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Umbrella Pharmaceuticals - Chapter 41 (New chapter sorting)

I

Convulsion.

The creature's hands moved. The legs trembled. The eyes opened. The torso jerked and the creature sat up straight. Mouth open, oozing saliva and bile; rotten teeth protruding like fangs.

The creature kept its balance. Then it walked. One step. Two steps. Staggering as if drunk, to nowhere. It hit the wall. It raised its arms. It clawed at the concrete. Fingernails came loose from both hands.

A gate slid behind it. A dog. A Doberman. The Doberman barked in fright. The creature turned around. The Doberman, barricaded between the closed gate and the creature, bared its teeth. The creature did not back down. The Doberman stepped forward: it bit the creature on the leg. But the creature felt no pain. With the impact, it pounced on its prey.

The creature bit off a chunk of its snout. The Doberman whimpered and rolled over, but the creature held it in its immovable arms. It went for a foreleg. Food. The doberman, limp, fell to the ground. The creature preyed on the torso, peeling away layers of dermis until it reached the intestines. It ate most of the intestines. Satisfied, it rose again. It wandered in circles around the tiny cell.

Convulsion.

The Doberman's legs twitched.

Beta strain completed. The first fully functional biological weapon; a scientific prodigy. However, there was a handicap. Ten percent of the population was immune. 0% immunity had been mandated, but, for the moment, Beta was enough. His greatest success; his first great achievement.

Dr William Birkin.

The nameplate made him smile slyly. The PhD had been a cakewalk compared to his real job. A couple of years invested, and he was done. Doctor. Now he really felt like the chief researcher at Umbrella's top clandestine lab, like their top researcher. He already had two major projects under his command: the T-virus Beta project and the Cerberus project. Spencer had called him to congratulate him. Everyone trusted him. He was the best. But he didn't waste any time either. Spencer demanded that he solve the 10% problem and he came up with a new idea. A crazy idea, but in line with the research he had done.

The Hunter project.

Spencer called him back. A risky and expensive idea. But they made a deal: if he got results within a year, Spencer would increase the lab's funding.

Birkin agreed.

He would meet his boss's fiscal demands at all costs. He couldn't afford a single mistake, a single failure. And so, his former life faded with every sunrise over Arklay. Two years shy of coming of age, he had surpassed the expectations of the company's top brass and the rest of the scientists on staff, who were much older than him. He was euphoric and couldn't stop working flat out. Whether he was paid or not didn't matter to him as long as he achieved his goal: to rise to the top of the company's hierarchy; to sit at the executive table, even if he had to sacrifice his youth to do so.

II

A white dome of smoke had formed over Oswell's head. At times, instead of smoking, he seemed to be chewing his cigar with relish as he reviewed the supplementary papers to the main contract he had received from an unnamed Department of Defense agent. For his part, Alexander was silently sipping his third glass of Scotch. Their first massive sale of biological weapons to the Western military-industrial complex.

Oswell read diagonally through the eternal clauses set out in the supplementary papers like a list of meaningless legal fanfares. What was important was on the last page of the main contract: how much, how much money, how much to spend. Alexander asked Anthony Campbell, his cousin, to advise them on how to read and sign the contract. Oswell didn't want any surprises or backstabbing later. Fortunately, Anthony verified the integrity of the agreement. Now it was up to the two presidents.

And they had a problem. The bioweapons production model remained as defined by Edward Ashford and Oswell E. Spencer a few days before founding Umbrella, with both presidents responsible for an independent line of research. Although Spencer was neither a virologist nor a passionate scientist, he knew how to manage a company and its employees, while Edward was a virologist and knew how to manage research teams. Ultimately, it was established that both presidents would lord it over a portion of the company to accelerate the development of new projects and that the two lines would not overlap or saturate each other.

At first, until Edward's death, the idea seemed good. Then, with Alexander, Oswell chided himself for his naivety. The initial plan was forged on the basis of Edward's assumed experience and Marcus's greater commitment. But with Edward out of the picture, what remained was an underachieving Ashford junior, an anti-social Marcus and a Spencer on the verge of an anxiety attack over the fateful prospect of economic growth. Thatcher's fiscal policy had helped them to clean up the books, but they were still in the same rut and Spencer wanted to end it as soon as possible by unifying all lines of enquiry into one. He would not go to his grave with an absurd bankruptcy.

The point is that the fine thread on which his success hung was in the hands of the individual sitting opposite him. Alexander would not budge an inch, even though his line of enquiry was going down. Spencer tried to convince him, appealing to his father's memory, if necessary, but nothing. He had clung to the possibility that his beloved daughter, Alexia, would take up Edward's unfinished work to revive a line of enquiry deader than the pharaohs of the Lower Nile. And that was as far as it went. Oswell cursed the memory of all his ancestors from the 20th century to the kingdom of Scotland.

However, he calmed down and, on second thoughts, soon changed his attitude.

He gave in to Alexander's demand on one condition: that all the necessary resources be allocated to the Arklay laboratory, at least to fulfil the most immediate contracts. Alexander reluctantly agreed. Spencer assured him that his two chief researchers, one Birkin and one Wesker, would be sufficient for the delivery of the first full B.O.Ws package in the form of a couple of samples of the Beta strain and a squadron of Cerberus.

