt off.

“And your jewelry as well,” Sanon informed, “including the nose ring.”

Ioana scoffed, “Are you serious?”

But Sanon’s only response was a pointed stare.

“Ugh, whatever.” Ioana mumbled, and proceeded to practically tear the adornments from herself—earrings, wrist cuffs, rings—she popped the hoop from her nose last and instantly felt the urge to sneeze; turning her head just in case.

“Now lift the cuffs of your pants so I can see the tops of your boots.”

The fuck...

As idiotic as it seemed, Ioana did as she was told— making a show of the action as she clicked her heels in a derisive gesture, but the other woman ignored it; giving her one final instruction instead:

“And lift your shirt so I can see your belt line.”

Ioana’s brows shot into her hairline, “Jesus H. Christ, ya gonna check to see if I’m a natural ginger too while you’re at it?”

She sneered, but still acquiesced to the instruction.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Sanon spoke dryly, “You’ve certainly got the trademark attitude.”

And at that, Ioana felt her ire being doused. A shameful realization that she was once again allowing her temper to get the best of her, and taking it out on the nearest person— especially one who didn’t deserve it—was utterly uncalled for. But goddammit all, could she possibly be blamed for feeling so on edge?

Still, this gal hasn’t done anything wrong.

Seriously. She was just following orders.

“Um,” Ioana cleared her throat—lowering her shirt, “Sorry. It’s been a weird morning.”

She tried for a nervous smile to lessen the blow—add a bit more sincerity to the apology. Because god only knew, apologizing wasn’t Ioana’s strong suit.

And it always made her want to kick her own ass.

Fortunately, her attempt at peace wasn’t a futile one, as Sanon offered her a small yet polite smile in return.

“Understood.” The female soldier assured her, and she turned away for the briefest moment—retrieving a few articles that had lain upon a folding chair in the corner.

She returned, extending her hand to Ioana with a small elastic band dangling from her fingertips.

“Please, tie back your hair before we continue.”

Ioana smirked once more, taking the offered band as she attempted to gather her shoulder-length coif into a decent enough tail.

“Kinda hard when you got a shag, hon.” She chuckled, trying to make light of the situation as she did her best to secure her razored locks—choppy bangs and loose strands at her temple simply not cooperating, but it was the best she could do.

Sanon moved on quickly, holding an unpatched fatigue jacket before her.

“Here, this should fit. Make sure it’s completely buttoned, and I will assist you with the vest.”

Vest?

It was then Ioana took notice of what exactly Sanon was holding. Along with the army greens, a ballistics vest was draped over her arm, and at the very sight of the tactical heavy armor, her anxiety came rushing back two-fold.

Woah! Wait...what the hell is this for?!

“Uhhh, why do I need that?” She locked an unblinking stare upon Sanon—her mouth slightly ajar in what she knew was a rather stupefied expression, but quite frankly, she didn’t give a damn right now.

They were asking her to armor up! Armor up for what?!

“Standard procedure.”

Was the only explanation offered, and Ioana felt the proverbial streak of yellow run along her back. She should’ve run when she had the chance.

“I don’t—” She trailed off slowly shaking her head, but Sanon’s patience had apparently reached its limit.

“Miss Muller, we really don’t have time for this. If you agreed to this assignment, I’m afraid this is just part of it. Now please, put the jacket and the vest on.”

Spoken with a tone of no-nonsense, but still generous with understanding—and Ioana had to accept the reality that the other woman was absolutely correct. She had entered into an agreement with the promise of monetary compensation. This was now a business transaction, and just because she was being asked to don protective gear didn’t necessarily mean her life was on the line, yes?

Just fucking do it! Get this over with!

Ioana exhaled, steeling her thoughts and emotions before reaching out and taking the garments in hand—dressing quickly and silently. Honestly, what else could she say? For at this point, the only thing that would be flying from her lips was profanity.

A few adjustments—Sanon making quick work of the straps to adjust to Ioana’s form, and with one final look-over, the soldier nodded her approval.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

With that, Ioana was escorted from the tent—

And into the unknown.

**

At least there was AC this time, and it was blasting Ioana right in the face. She had been squeezed into the backseat—between a baby faced young Private whose patch read Navarro, and Lt. Wesker himself.

No one spoke—well, except Sergeant Mavian in the front passenger side, occasionally responding to the garbled messages coming through the radio at his shoulder. “Roger,” and “10 Mikes,” and all that other military lingo crap you hear in the movies. Ioana couldn’t make out any of it, and honestly, she was far too distracted by the discomfort the damn vest was causing to really care. The ride made it all the worse as she was forced to shift about whenever the Humvee took a sharp turn down the mountain road; causing her to gently ping-pong back and forth between the two men.

Goddammit.

She was lean, but not outrageously petite enough to give her amble room to move about comfortably. Nope! Her shoulder would press off Navarro’s own, only to send her bouncing back into Lt. Wesker’s side with each rock of the vehicle, and quite frankly, Ioana was getting more irritated by the second.

Bite your lip. Say nothing.

A reminder to herself. That need and want to vent her frustrations and complain whenever the urge struck her...it had brought her trouble one too many times, and she’d been trying to exercise some serious self-fucking-control since she arrived in Nevada. Better to remain silent in this situation, for her instincts were still on high alert since they left—screaming at her that something bad was on the horizon.

But...MONEY!

She had to remember—she had to keep reminding herself that money was at stake, and any potential danger that may arise was something she would simply have to face. It would be worth it in the end. Besides, she hadn’t exactly led a sheltered life. Indeed...she had seen too much for a young age already.

She’d be alright. Besides...they got guns, yeah?

Another hairpin turn and Ioana’s knee knocked into Lt. Wesker’s—not hard, but with enough force that she expected the man to comment; tell her to stop touching him or something. Yeah, he seemed the type of person to hate when personal space was violated. Hell, she could appreciate that. However, he remained silent, eyes fixed straight ahead beneath his shades, and Ioana quickly shifted her leg away from his own as best she could.

She sighed, fidgeting with her vest once more.