“What kind of war are we getting into?” Oswell mumbled.

“Afghanistan, maybe.”

“Hum. Fuck the Commies. Anyway. Shall we sign?”

Alexander put the glass away and pulled a gold pen from inside his jacket.

“We sign.”

III

Albert stored everything he had collected on the presidents of Umbrella in a file overflowing with printed sheets.

Oswell Ernest Spencer was a sexagenarian from the south of England, specifically, the county of Essex, where his country house, The Spencer Estate, was located. Only son of Abraham Spencer, 2nd Earl Spencer. Unmarried and childless. Known for his extravagant artistic sensibility and his love of hunting, which he practiced regularly on his Essex estate. Hereditary member of the House of Lords. Resident in the Principality of Luxembourg since the 1950s, where he built a replica of his ancestral home. Arklay's Spencer mansion was also inspired by his country house. In his youth he attended Eton College. Graduated from two university degrees in the United States. Affiliated with the Conservative Party. A staunch capitalist, as his very small public appearances made clear. Allegedly, Spencer was a member of the exclusive Harriett Club, made up of billionaires and other influential British personalities linked to politics, business, and the media. Outside of Umbrella and his other companies, knowledge of Spencer's private activities was negligible. He was generally regarded as a mysterious figure, unknown to the tabloids. Somewhat more information was available about his relatives, such as his cousin Beatrice Spencer, the current inhabitant of The Spencer Estate after her cousin's departure for Luxembourg.

Alexander Charles Johannes Arthur Duncan Ashford-Campbell-Douglas-Stuart was a Scots-Dutchman residing at Ashford Hall, Northumberland. He was the sixth Earl Ashford and the rightful heir to the late Stuart dynasty in the United Kingdom. Divorced with two children: Alfred, the heir, and Alexia, a child prodigy who started university at the age of seven. Known for his love of boxing and for participating in television talk shows. Affiliated with the Conservative Party and honorary fellow of the Royal Society[1]. Hereditary seat in the House of Lords. Most relevant: Grand Master or ‘head’ of Jacob's Circle, a little-known secret society which is attributed with a decisive occult power in British domestic and foreign policy.

Interesting, but insufficient. The data collection was not enough for him because his goal was not knowledge, but to infiltrate Umbrella's power networks. And to do that, he had to make contacts. Get to know other employees. He would not stay locked up in a lab for eternity. He had changed his mind about his destiny: he wanted to possess the Progenitor virus and make its limitless potential his own. He wanted to be more than just an employee, no matter how high his rank.

That was his desire.

[1] Royal Society of London for Improving Natural Knowledge.

[geralddurden]

Isolation

Ok, the first chapter of my Alexia Ashford fic. Again, I would appreciate short reviews on whether it is worth continuing or not. I'm not mad if you say it sucks. I just want an honest opinion.

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Chapter 1

December 12

What do you actually write in a diary? I guess I just write whatever comes into my mind.

My name is Samantha Blair, and I’ve been stationed at the Aurora Research Facility for about a month now. This place will be my home for roughly the next 11 months. I graduated two years ago with a PhD in chemistry. This is my new job. It wasn’t easy to get it. After all, there are only a few positions available in this facility. There are 12 of us in total, and my job is to analyze ice and soil samples. It’s summer here at the moment. The sun doesn’t set this close to the South Pole any more, and at night it only gets a bit dusky, which, admittedly, bothers me more than I thought it would. Doug* gave me this journal “so I won’t lose track of time.” I wonder if that will help. At least I can try.

*Douglas Garry, station leader

December 13

Nothing interesting. After breakfast, I set about sorting the samples from the last research team and finding out which of them still needed to be analyzed and which didn’t. So the same thing I’ve been doing for over a week now. What were they thinking? “We’ll be gone soon anyway, let the next team take care of it?” After me, the deluge. Typical. Half of the samples are not properly labeled, and even for those that are, it takes forever to find out what has already been done with them. It’s all in the lab books, my ass. I can hardly do anything with the cryptic notes there if I manage to decipher the handwriting at all. On top of that, I have to pick the measurement data out of disorganized piles of paper. It was all planned differently. They were actually supposed to measure their own stuff, but towards the end of their stay, one device after another broke down. The devices are working again. Now, we’re supposed to carry out these measurements first and send them the results.

December 14

Sorting samples, searching for corresponding measurement data. Nothing new. Jeff gave me a new drill core. At least I was able to take a few measurements today.

*Jeffrey Norris, geologist

December 15

As I was going about my usual business, John* arrived and said that we were going to be hit by a heavy snowstorm in the next few days. According to the weather data, the storm will last for several days, maybe even weeks. We have to prepare the station. So we spent the whole day outside moving equipment into storage rooms or fixating it. I’m still freezing.

*John Bennings, meteorologist

December 16

Dark clouds have gathered. After so many days of sunshine, the darkness, if you can call it that, is a welcome change.