Ugh! How much longer—

Before her silent question even finished forming, the universe answered. Like a curtain parting—a break appeared in the thick tree line that had run the length of the highway for miles, revealing a turn-off which led to a small derelict building. A half faded sign read MOTEL, and clearly, it had long been abandoned. Nature had begun its reclamation, tall grass surrounding the foundation hadn’t been cut in what could be years, and the shingled roof that ran the length of the single story structure was in serious need of replacing. Boarded up windows, graffiti on bricked walls, yeah...this shit-hole had been left to rot.

And all around—

Chaos.

Holy shit was it a sight!

There were soldiers everywhere, garbed in full tactical gear, with carbines in hand and balaclavas on their faces. They moved in and out of various rooms—clearly engaged in a sweep, while others could be seen entering and exiting the main office; carrying boxes and electronic devices. They were hyper focused on their business—paying absolutely no attention to anything else around them, including the dozen men and women seated upon the ground against the side of the building; hands behind their heads in a clear gesture of surrender. Armed soldiers loomed over them with guns fixed in warning, and to Ioana... it was a familiar sight. Far too familiar, and she tensed in her seat as the Humvee pulled into the entrance—coming to stop beside a transport truck where she spotted soldiers loading the stacks of boxes and electronics into the back.

Fuck...fuck!

Her heart was pounding. Was this some type of bust? Like a raid on a cartel?

What’ve I walked into?! Dumb bitch! The hell were you thinkin’?!

The click of the doors opening, and she felt the weight of the men beside her lift from the seat as they exited the vehicle—Sargent Mavian following from the front.

“Let’s go, Miss Muller.”

Lt. Wesker’s monotone directed her, and in that moment as she turned to look at him—only to find his gaze occupied elsewhere—Ioana felt small. So very, very fucking small. Small enough that her spirit felt as though it simply couldn’t fit in that tiny hunk of flesh she called a body anymore, and thence had no choice but to vacate. To watch herself from the outside.

Surreal.

Detached.

Even as she slipped across the bench—faux leather creaking beneath her—she didn’t feel the connection to the action itself. Her breath becoming heavier, as boots found pavement and she stepped out of the vehicle and into the sunlight—hot air striking her face and bringing clarity back to her senses.

She needed to stay calm; keep her wits about her.

Focus is what kept you alive. She knew this...she knew this...

“Lieutenant!”

A man’s voice called out, and Ioana watched as a strongly built, dark-skinned soldier approached—carbine stowed as he saluted Wesker.

“Sargent Duvall?” Wesker asked for certainty, and the broader man confirmed his identity.

“Yes sir. We’ve evacuated all occupants from the facility and are securing the assets now. We’ve detained Krasniqi inside.”

He wasted no time with the information, and Lt. Wesker nodded in approval, though his features remained plastered with indifference.

“Good work, Sargent. Continue to secure the area and do not allow anyone to enter the facility during the interrogation; this includes yourself.”

Duvall nodded, “Copy that, sir.”

Ioana blinked, brows beginning to furrow as she finally realized what her role in all this was.

Interrogation? That’s what I’m here for?

Her heart leapt into her throat as her worst fears were realized—for if the Army needed a native speaker from Edonia...there was a possibility her daddy’s little side hustle was still in full swing right here on American soil! What were the odds?? Low—very, very low, but that didn’t change the absolute sickening psychosis that her mind was spiraling into.

FUCK! It can’t be—it just CAN’T! All the way out here in the middle of fucking  nowhere in the states?!

Shaking hands curled into fists at her sides—anxiety adding to the sweat from the summer sun as she shifted her eyes about; seeking any tell-tale sign that her past was indeed present. But how would she even recognize it if she saw it?! What the fuck did she even look for?!

Guns...lots and lots of guns--

Bombs—

What’s in those goddamn boxes??

“Mavian, Navarro, with me.”

Wesker’s command to his subordinates cut through her paranoid thoughts, and Ioana’s attention was drawn back to the now. Her eyes landing upon the Lieutenant whose reflective lenses met her gaze.

He addressed her, “You stay close and keep your head down. Do not touch anything, do not engage with anyone, and need I remind you—do not speak until you are instructed to do so. Is that fully understood?”

He thumb snapped the holster of his sidearm as he spoke, and the tiny Click! alone was enough to jolt Ioana into hyperawareness. The man had just marked his weapon as ready—ready for the draw if need be, and that was certainly a bad omen.

“Yes.” Her voice came out low and hoarse.

And without further word, they began their march towards the reception office—Mavian and Navarro flanking her sides, encasing her into something of a huddle as Wesker led the way.

Encircled by three men with guns...that at least made her feel a bit more secure, and though the Lieutenant had instructed her to keep her head down—well, he obviously didn’t know Ioana at all. Like hell she wasn’t going to sneak a peek at what she was walking into! And as subtly as she could, she tilted her head ever so slightly to catch a glimpse at the soldiers passing them by.

Arms and hands heavy with more boxes—most of them the bankers kind used for file storage. Heavy three-ringed binders overstuffed with documents were balanced atop of some, while other men carried out the dismantled parts of computer hardware. Despite being closer, nothing was more discernible than when she had caught a glimpse from the vehicle, and she quickly looked away—eyes coming to fix upon Lt. Wesker’s back as they continued on. His own tactical vest over army greens filled her vision, and with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, she noticed a bead of sweet running the length of his forearm; the heat apparently getting to him as well.

Hmph. He could use some sun.

She tried to distract herself with nonsensical thoughts, just long enough to gather a bit more courage as they finally entered the main office. It was...derelict. Clearly having been vacated long ago with the rest of the motel—dusty and smelling of rot, an old bare desk, empty shelves—is this what they’d been clearing out?

They continued on, passing through an open doorway that she assumed led to an employee area, but as Wesker moved slightly to the side—allowing a masked soldier to pass, it suddenly dawned on Ioana that the distance they were journeying was highly unusual for the size of the building—it hadn’t looked that big from the outside. More like a hole in the wall.

But this, it seemed much bigger now.

What the hell is this place?

The timing of her question couldn’t have been more perfect, for Wesker led them into the narrow opening of what was clearly meant to be a utility closet—only to pass right through it.

The hell??

Where a wall should have been, there was a doorway instead, and through this doorway—stretched out before them, was a passageway. A long tunnel of brick and concrete, illuminated by track lighting that traveled downwards, and Ioana’s bewilderment merely fueled her anxiety as she realized they were headed underground. The cool air signifying a dramatic drop in temperature.

A hidden facility beneath a dilapidated roadside motel. What kind of James Bond shit was this??

Her mind shut everything else out—eyes wandering about the tunnel in the dim light, while their footfalls echoed against the arched ceiling. It was claustrophobic to be sure, and Ioana was grateful the heat from outside could not penetrate the place—she’d feel like a ham in the oven if that were the case.

Voices—

She could hear talking up ahead—no...more like arguing, and as the pathway evened into a flat surface, she could decipher just a bit more of what she was hearing.

A man shouting in her language—threatening something about...diplomatic immunity?

Was this a political deal? If that were the case, then a proper translator would have been involved. This...didn’t make any sense. Her earlier suspicions arising; Wesker’s comment about need-to-know flashing in her brain. If they were keeping the actual professionals out, then what did this all mean?

An American speaking now—a voice carrying in a forceful nature: “Sit down!”

The sounds of rustling paper, the rolling of wheels upon metal tracks—clearly the sounds of a filing cabinet opening and closing. Clacking, banging, footsteps moving about, and all the while the unseen Edonian man shouted his indignation. All of it growing louder as they journeyed closer to the source, and Ioana’s heart beat so hard she could feel it pulsing in the sides of her head.

A gap in the wall to their left—Wesker turning, and she dutifully followed, stepping through the entryway of a room that was outfitted as an office. Several desks lined a wall flanked by rows of filing cabinets, while bookcases and shelving stood against the opposite side of the room. Everything was metallic and sterile in appearance; like a hospital or a laboratory. 

Wait a sec...

Laboratory. It kind of had that feel to it. She could see a line of trays upon one of the desks filled with glassware, a microscope beside a computer monitor currently being unplugged by a faceless soldier, and all around others went about packing folders and documents into the banker boxes. This was indeed a raid—but not on a cartel, and it certainly didn’t resemble anything from the world in which her father had operated.

Ioana felt relief in that.

Another shout of protest in Edonian, and her attention was drawn to the source of the expletives. There, in the center of the room seated at a metal table, was a rather disheveled looking man in a white lab coat. Strands of his dark undercut hanging in his face, as his eyes glowered behind browline spectacles. Mid-thirties perhaps, handsome in a simple fashion—he didn’t look a threat at all, and yet, a soldier stood over him with weapon raised; a visual threat of harm or death against the man.

“Sit still.”

The soldier guarding him spoke firmly. Repeating the phrase as needed when the man in the chair continued to snap rapidly in his mother tongue; hands gesticulating almost wildly. He was furious—indignant, and though he was outnumbered and overpowered, he continued to protest.

What has he done?

She’d learn soon enough it seemed, as several steps in Wesker came to a halt—addressing the army men:

“Clear the room.”

It was a firm command, yet devoid of any discernable feeling, and the soldiers obeyed without hesitation. Gathering what they had and quickly making their way to the exit, and Ioana shifted closer to Wesker to grant them easy passage.

“Close the door and standby.”

He gave a final order to Mavian and Navarro, who promptly followed suit—shutting the door behind them as they left.

The Clank! of the heavy door meeting its frame nearly rattled Ioana’s bones—and the realization that she was now sealed inside an underground shelter with Lt. Wesker and a rather high-strung...lab rat, set all her senses on high alert.

Focus. Stay cool.

But it was growing harder to maintain poise as the silence lingered on. Tension filling the air as the seconds ticked by, and Ioana was now hyperaware that something was very, very off about this entire scene.

The Lieutenant didn’t move, nor did he speak. Standing at attention—staring at the man at the table, and when the other gentleman finally turned his own gaze upon Wesker, a terrifying change came over him. Ioana could practically feel the terrible unease from across the room; bringing a jitteriness into her own limbs. The man’s eyes were wide—face turning pallor beneath the fluorescent lighting, and even from where she stood, Ioana could see his body become rigid in his seat. A primal fear clearly taking hold of him. Unblinking, unmoving. Like a deer caught in the proverbial headlights.

“Doctor Krasniqi,” Wesker’s voice broke the quiet, “do you know who I am?”

A pause. An embarrassing one at that, as Ioana was caught up in a delayed reaction—nearly jumping in her own boots when awareness set in that it was her turn to speak; to translate.

Get it together, bitch! That’s what you’re here for.

Lord, last thing she needed was to fuck this up—especially with this Wesker guy overseeing her job. She wet her lips and swallowed—quickly repeating the question in her native language.

Doctor Krasniqi’s eyes glanced her way for a brief second before returning to Wesker—clenching his jaw as he nodded slowly in response, and Ioana could see him swallow in a tell-tale gesture of anxiety.

So, he knew Wesker?

This was getting more interesting by the second, but Ioana had no time to ponder. For Wesker continued, stepping towards the table with slow methodical steps.

“Then you know why I’m here,” He reached the edge of the table—tall form looming over the man as he finished, “don’t you?”

Shit.

Ioana realized her second error—

“Stay close.”

Had been Wesker’s first instruction, and she quickly corrected that mistake by crossing to his side; translating as she did. If he was annoyed with her sloppiness, he gave no indication. His attention harsh and rapt upon the man trapped beneath his gaze—a gaze still hidden behind shades that served no purpose in such a place. Perhaps it was an intimidation tactic—or a bluffer’s tool; like in a poker game.

The Doctor shook his head a bit forcefully, a bead of sweat upon his brow as he stuttered his response.

“No. No. I really don’t.” Ioana translated.