December 17

It’s been snowing since last night, and the snowfall is getting heavier, although it will be another 2-3 days before it really starts. David* expressed concerns about the dogs, but Marcus** said they don’t mind the little bit of snow. Quite the opposite. Huskies love this weather. Marcus looks after the dogs. He will know best. When I think about it, it occurs to me that we are probably one of the only stations left that still uses dog sleds. We also have snowmobiles, but Marcus always says the dogs are more reliable.

Later, we decided who should clear the paths and when. The work should continue if possible. However, if the storm gets too bad, the research buildings will remain closed until it subsides.

*David Palmer, technical chief

**Marcus Clark, responsible for the dogs, thermal engineering, welding work

December 18

The howling of the wind gets stronger and stronger. Eerie. I have hardly slept a wink. At least I’m slowly making progress with the samples.

December 19

I spent half the day clearing paths. It is a Sisyphean task. As soon as I was finished, I had to start all over because everything was covered in snow again. And the worst is yet to come. If it goes on like this, I can forget about work for a while.

December 20

Jeff was on clearing duty today. He also said there was no point. After dinner, we agreed that we would only clear the paths to the important buildings, everything else would have to wait until the storm subsided. At least the dogs are having fun. And Lena. She built a giant snowman. Lena Fuchs is still a student and the youngest of our team, and you can tell. When I see her so carefree, I sometimes think I’m getting old...

The fact that Lena is here is not a matter of course. Normally, students are not accepted for research stays. However, Lena has excellent grades, so she was selected regardless of the usual rules. At least, that’s the official reason. For those who believe it. Her father just happens to have a lot of political influence and a ton of money. It would be a true miracle if he hadn’t set the whole thing up.

She’s supposed to help me with the measurements, but that will have to wait until the samples are sorted and the storm calmed down. In the first few weeks, however, I had already shown her how to operate the measurement devices. To pass the time, I’ve now given her a pile of papers to read.

December 21

We have a visitor. The last thing you expect at the South Pole in the middle of a snowstorm is a visitor. Her name is Veronica Edwards. She is British and works at the Umbrella facility nearby. She says she is a senior researcher. There’s been a virus outbreak. She hasn’t said what kind of virus it is, only that it’s not airborne and that the likelihood of her being infected is low. In general, she kept a rather low profile. However, she said that under the circumstances she cannot stay in the Umbrella facility. If she is infected with something, we can’t let her roam around freely, but not helping her is not an option either, so we put her in quarantine. Actually, that was her suggestion. Isaac* has prepared a room in the northeast storage building for the purpose. She waited in the snowmobile she came in. The building is quite large, and it also has a shower room and restrooms. However, the supply in the northeastern storage building is largely separated from the other buildings, and we can lock an area from the outside. That could work. It was supposed to be modified into another research building this summer, but the modification has been postponed for another year or so. However, it has already been largely emptied. She said two weeks of quarantine would be enough. For the time being, only Isaac and Harry** will look after her. Isaac is our doctor. Harry has volunteered. They will stay away from the rest of us to minimize the risk of a virus outbreak during that time. In case of an emergency, however, they have walkie-talkies.

We have offered to contact Umbrella and tell them what happened, but Dr. Edwards said she had done that before she left the Umbrella facility. They’ll send people as soon as the storm subsides. If they’re taking so long, that must mean it’s not that bad, right? Or that it’s already too late, and there’s nothing they can do anyway. Shit. We’re not prepared for incidents like this.

* Dr. Isaac Copper physician, and by necessity veterinarian

** Harold Childs vehicle mechanic

December 21 Addendum I

I have to distract myself from the thought that the woman might have infected us all with some deadly virus. And I forgot to write that our new arrival is rather strange. She was at least wearing a jacket, but underneath, she had only put on a long purple dress, high-heeled shoes, and white velvet gloves. The clothes looked anything but cheap. She looked more like she wanted to go to a gala than work in a research laboratory. Who walks around like that in Antarctica? Well, maybe she wasn’t on duty when the outbreak happened. That would also explain why she managed to escape and, according to her own statement, is probably not infected. But even as casual wear, her outfit looks pretty bizarre in a place like this.

She had to wait quite a long time in the snowmobile until the temporary quarantine was ready. Wasn’t she cold in her thin clothes? She didn’t complain. And I couldn’t see any signs that she was freezing either. Admittedly, I kept a safe distance. Speaking of snowmobiles, judging by the tracks, she was driving as if she was drunk and almost crashed into one of the buildings. Can she just not drive, or are these signs that she’s not feeling well? A fever, perhaps?

Also, I remembered Doug mentioning in the first or second week that Umbrella isn’t even doing research at the facility anymore. It’s supposed to be a materials storage facility or something like that. Well, Dr. Edwards claims she is a researcher there. I’ll ask Doug about the facility again when I get a chance.

December 21 Addendum II

Nicky*** wanted to contact AAD and ask how we should proceed with Dr. Edwards. However, due to the storm, there is currently no way through with our communication system. Always at the best possible time, of course! At least it’s not broken. Nicky has checked it. In a few days, the storm should ease a little, although not stop. She’ll try again then. Until then, we’re on our own. As old as the communication system is, I’m not surprised that it doesn’t work currently. It probably dates back to when the station was founded in the 70s.