She watched as Krasniqi’s eyes shook ever so slightly as he returned Wesker’s stare—a nervous quiver he couldn’t mask, and Ioana could tell that behind his tightened lips, his teeth must have been ready to crack; he was clearly clenching them far too tight. She couldn’t help but feel a tinge of pity for the guy—true, she had absolutely no idea who he was or what was going on, but the guy looked as though he’d kill over from fright at any second.

The faintest exhale from Wesker—something almost akin to a scoff, and Ioana watched from her peripherals as he began to fidget with something upon his vest.

“So,” He drawled, “even now you wish to play games, Doctor?”

Ioana spoke in time with him; the translation coming easy for her.

“Well, fortunately for you, I too enjoy an occasional match every now and then.”

There was something so terribly malevolent in his voice—a tone of dark humor that leaked from the lips that curved ever so slightly on his angular face. But nonetheless, she repeated his words exactly as he spoke them.

A shuddered breath escaped Krasniqi as he watched Wesker remove something from his front pocket, and Ioana herself turned slightly for a better look—curiosity surging as she watched the Lieutenant withdraw some sort of...card stock; rectangular and no larger than a postcard.

“What do you say, Doctor?” That miniscule smirk still in place, “Care to play?”

He laid the item in the center of the table—a blank card of white stock reflecting the glare of the overhead light, and as Wesker shifted his fingers across its surface in a quick and fluid gesture, he revealed that it wasn’t one item, but three. Three blank cards that had been stack atop each other, now laid out in the same fashion that a dealer would place at a blackjack table. In fact, that analogy might not be too far off...

And it sent Ioana’s nerves on edge. 

What is he doing?

Something dark in nature was at play here—as though a terrible event had been set in motion, and Ioana could do nothing but watch it unfold. Her legs were straining where she stood, hamstrings locked tight with unease, and her next translation came out rather shaky when Wesker rested his hands upon the table and said:

“Pick a card, any card.”  

He leaned slightly forward in a controlled yet casual posture, sunglasses still boring into Krasniqi as he patiently waited for the weaker man to comply.

But the Doctor didn’t move. His fearful eyes taking in the items before him, and the creaking of the chair beneath him betrayed that he was cringing in his seat; as though he could curl in on himself and disappear.

Ioana could feel it. Her own blood pumping harshly in her ears.

“Go on.”

Lt. Wesker’s tone was more forceful this time, and Ioana jumped along with Krasniqi—who quickly reached out with a shaking hand to select one. His choice made—but a trembling hesitation brought a suspense into the moment that made Ioana far too antsy.

What the hell is it, man?

She wanted to see what he held—and when the man’s eyes finally lowered to the card, all the color completely drained from his face, and a sputtering whimper burst from his throat.

“Let’s see, then.” Wesker instructed, unaffected by the man’s distress, and seemingly quite bored with it all.

Another hesitation on the Doctor’s part, and Ioana watched as he began to worry at his lip. Slowly lowering the item to the table, revealing it wasn’t a card at all...but a photograph. A little boy with dark hair—maybe six or seven years old, he was seated upon the step of what appeared to be the entryway of a home; clutching a soda can in his tiny hands.

“Ah, your youngest son.” Wesker commented, “Pick another.”

He left no time for reflection, ordering Krasniqi to continue with his little “game.”

Ioana shuddered—her mind racing for clarity; for explanation!

What is this? What is he driving at??

Her chest fluttered—the hair on the back of her neck standing upright as she translated the command, watching with bated breath as the Doctor shook like a leaf upon a swaying branch. Then slowly—ever so carefully, he took another photograph in hand; flinching when he caught sight of what it depicted. More pathetic sobs escaped him, and he squeezed his eyes shut—face contorting into an expression of agony; dropping the image face-up beside his son’s.

A lovely woman with auburn hair opening the trunk of a car—perhaps returning from a shopping excursion.

“Your wife.” Wesker declared without interest, “Well now, I guess that just leaves your eldest boy.”

He flipped the final photograph up as he spoke, revealing a rather handsome kid in early adolescence seated upon a bike.

And with this final reveal, Krasniqi began to crumble before their eyes—tearing the glasses from his eyes and tossing them violently upon the table before he buried his face in his hands. Whimpers and indiscernible mumblings reached Ioana’s ears, but if she was expected to translate those as well, there was no way she’d be able to.

There was no way in hell she would even want to.

Her heart was growing far too heavy at the moment, and fear was churning in her belly stronger than ever before.

She glanced to the side as Lt. Wesker shifted his stance, the table creaking beneath his weight, as he slowly leaned towards the Doctor. Passive in appearance, yet radiating with aggression; like a big cat stalking it’s prey.

Yeah...actually, that was pretty damn accurate. For that is what Lt. Wesker radiated: the controlled power of a tiger about to pounce. An apex predator who knew it would win every single time, and Ioana felt the sickness of fear growing inside her at the sight. She watched the tears begin to leak from Krasniqi, his face reddening, breath hitching as his teeth chattered, and she wondered how much longer the man could hold out.

Just tell him what he wants to know, you damn idiot!

Jesus, she wanted so badly to shout that out! To scream out the logic to Krasniqi in putting one’s survival first. But Ioana knew...she knew deep down that if she spoke out of turn, it would merely make things worse for the man and for herself. They were trapped in a catch-22, and she saw no happy ending in sight.

“I want the names of your informants.”

Wesker’s voice was low and controlled, a menace that didn’t need volume, for it was the content of his speech that was effective—not the delivery in which he made it.

“I want to know who they are, and where they are. If you refuse—if you lie to me—if I suspect you’re lying to me, then I’m going to execute your family in the order you just chose.”

All the breath let out of Ioana at this declaration. Her heart skipping when she heard the absolute promise in his voice—not a threat...but a promise.

Oh, fuck me!

Krasniqi nearly shot straight from his seat at Wesker’s words—his back stiffening as he sat as tall as he could, eyes wild with panic as they flickered to Ioana briefly—seeking an ally. Seeking her aide.

But what could she do?

“Eyes on me.” Wesker ordered.

And the man instantly obeyed. Chest rising and falling rapidly.

“You...you can’t! You couldn’t possibly—” The Doctor trailed off as hyperventilation took over, and Ioana translated the horror in his voice along with the words.

She caught the small quirk of Wesker’s brow, an aura of amusement falling upon him at Krasniqi’s statement.

“But Doctor,” He began with a mocking tone of disbelief, “I have boots on the ground in Edonia as we speak.”

He reached for another pocket upon his vest, quickly producing a mobile phone and plopping it upon the table with a dull Thunk! Allowing it to rest beside the photos of the Doctor’s family. It might as well have been a gun or a knife for all the terror it inflicted, and Wesker paused—his unreadable expression affixed to Krasniqi’s quaking form. As though he were allowing the reality of the situation to seep into the very fabric of the Doctor’s soul, and when he finally spoke again, his lips dripped with venom as his voice fell just above a whisper.

“One press of a button, and I will eliminate everything you love. I will destroy the meaning of your very existence.”

It was like falling into a trance—a disassociation of the mind as Ioana’s lips functioned independently; merely reciting what she was hearing while trying to shut-out the meaning.

Her mind screeching at what it was hearing—

What her eyes were witnessing—

This is wrong...IT’S WRONG! Fuck! What is happening?!

She was an accessory to all of this—a player taking part in something so utterly evil! She hadn’t known...she had no idea—

“I don’t know the names!” Krasniqi shouted in Edonian, “I wasn’t in direct contact with them! I was the final stop of the intel! I can’t give you what you’re asking—goddammit!”

He gasped, nearly doubling over as a full-on panic attack began to seize him. Hands shaking wildly, as he came to grip his hair in a gesture of utter despair—looking as though he might tear it out. But if his words or actions were meant to draw some pity from the Lieutenant, Krasniqi was horrendously misguided.

“My suspicions are growing, Doctor.” Wesker warned, “And what did I say about that?”

He took the phone in hand without hesitation, while his other grabbed the photograph of Krasniqi’s youngest son—standing upright as he made a show of dialing out.

Panic exploded inside Ioana’s head—

Her stomach leaping into her throat as the gravity of everything struck her hard.

She wanted to tackle Wesker and rip the phone from his hand—to stop what was unfolding!

She...she should...she...

Should what?! How?!

“STOP! STOP! DON’T! PLEASE!”

And then stillness.

A breath—

Two breaths—

Realization setting in, for it hadn’t been Ioana that had screamed for mercy. It had been Krasniqi. In perfect English.

Her startled gaze falling upon the man who now sat slumped in utter defeat. Shoulders shaking as sobs wracked his form—head hung with face hidden beneath a curtain of hair.

“Stop...” His voice cracking around his tears, “Just, please...please, I don’t have all the names. Codes were used.”

Perfect. Fucking. English.

Something burned in her face—a tightness formed in her throat as she looked on in utter bewilderment. The sheer emotional mind fuck that was playing out before her—something she never should have been a part of.

“Ah,” Wesker tsked, “So this isn’t all you’ve been lying about.”

He was the cat who had caught the canary, and Ioana found her eyes drifting his way—watching as the tiny curl at the corner of his mouth slipped away, and something akin to dissatisfaction slowly spread along his countenance.

He gave a near imperceptible shake of his head, “Oh, Doctor...you should have known better.”

A sad little scolding that Ioana didn’t understand—but she didn’t want to understand! She just wanted to go home now!

Come on, you bastard!

Ioana’s eyes shot back to Krasniqi—trying to force her thoughts into his own.

Just tell him what he wants to know!

It happened instantaneously—though the moment itself felt like a dragging eternity. That proverbial slow-motion sequence that people describe when the shit-hits-the-fan; the action film gimmick that aimed for artistry.

But it was happening now—

The loud Clang! of something heavy and metallic being moved, and from across the room, the wall directly behind Krasniqi rapidly slid open; revealing it had merely been a façade. And there, standing in the gaping maw of a hidden passageway, stood a man in tactical apparel—carbine raised directly at them.

A snap in her brain—

A drop in her stomach—

And the next thing Ioana knew, a strong force slammed into her side—taking naught but a second for her to realize that Lt. Wesker had just thrown himself upon her—sending her toppling to the floor in a heap; the wind knocked from her on impact. Her mouth agape, eyes burning as she struggled to bring air back into her lungs, and all at once the cracking of shots rang out in the small room. Her eyes darted, taking in the filthy rug upon concrete, the boots of the man firing on them, and the form of Doctor Krasniqi diving to the floor—scuttling behind a bookshelf for cover.

She was pinned beneath Wesker, his tight grip upon her upper arm holding her firm while his torso covered her back—keeping her protected as best he could from the barrage of bullets and debris that spattered about the room. Her ears were ringing—her breath restricted, and she felt Wesker’s own breath grunt against the top of her head as he unleashed a forceful kick against a leg of the table, sending it toppling to the floor in a makeshift shield.

Chaos. The clang of bullets striking the metallic surface—and Ioana’s mind began to race with all the cliché inclinations of fight or flight.

Lay still!

Make for the door!

Don’t move!

Crawl to the exit!

The thoughts were disrupted when Wesker’s weight lifted from her, and she watched him draw his weapon from the corner of her eye.

He was damn quick—scary quick! Up on bended knee, and braced for recoil—the table stabilizing his aim, and oh...was it true. Two shots, that’s all it took. Straight to the skull, and the assailant’s neck snapped back from the impact; collapsing in a heap upon the floor. It would have been comical in a way if this hadn’t been a real fucking world scenario—for all the firepower the opponent possessed, he was downed so quickly by a superior marksman.

“It’s not the weapon that’s important—it’s the one who’s wielding it, baby girl.”

Her dad’s words of wisdom coming back to her. And no one had known such things better than him.

Goddamn.

The silence lasted only a second, when two things happened simultaneously:

First, the entryway burst open—Mavian and Navarro entering with weapons drawn.

And second, a vent near the ceiling came crashing to the floor—revealing a second attacker, who wasted no time in opening fire.