***Nicole Windows, telecommunications, electronics, computers

AAD = Australian Antarctic Division

[geralddurden]

New chapters for the fanfic

[geralddurden]

Only left two periods to finish the fanfic: 1981/1991 and 1992/1998. I'm gonna sketch the script for the first period, so when I have one I'll upload new chapters.

[geralddurden]

Umbrella Pharmaceuticals - Chapter 39

Summary: Oswell E. Spencer opens the Paris laboratory. William Birkin and Albert Wesker develop Umbrella Pharmaceuticals' first functional B.O.W.

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I

Oswell cleared his throat. A moment before he began his speech, he paused to survey the crowd gathered on the Champs Elysées. The best of French and European society had gathered for the inauguration of Umbrella Pharmaceuticals' first French laboratory. The enthusiasm was reflected in the faces of those present, as well as in Oswell's proud half-smile.

Thatcher had won the election. Marcus had resumed research into the T-virus after his plan with the test subjects had worked. He had received word from Arklay's lab: the first functional infected. Umbrella had soared on the stock market. Government contracts for B.O.Ws were pouring in. He had come to an agreement with Alexander to define a pragmatic perspective on the company's direction.

Everything was flowing and he was exultant. The only thing he regretted was that he had taken the initiative to start a pharmaceutical company in his forties.

But he had no regrets. Absolutely nothing.

II

The infected banged his cadaverous head against the glass. Albert laughed because he found the movement funny. From the force of the impact, a chunk of his temple was dislodged and left hanging by a thin strip of hair-encrusted skin. William bit his lip nervously, worried about their continued streak of success. They had succeeded in producing their first functional biological weapon using the Alpha strain of the T-virus. An unprecedented success that earned him a handwritten letter of congratulations signed by Oswell E. Spencer. In the letter, Spencer attested that William could boast of being, for now, the best researcher ever hired by Umbrella Pharmaceuticals, and no offence to his mentor, James Marcus.

Spencer's heartfelt words affected the young man in the sense that they multiplied his dedication to research. He had doubled his overtime and Albert no longer even bothered to tell him about breaks and the end of the day. For William there was hardly any distinction between the beginning and the end because every day was the same. He didn't even bother to send postcards to his parents as a minimal gesture of co-responsibility until he came of age.

He didn't care.

Albert threw a ball of paper in his face.

“William.”

“What?”

“Press the button.”

William pressed the button. A torrent of fire scorched the infected.

“Next,” said Albert lightly.

[geralddurden]

Umbrella Pharmaceuticals - Chapter 38

I

Five eleven-year-old boys grabbed Alfred when he went into the garden to play with insects. They dragged him to a secluded corner where they beat him on his legs, arms, torso and head. The target fell to the ground, gasping for breath from the blows. The five children prepared to deliver the coup de grâce, but a scream interrupted them. Mrs. Collins, the housemaster's wife.

The five children fled in terror. Mrs. Collins rushed to the aid of the badly wounded victim. Lying on the floor like a trampled rag, Alfred Ashford coughed up blood. His hair dishevelled, his face covered in bruises, his left eye closed, his mouth bloody, his jacket torn and his shirt unbuttoned. One of his last milk teeth was missing and his trousers were stained with blood from open wounds in his knees.

“Cof, cof.” Alfred writhed in pain.

“Help! Help!” Mrs. Collins screamed for aid.

II

The old nun, who was acting as nurse, removed the bandage from his forehead and wiped the wound. She applied a new bandage. The unconscious patient was not moving. At her side, Dr Ward switched off the torch the nun needed to see the wounds. The nurse picked up the bloody pieces and left the room. Dr Holmes, the school doctor, estimated that it would be a few weeks before the boy could return to school, even though there were no broken bones or torn muscles. The beating had been brutal. When the nun's work was done, Ward telephoned Ashford Hall.

After introducing himself to the butler, the widow Elizabeth Ashford-Nassau answered his call. Ward calmly informed her of what had happened and of her grandson's condition. After a long silence, Lady Ashford asked him to think about what had caused the incident. From memory, Ward reconstructed the chain of events that had led to the fatal outcome.

Alfred was not a popular pupil among his peers. Intellectually gifted, his exceptionality meant that he excelled in all his chosen subjects and extra-curricular activities, with the exception of sport, where he did not usually put in much effort. Consideration had been given to moving him up a year so that he would start secondary school at the age of eleven. This last fact was leaked to the student body by an unknown informant. The news of his second promotion aroused the frustration of some seniors. One watch told him that a senior had begun to hate Alfred because he saw him as an arrogant know-it-all who pretended to be clever in order to curry favour with the teachers and thus effortlessly enjoy the privileges accorded to seniors by virtue of their age and record. This prejudice spread like an axiom among the other seniors. Rumours reached the headmaster's ears that Alfred had allowed himself to be touched by the music teacher, or that Alfred had cheated in his exams, or that Alfred had received preferential treatment from the teachers. The rumours circulated unchecked and Alfred did nothing to put out the fire. On the contrary, his reticence and infrequent socialising fuelled them.