A gasp escaped her, and Ioana reflexively brought her arms to her head in an instinctive gesture of protection. Body seizing, knees hiking to her chest—curling into a ball in a futile attempt to prevent a kill shot; utterly fucking ridiculous.

She nearly leapt from her skin when a sudden pressure fell upon her back—realizing it was Wesker’s hands grabbing the upper straps of her vest, and with one mighty shove—he sent her smaller form sliding along the floor, out of the line of fire, and into the wall. It hurt, just a little. The forearms that curled over her head protected her skull from slamming into brick, but they had taken the brunt of the impact nonetheless. Still, she was indeed out of the attacker’s line of fire—for being directly below the vent and pressed against the wall was too awkward an angle for him to cause any damage to her.

The rattling of shots filled the air, and Ioana peered out from beneath her arms to see Wesker dive into a more covered position around the table, while Mavian and Navarro opened fire on the enemy—causing hot blood to rain down upon her. She glanced up, watching the man’s body fall limp, as the carbine slipped from dead fingers to clatter on the floor beside her feet, and then—only then, did Ioana realize her current position.

Doctor Krasniqi. Seated no more than a foot from her legs—back pressed against the side of the bookcase with knees squeezed to his chest in protective posturing. His eyes were wild, frightened...desperate, and a cold chill ran up Ioana’s spine when he met her stare. They watched each other, both unblinking—a hard scrutinization of both suspicion and anticipation passing between them, and when his eyes quickly darted towards the weapon that lay between them, panic flared in Ioana’s gut.

Shit! SHIT!

Her heart nearly pounded out her chest as she attempted to shove herself upright, scrambling to turn about—just as Krasniqi dove for the carbine. His hands shaking—fumbling as he tried to take hold of the hand guard.

FUCK!

He drew the weapon upwards—turning about to take aim, and all Ioana could do was react on instinct. She unleashed a shout of rage and exertion, and swung her leg out—foot colliding with the weapon as she kicked it free from is weak grasp. It clashed to the concrete, Krasniqi staggering upon his knees as he tried to regain his balance—panicked eyes meeting her own again, and then—

BANG!

A snap of the Doctor’s neck as the force of a single bullet slammed into the side of his head—a whiplash, his body seizing then lurching into a death throe as blood and brain fluid splattered from the explosive wound and onto Ioana; warm and sticky upon her face.

She watched in stunned silence as the contractions of his body released themselves, and he fell limp and lifeless onto the cold floor.

A corpse now.

A bloody, broken husk of what had been a living being.

Still warm.

Still twitching.

Just like...just like...

No. No.

A memory—

A spring day.

A city street.

Her hometown.

She was nine years old. Walking. Returning to the disadvantaged complex that was her home.

Her best friend Luan at her side, while Luan’s older brother kept pace behind them.

A commotion—several police officers gathered on the curb. Speaking—no...arguing with one of Ioana’s neighbors; one of her dad’s friends. Milos Brzic.

They were detaining him—searching his vehicle.

“Wait.”

Luan’s brother had spoken gently—placing a hand upon her shoulder and one upon his sister’s. Halting them. Squeezing them gently in an attempt to turn them around. To come back later.

But Ioana stood firm.

Watching...

Lt. Wesker entered her line of sight—checking Krasniqi’s body before turning his attention to her. It was he who took the shot, wasn’t it? He had blown the Doctor’s head off.

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

There were voices—Ioana could hear men yelling, but it was all just garbled noise; sounding so far away to her ears. Whatever words were spoken, she was too far gone. Reminiscing—

Milos shouting at the police—

Then, from out the apartment’s entrance, his teenage son Dejan came barreling forth; an assault rifle in hand.

One her dad had given to him long ago.

He had fired—his whole countenance one of raw fury.

The police had drawn their own weapons—

It hadn’t lasted long.

Wesker’s face was before her own, looking her over behind those dark shades—searching for something in her half-dead stare. She felt the snap of his fingers before her eyes.

One snap—

Two snaps—

Three—

Was he calling her name? Was he speaking? Ioana wasn’t sure. She had thought his lips had moved. Maybe....possibly...

She wasn’t seeing him though. Not truly. She wasn’t seeing anything but what played out in her mind’s eye.

Dejan’s body had contorted and convulsed as round after round had been pumped into him.

Pops of blood from the various holes in his torso—like bubbles bursting in a bathtub.

And then the top of his head came off.

Ioana’s heart raced to the danger point of giving out—breath now labored, and she felt pressure upon her arms, followed by the sensation of lift. Something forced her to her feet and steered her away. Away from all the death.

People rushing by—panic in their countenance despite the masks. The long stretch of concrete on either side giving way to wood, and the natural light of the outside world came closer.

It was Lt. Wesker gripping her arm tightly, pulling her along with quick strides, and Ioana stumbled about in her trance-like state; her weight falling into his side every few steps. It didn’t seem to faze him one bit—his pace remained unhindered, and for a moment...for one single fleeting moment, Ioana had a enough clarity to appreciate just how strong and firm his arms were to keep her upright.

There was a ringing in her ears—her own breath echoing, and the voices outside shouted on. Yet still so far away.

She was far away.

Back in Edonia—

“Don’t look! Don’t look!”

Luan’s brother had shouted, trying his hardest to pull them away—to make the two girls turn around.

Luan had screamed, squeezing her eyes shut. But Ioana had seen. Had watched Milos charge at the police in defense of his son, only to meet the same fate.

An overkill.

A body being filled with lead—until one single shot blew into his skull. A whiplash. A death throe. Then collapsing to the asphalt in a disjointed heap.

Everything was red.

Red was seeping into everything.

And Ioana had watched.

The hot air of the outdoors struck her, bringing some awareness back into her senses, and she blinked rapidly as the sun burned at her eyes.

Wesker’s voice—calling out “Medic!”, and Ioana felt him steer her to the back of a truck—a loud Clack! resounding as the tailgate was lowered. She found herself being lifted slightly, the Lieutenant having changed positions to grab her beneath the arms and quickly set her down upon the platform; as though she were a toddler being seated in a high chair.

Her legs now dangled above the ground, and it strangely caused an even stronger feeling of physical detachment.

She saw it—

She felt it—

But she wasn’t entirely processing it.

Far away again. Outside looking in.

His grasp on her relinquished, and he stepped aside as a more wiry soldier quickly approached with a medical field kit in hand.

“Check her.”

Wesker instructed, and the other man wasted no time in following orders. His gloved hands inspecting her scalp, feeling her neck and shoulders before producing a penlight to engage her sight.

What the fuck?

It was the first thought she had in the present. Perhaps the light from the tiny tool had a special gift—for when the medic had moved it about her eyes, she felt a sudden awareness returning. A spreading heat that brought feeling back into her form and drove away the tingling of disassociation; much like reviving a foot that had fallen asleep.

I just saw him kill two men.

A rational acknowledgement of the situation.

I just listened to him threaten to murder a guy’s family.

Her gaze shifted to the man in question—the Lieutenant standing several feet away, engaged in a rather heated discussion with Sargent Duvall; the latter looking rather confused and defensive. He had fucked up, but Ioana didn’t give a shit about that. Oh no, her blood was boiling over everything she had just listened to. Had witnessed. Had...participated in.

What the fuck? What the actual fuck?!

Ioana was back—like a switch being flipped, and she quickly swatted the medic away—the back of her hand connecting with his arm as he made to wipe the blood from her face.

“I’m fine!” She glowered, before leaping down from the truck; her attention solely on Lt. Wesker.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!” She roared, storming over to him with gritted teeth and fisted hands.

But if she thought herself intimidating, he most clearly did not, and he spared her just the briefest of glances before continuing with his admonishment of the Sargent.

“WHAT THE FUCK, MAN?!” Ioana tried again, standing at his side and glaring death into him, “YOU FUCKING DRAGGED ME INTO THAT PSYCHO SHIT?! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”

He continued to ignore her, his profile devoid of any feeling—not even a tension in his jaw that she could spy, and it enraged her all the more. She was breathing fire at this point—fists shaking at her sides as she awaited something from him. Anything!

Alas, he continued with Duvall; ignoring the raging red-headed bitch that barely met his shoulder.

Oh, is that what this was? Him invoking his right to ignore the temper of a most agitated civilian? Well, she wasn’t backing off. She deserved....she....wait, what the hell did she deserve?

An explanation? An apology?

Well, whatever the fuck it was supposed to be, Ioana was standing her ground until she got it!

He must have sensed her conviction as well, for he spoke one last order to Duvall:

“Carry on as originally planned, Sargent. Dismissed.”

And then finally turned his attention upon her.

“Miss Muller,”

He stepped closer, hands behind his back as he looked down his nose at her; utterly unperturbed by her attitude,

“Your services are no longer required. I thank you for your contribution in this matter.”

Ioana blinked as his statement sank in. He was dismissing her without addressing what had just happened! No—NO! Absolutely not! There was no way in hell she could just...walk away from this! Not without him giving her something that would help her sleep tonight, goddamn it all! Clarification, an excuse, even a word or two of reassurance!

“I just watched you slaughter two people and threaten to murder three others,” She hissed at him, “You all kept me in the dark, and now I’ve played a part in two murders?!”

Though his posture was already impeccable, somehow he seemed to stand a little straighter as she threw her accusations at him, and he released a long exhale.

“I do believe you possess a misunderstanding of the word murder, Miss Muller.” He drawled on in that detached monotone, “Murder is a premeditation or intentional slaying of another with malice that is unjustifiable. While killing is a justified action of necessity. We do not murder, we kill. And if I had not killed these two individuals, you would not be standing here to scold and ridicule me over something you clearly have little knowledge of.”

She was gonna kill him!

The fucking audacity of this man to look her in the eye and give her a lecture on proper definitions, Like he was some fucking grammar gestapo! No, that wasn’t the point at all. He was missing the point, not her!

“You threatened to kill children!” She snapped, her whole body beginning to quake as she countered his argument, “There is no justification in that! NONE!”

A pause.

His hidden eyes observing her—expression still empty while his stance remained poised and professional. He wasn’t affected by her words—she could plainly see that, and her anger was most likely nothing but a brattish nuisance to him.

Ioana didn’t care though. She wanted him to see her ire.

Fight me on this, dickwad!

She wanted so badly to say those words aloud to him, but something stopped her tongue. Perhaps it was the sheer emotional turmoil her mind was still trying to make sense of, or maybe it was the way he was just...standing there looking at her; so cold. So disjoined from any visible feeling.

Fucking hell, who hurt you in life pal?

Ioana breathed deeply, swallowing down something thick that was rising up inside her. She felt...heavy all of a sudden, like something was pressing down on her; akin to a weighted bag draped over one’s shoulders. She knew it wasn’t the vest she still sported. It was something unseen—untouchable, but something she had been acquainted with before.

And it was deflating her.

An eternity of seconds passed before Wesker spoke again, and it dawned on Ioana that this so-called deflation she felt was exactly what he must have been waiting for. The fight to let out of her.

“You will be escorted back to base camp where a debriefing will take place. Your payment will then be provided.”

Curt. Dismissive.

Goddamn that was the word for him, wasn’t it?

Dismissive.

He had completely bypassed her—made no comment or argument concerning her questioning of his morality, and she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t appalled and stupefied by it.

Rapid blinking, her mouth opening and closing as she tried desperately to form a coherent thought that could argue back—demand some reasoning from the man, but he had turned his gaze away; no longer interested in what she had to say. His arm raised as he made a quick beckoning gesture to something or someone out of her line of vision, and the next thing Ioana knew, she was being steered back around and towards the Humvee that had brought her into this nightmare.

One dazed step after another, feeling Wesker’s firm hand against her shoulder in what was clearly an assurance for himself that she would not deviate from the path to the vehicle. He wanted her gone. She wanted to be gone too—and so she allowed it to happen.