Alfred did not speak to anyone unless he had to, while with Ward he showed his extrovert character and ability as a good conversationalist. His treatment of boys, especially those from the lower classes, ranged from petty indifference to false sympathy. He trusted no one but Ward and Cornwall. But it was his experience as a fag that was the worst. Alfred hated being a fag and he hated taking orders. And Alfred was a child who looked for any opportunity to vent his anger in a tangible way to draw attention to what he disliked. He injured a classmate playing football in the first week of school, threw a boy down the stairs when he made fun of him for being Scottish, spilled a kettle of boiling water on another because he wouldn't make tea for his watch, and finally told a policeman that a group of five older children had stolen a bag of knick-knacks. It was these five children, whipped as a result, who had gathered to beat up Alfred in the garden. Ward suspected that Alfred's unpopularity, coupled with his lousy company, had prompted the five seniors' brutal decision. Lady Ashford asked Ward for Alfred's opinion on the meaning of his actions. The headmaster suggested that her grandson was spiteful and vindictive. Finally, Lady Ashford was frank: Alfred must take responsibility for his actions in order to forge a character worthy of his future.

III

The five seniors were permanently expelled. When Alfred returned to school thirteen days later, he knew that his time as a fag had come to an end. As he left the dormitory, he ignored the call of his clock, but the clock said nothing. His superficial wounds looked like battle scars because he had been beaten from behind and between five. The other two dorm mates stared at him curiously at his act of disobedience, but neither pointed it out nor complained.

The mood in the corridors was similar. They gave him furtive glances and murmured as he passed. Alfred never stopped to find out what they were whispering about. He walked erect, straight ahead, without turning his head to show that he was not like them. He was no coward, no fool, no half-wit. He was different.

IV

Alexia forced a smile. The photographer fired. The president of Harvard University posed to her right. The photographer fired a second time. The flash blinded her as if it had burned her retinas.

“Nice. I think the framing is right. I'll get the developed photos to you next week.”

The president turned away from Alexia as Alexander approached. The headmaster and his father shook hands.

“A fabulous term.” The president congratulated them. “Dinner is tonight at eight o'clock.” He turned to Alexia. “Such an extraordinary achievement deserves to be celebrated in style. At least the first time,” he joked.

“We will be there,” Alexander confirmed.

“Right.”

The president patted Alexander on the shoulder to say goodbye. Accompanied by the photographer, the two left the foyer. Father and daughter were left alone in the large, baroque room. The rector had insisted on having a photograph taken with Alexia to mark the end of her first year at university and as the top student in her class. Although she was still two years away from wearing her cap and gown, everyone assumed that Alexia would graduate as valedictorian.

The professors were amazed at her devilish pace of learning, which sometimes exceeded the knowledge of the specialists. She didn't interact with the other pupils, but she was aware that she seemed to them an oddity. She could sense it in their condescending comments, their forced smiles and their disbelief. It was like living on the edge of two worlds: she was a child, but she was not. She was too young to be considered an adult, but at the same time she had the intellectual maturity of a woman in her forties. She imitated the behaviour of the adults around her in order to be taken seriously, but the same adults underestimated her emotional maturity because she played when she was bored or angry about trivial things. She belonged neither to the group of adults nor to the group of children, and the incidents that occurred as a result of the latter were mixed.

A woman called the police because she thought Alexia was skipping school. Alexander had to call the university president from a phone box to prove her wrong. Once a teacher stopped her from entering the classroom because he thought she was the daughter of a staff member or one of the students. Another time, Alexander, who always accompanied her to school, had to prove that Alexia was in fact his pupil. In the campus gardens, a group of students escorted her to the university gendarmerie because they thought she was lost, when Alexander had simply stepped away to throw away the plastic cup he had been drinking his coffee in. Less colourful was his father's behaviour during a meeting with his Microbiology professor. For some unknown reason, Alexander remained glued to Alexia, in a pose reminiscent of boxing in his home gym or with friends. The Microbiology professor kept his distance in a way that seemed exaggerated, but always with his eyes fixed on Alexia. The experience was uncomfortable and she never saw the professor again. Even after that meeting, Alexander never left Alexia's side, not even to go to the toilet. He would only let her into the professors' private toilets alone, with him waiting at the door, but never into the shared toilets.

It was overwhelming. She tried to distract herself by mentally solving mathematical operations or philosophising about the last thing she had read, but none of it helped in the long run. The only thing left to do was to hold on and wait for her father to protect her from whatever it was he was supposed to protect her from, which she didn't want to find out, lest it feed the sporadic intrusive thoughts that lurked in the depths of her physical vulnerability and emotional loneliness. Alexia tried to take refuge in Alexander, but her father did not seem to understand the extent of her distress. He seemed oblivious to his daughter's conflicted status as a monkey fair for students or a guinea pig for teachers, including an unpleasant psychiatrist who tried to persuade her to take part in a cognitive experiment with a group of strangers. Alexander flatly refused the latter, but the former was impossible to eradicate. On top of that, Alexia had discovered that she really didn't like being around people and didn't like attracting unnecessary attention, not least because she had learned that it only led to repetitive formalities and pointless chatter.

The stress, however, dissolved the anxiety. The stress of studying at such a level was compounded by her own threshold of self-demand and the social pressure to prove her worth. The greater the stress, the greater the hyper-fixation on the task, the greater the intolerance of error and the greater the irritability; and the greater the irritability, the greater the aggressiveness. She once found herself violently pushing her father out of her study when she was engrossed in an essay she had to finish by tomorrow. Alexander was not angry, but tried to talk to her about the reason for the push. Alexia refused to talk any further than necessary because she had to finish the essay. Alexander was not like Alfred; she did not feel comfortable talking to him because of the misunderstanding. So she had no choice but to relax and moderate her temper on her own. The monotony of everyday life and the accelerated passage of time when she was busy helped; but neither one nor the other removed the isolation, only postponed it, with long intervals of horrible accompaniment.

[geralddurden]

Umbrella Pharmaceuticals - Chapter 37

I

British businessman Oswell E. Spencer invests in Raccoon City's industrial sector.

Oswell E. Spencer purchases land in the Arklay Mountains to build a country house.

Umbrella Pharmaceuticals builds a training centre in Raccoon City.

New York architect George Trevor missed in the Arklay Mountains.

Albert presses the button to access the last microfilm.

Umbrella Pharmaceuticals: major employer in Arklay County.

Oswell Ernest Spencer and Alexander Ashford, presidents and CEOs. James Marcus: director of the Training Centre and chief researcher. A new name: Edward Ashford, father of Alexander Ashford and co-founder of Umbrella Pharmaceuticals with Spencer. Umbrella Pharmaceuticals grew out of Anzec Pharma, a pharmaceutical company founded by Spencer in the late 1950s. Edward Ashford was an investor in Anzec.

Ashford and Spencer were from England and James Marcus was from Texas. He needed a book on British peerage and to investigate the Texan. Travelling to England was impossible: Spencer lived in Essex and Ashford in Northumberland. The Spencers made their fortune in the British Empire: the spice trade and Reginald Spencer, Oswell's grandfather, was Governor-General of British India. In the first decade of the 20th century, the Spencers expanded their business into the automobile industry, in which they became well established. The Ashfords were descended from a Scottish royal family, the Stuarts. The great-granddaughter of the last Stuart queen, Veronica Ashford, was a businesswoman. James Marcus was a professor at a Swiss university.

No mention of the Progenitor virus or its T variants.

An impeccable façade.

II

Snow lay on the edges of the pavement. The icy wind damaged the parts of his face that he had not covered with his hat and scarf. Despite the bad weather, cars were driving along the road, oblivious to the dangers of the wintry environment. A handful of passers-by, including a postman, milled about, darting in and out of shops, sneaking glances at William and discussing their business.

The place reminded him of his neighbourhood in Baltimore, a peaceful suburban oasis just outside the city centre, but smaller and more decadent. From time to time he read the newspapers in the lab to find out what was happening in the outside world, and one of the news stories was about the continuing industrial collapse of that part of the Midwest. Economic disasters and cities in the process of being abandoned. Detroit was one of the first to fall. He was shocked by the sensationalist images of entire streets in ruins, but what moved him most was reading that Raccoon City was in the zone of decay, and that worried him.

Nothing disturbed his affluent life as a gifted boy, heralded in the local Baltimore newspapers as the future of science, except the abusive group of idiots with whom he shared the street. And walking down those desolate avenues took him back to the bitterest moments of his childhood. So on his days off, he avoided the many alleys that criss-crossed the city and refused to look anyone in the eye. He liked to think that his self-awareness was above average.

Around the corner was his favourite place to spend his mornings, a coffee shop. He entered and sat down in his favourite spot, a lonely armchair in the far corner. No one usually sat there because of its isolation, which he loved. The waitress approached him and he ordered his usual, an Americano and toast. He hung his coat, scarf and gloves over the back of the chair. It was in these moments of peace that he felt like a human being again.

Outside the Spencer mansion, he regained a fraction of his humanity. The pace of work had become hellish. The number of subjects had increased, as had the number of missing persons posters he saw plastered on lampposts. He was afraid to put two and two together because, as he was about to turn seventeen, he did not want to see himself as a participant in a conspiracy of kidnapping and human experimentation. He still wanted to see himself as a responsible young adult doing what he liked in a very important company. A ridiculous self-deception, as Albert scoffed, but enough to maintain his emotional stability and keep lying to his parents.

He was going mad. Fortunately, the nightmares about the creature had subsided. He had just gotten used to it. And what would happen next? He didn't think he'd stay in Arklay forever. There was a laboratory in Chicago and several others in Europe. There was much more he could aspire to, as long as he didn't go mad trying. Had Marcus gone mad? Maybe he already had. They were all mad as hell.

He finished his toast.

Everyone was mad. Tomorrow a nuclear war could break out and end civilisation. But that was his job, to replace nuclear bombs with B.O.Ws.

He finished his coffee.

And B.O.Ws weapons at that, mutating and transforming. Better than university and astrophysics.

He got up and paid at the bar, grinning from ear to ear. As he left the café, he saw the same row of missing persons posters.

Mad.