The fight fading.

Private Navarro stepped into view—questioning eyes upon his Lieutenant as he sought further instruction, and Wesker quickly provided it.

“Escort her back to base.”

“Yes sir.”

The young man opened the door for her, politely nodding as he offered to help her into the backseat. But Ioana wanted none of it. She didn’t want anything from anyone.

An overly dramatic shrug of her shoulder yanked herself free from Lt. Wesker’s hand—and Ioana all but threw herself into the back of the Humvee. The vinyl material shrieking as she nearly slammed her form onto the backrest of the seat—a childishly pouty gesture, but she had no more fucks to give. She glanced towards Wesker once more as he continued to give Navarro further orders, and she found herself cringing at the very sight of the man. A boiling in her brain as she swiftly pondered over the sheer machine-like presence he exuded. A robot. An unfeeling, methodical, pedantic robot.

She fucking hated it.

She hated looking at him.

And so she fixed her eyes straight ahead instead. Watching through the windshield as more soldiers exited the main office...struggling beneath the weight of drooping body bags...

Oh Christ almighty!

Her stomach lurched. Cringing as her legs became restless, forcing her to rub her ankles together in an attempt at self-comfort.

But it wasn’t enough.

No—she needed something greater to satisfy her want for retaliation. Retaliation against the blond without eyes that stood a mere foot away.

“Hey Lieutenant!”

Ioana called out, malice dripping on her tone, and for a moment she wondered if the man would simply dismiss her; continue in his role as commander to his men and disregard the little pest in his ear. And why wouldn’t he? To him this was merely a daily routine, and she was nothing but a nameless, faceless civilian dragged into it. After today, he would never need to see or deal with her again. He could just ignore her.

But he didn’t.

A tinge of surprise interrupted Ioana’s anger, as Wesker turned back to face her. Pausing with a hand upon the door in preparation to close it, and beneath his shades she could feel his gaze meeting her own; waiting with steely patience for her to continue. He remained silent, that maddening indifference that coated his features still present as Ioana’s eyes burned; glowering at him with every ounce of frustration she possessed in that moment. Dammit! She wanted to spit in his face! Kick him in his goddamn nuts! Verbally rip him apart for what he done in front of her!

She wouldn’t though—

She couldn’t—

Dare to dream.

And as she continued to stare back at him with an unwavering gaze, Ioana decided on something better...something far more satisfying. She decided to give Lieutenant Wesker the ultimate insult:

She brought her hand to her brow, and saluted him.

“Fuck you, Sir.”

A dramatic flourish of her hand, chopping the air before falling onto her lap with a smack, and Ioana narrowed her gaze—daring him to say something to her.

Come on, asshole. Speak!

He didn’t. There was no reaction, not even the faintest twitch upon his features—merely a face carved in stone and eyes she could not see. If the offense struck true, Ioana had no way of knowing.

And without a single word of response, he shut the door and walked away.

**

She had ridden back to the base camp in silence. Navarro, thankfully, only asking once at her well-being, and leaving it at that when Ioana had responded with a curt, “Fine.”

There was nothing to say.

She felt...empty. As though every emotion she had formed from the day’s events had all been unleashed in that final act of contempt against the Lieutenant.

It was over.

She could go home now.

She’d never have to see him or any of this again.

Everything was automatic. A floating sensation as she went about the remainder of her commission. Not caring. Not feeling.

They allowed her to wash the blood from herself in a portable shower before bringing her to Captain Park once more—who gave her a standard debriefing...at least she assumed that’s what was happening. Ioana hadn’t paid attention; she quite frankly didn’t give a shit. Who would she tell? She had no one in this new land.

A blur of action, and a rather vague recollection of her effects being returned to her before she was loaded into the same heated box on wheels that had brought her there.

Then came the vehicle hopping again—from truck to Petra’s rental, and down the mountain to the rest area where Ioana’s jade Yamaha DS6 awaited; parked exactly where she had left it. Relief was the first feeling to return to her—for she had expressed paranoia in the beginning about leaving her bike unattended in such a place. Petra had scoffed, assuring her it would be alright, and if not, Ioana would be compensated for a new one.

Ioana hadn’t wanted a new one. She loved this one.

And thank Christ it hadn’t been lost.

Petra was curt. Handing Ioana an envelope, thanking her for her service in a rather insincere tone, and then...driving off without so much as a sideways glance.

Leaving Ioana alone—and oh, how she was fucking grateful for it! Truly, there were no other vehicles present, no sign of life save for the occasional hiss of nearby insects in the late afternoon heat. It was what she needed. Wanted. A moment of peace.

She could feel the outline of cash through the kraft paper of the envelope, and she allowed a fingertip to trace along it—she hadn’t counted it, and frankly, she saw no need to. She’d inspect it when she got home. And even if Petra had screwed her over and the exact amount promised wasn’t there...well, Ioana frankly hadn’t the energy to really give a damn.

In fact...she was feeling rather...odd. Very odd.

Then it came. That curdling sensation in the stomach—the thickness in the throat as though something were trying to climb its way out.

Hot. Too hot.

Feverish and shaking.

She dropped her helmet and jacket, and bolted for the nearest tree—catching onto the truck for stability as her body began to retch. The burning sour of bile passing her lips, as her shoulders shook with every wracking heave.

Dejan’s skull a mess of pulp—

Milos’ red soaked body dragged from the street to allow for passing traffic. Dumped beside his son.

Her nails bit into the bark—the muscles in her arm straining to keep herself upright.

“Don’t look! Don’t look!”

Why had she looked?!

Because she had wanted to know—

She had wanted to see the truth of her father’s words.

“The world is wicked. The world is corrupt.”

....and there was no escaping it.

**

Hey Albert,

I was so fucking angry that day. I thought I had left that shit behind in Edonia. I had come to America to escape it, and found myself facing it again. I was looking for freedom. For a new life. That had been the goal

Now that I look back, in all honesty, I don’t know what I was really searching for.

I know I hadn’t been searching for you,

But I found you nonetheless, didn’t I?