[geralddurden]

Umbrella Pharmaceuticals - Chapter 36

I

Alfred returned to Ashford Hall the day before the most unusual Christmas of his life. For the first time in their short existence, the Ashfords and Campbells had not gathered for their usual frugal Christmas dinner. There were no cousins to play and sing with, no bagpipers, no drunken adults....

Grandmother Elizabeth and butler Scott Harman greeted him at the front of the house, along with two middle-aged people he didn’t know. Elizabet’s Dutch niece Sophie and her husband Lars. They had come to England to visit Elizabeth and meet Alfred.

Elizabeth introduced him and the little boy shook her hand, hiding his sadness. The dreadful first term at school culminated in a bleak Christmas. Fortunately, Sophie and Lars left as soon as dinner was over.

Alfred hated the attitude of his continental relatives.

They walked around the manor like a guided tour of Buckingham Palace. They asked all sorts of leading questions about his Stuart ancestry and the Ashford line. He was asked indelicately if his father could be king. Alfred replied that technically he could, as Veronica Ashford had never renounced her dynastic rights, but that they had no intention of claiming the Crown. The claim died with the death of Charles Edward Stuart[1]. At dinner, Alfred endured angry questioning from both relatives about Umbrella. The boy didn't know much about his father's work, and his father had made them swear never to talk about what he was really doing, lest the integrity of the family be compromised. So he kept his mouth shut and gave way to Elizabeth, who answered their unwelcome questions with subtle eloquence.

The highlight of the day came when Sophie and Lars gave him a huge present. He opened it without waiting until the next morning and discovered an Atari 2600 with three video games: Space Invaders, Breakout and Flag Capture. Alfred recognised the machine from advertisements in the newspapers his father read.

With the couple saying goodbye and his grandmother warning him not to stay up too late, Alfred set about connecting the console to the television in their private upstairs living room. He struggled with the setup until, through trial and error, he found the right ports. He switched on the console to play Space Invaders, and the TV responded by manifesting a colourful cathode ray universe of moving pixels [2]. The repetitive scrolling of vertically aligned amorphous blobs mesmerised him. Paralysed, he waited for the first row of aliens to crash into the turret stationed at the bottom of the screen. He restarted the game by pressing the only available button on the joystick controller. The aliens and the turret returned to their positions. Alfred moved the joystick sideways. The turret moved right and then left. When he pressed the button, it shot upwards. He killed his first alien. The second. The third, the fourth, the fifth and the sixth. A whole row of invaders disappeared as the numbers on the counter at the top went crazy.

II

At five o'clock in the morning, Harman was inspecting the rooms when he heard a shrill noise coming from the private room. Startled, he rushed in.

Sitting on the floor, Alfred was manipulating a device far removed from Harman's old-fashioned understanding. Like Pavlov's pigeon, the boy pressed a button on a plastic stick. With each action of the remote control, the television emitted a thunderous beep that shattered his eardrums, a vulgar electronic noise that seemed to have been composed by Lucifer. Alfred, static, stared at the chaotic whirl of lights and beeps as if possessed: deep circles stretched under his eyelids and the veined ramifications of his irritated eyes were visible to the naked eye. At the boy's alarming state, Harman reflexively turned off the television.

Alfred finally reacted. Inexpressively, he turned off the console. He stood up with a start. And without turning his attention to Harman, he left the room like a soul in pain. The butler approached the diabolical device. Its plastic casing burned like a furnace. Disturbed, he withdrew his hand from the unfamiliar device, fearing for the boy's physical and mental health.

III

For the Christmas dinner, Alexander hired a celebration company to decorate the mansion he had purchased on the outskirts of Cambridge, Massachusetts. Fifty guests were invited to enjoy a hodgepodge of Scottish and Irish cuisine and a selection of wines that cost more than the sum of several Harvard tuitions. The colourful entourage included academics, politicians and businessmen.

Academics congratulated Alexander on his daughter's genius, politicians sought his opinion on the upcoming British election and businessmen cheered on Umbrella Pharmaceuticals.

Alexia stayed until the end of the dinner. Alexander escorted her to her room and kissed her goodnight. His breath reeked of alcohol and he stumbled over the edge of the bed as he tried to tuck her daughter in, though he made an effort to remain functional and would not tolerate anyone in the room overreacting to her. It was the first time Alexia had seen her father so talkative and brazen, as if he were someone else; a provocative and sarcastic person. Shortly after dinner, he showed off his muscular body to a group of male and female guests. One of the spectators, imitating his father, tore off the top of his suit to show his manhood. Suddenly, the man and Alexander were engaged in a painless, gloved boxing match. Alexia watched from the detached, safe distance afforded by the embarrassment of others. By the time Alexander joined her, he had at least put his shirt and jacket back on.

Alexia got out of bed. Outside her bedroom she slipped into her father's office. Sliding the lock inside, she sat down in the bulky leather chair. She picked up the phone on her right and dialled +44.

IV

It was snowing and cold outside. Lying on the sofa, Alfred had wrapped himself in his tartan blanket. Bored, he waited for the clock to strike five so he could finish eating last night's appeltaart[3] while his grandmother drank her tea.

He heard footsteps. Harman appeared at his side.

“Master Alfred, lady Alexia is on the phone.”

Alfred jumped up from the sofa, throwing the blanket to the floor. He trotted over to the phone, which was off the hook. Nervously, he picked up the receiver and put it to his tiny ear.

“Si? Hello? Alexia?”

“Alfred.” Alexia's distorted voice.

Alfred smiled. It was the first time he had heard her voice since September. Until that day, their communication had been based on an exchange of letters and postcards.

“Hi,” Alexia continued. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas! Have you opened your presents?”

“No. The party goes on.”

“Oh... Is dad with you?”

“No. He's downstairs. At the party. What were your presents?”

“An Atari 2600!” cried Alfred excitedly. “It's amazing! You have to try it. It came with three games. There's one where you kill aliens with a spaceship, and I got a lot of points…”

“I wish I was with you.”

“Um... Why? What's wrong?”

Alexia sighed.

“Is it because of dad?” Alfred continued.

“No. It's because of everyone.”

Alfred knew immediately what she meant.

“People look at you funny and talk behind your back,” Alfred said.

“Yes.”

“People are stupid. It's not fair that they're so mean to you.”

“I'm different.”

“You're not. You're just like me.”

Alexia did not answer.

“Just that you learn faster, but that's okay. That's what adults want... Hum. Adults are stupid.”

Alexia laughed on the other side.

“Something just happened.”

Alexia told Alfred about the impromptu boxing match between Alexander and the guest.

“Adults are weird,” Alfred concluded.

There was a moment of silence between them.

“I'm tired.” Alexia yawned.

“Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas.”

They hung up.

[1] Charles Edward Louis John Sylvester Maria Casimir Stuart was the elder son of James Francis Edward Stuart, grandson of James VII and II, and the Stuart claimant to the thrones of England, Scotland, and Ireland from 1766 as Charles III. During his lifetime, he was also known as "the Young Pretender" and "the Young Chevalier"; in popular memory, he is known as Bonnie Prince Charlie.

[2] Atari 2600, Space Invaders. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_ftVrgJTl4w

[3] Dutch Apple Pie.

[geralddurden]

Umbrella Pharmaceuticals - Chapter 35

I

A grotesque figure crashed against the glass, bile dripping from its mouth. Its spittle clung to the bulletproof mirror like putrid leeches. William did not turn away from the disgust. He'd gotten used to it. It was his job. The influx of human guinea pigs had soared. Neither William nor Albert knew where they came from, but they were from Raccoon City. Albert found out when he happened upon the wallet of one of the test subjects. A driver’s licence and some food stamps. Inside was a five-dollar buck and a tiny transparent bag with traces of heroin. Albert burned the wallet. They said nothing. There was a complicit vow of silence between them about what they had seen and done.

William sometimes had nightmares. He had gone from dreams of space travel to dreams of being trapped in the creature’s foul-smelling cell. The creature screamed “mother” “mother” as it mutilated his body and tore off his face...

He asked the guard to install a television with a VHS player in his modest room. He used it to burn up his meagre spare hours watching Star Trek on loop. Nostalgia had become his first source of entertainment and happiness. The second was wandering around the gardens of the mansion. He was not yet allowed to enter the house, but he had glimpsed its inhabitants through the windows. He didn’t know who they were, although his intuition told him not to bother finding out.

For he didn’t want to be the creature. He didn’t want to be a guinea pig. He hadn’t been born to end up ‘like that’.

Cynically, he had joked with Albert about the resemblance of the infected to zombies. Also about what a viral Armageddon would be like. William joked to avoid any sense of responsibility and to dehumanise the anonymous victims. Albert would laugh at him, which reinforced the satisfaction. By turning the television up to maximum volume and mocking, he also forgot his parents. The parents who had taken care of him, who had accepted his bizarre choices, who had defended him against his aggressors…

The convulsive cries of the guinea pigs choked the saturated atmosphere of the laboratory. Three in all. Albert had revealed to him that it was Marcus who was responsible for selecting the subjects for Arklay. That amused him. The generous professor; and that he was contributing with his gifts to his best pupil being outdone.

The Alpha strain of the T-virus they were developing at Arklay had a 90% mortality rate. If you were infected, you died. Nothing else. He liked that, he told himself, because it made him look important. One problem: his low infection rate. Anyway, Spencer sent him a note congratulating him and urging him to start developing the beta strain, which would be created by merging the Alpha strain with Ebola. Spencer gave him the go-ahead to present his Ebola research as a doctoral dissertation; in fact, Spencer had awarded Albert and him a financial endowment with which they enrolled in the same distance-learning PhD programme at Yale. William planned to submit his thesis in 1980.

And so it was. At sixteen, he no longer felt like a teenager. He was an adult with an intermittent acne problem. He had to behave the way he thought an adult should behave, or the way the adults around him behaved.

And because he was the chief.

II

He was smoking a cigarette, leaning against a tombstone frozen by the icy wind. There was no body beneath his feet. He stared at the heavy wooden door that led from the garden-cemetery to the main building. He knew it was open because he had checked it himself.

In early autumn, he turned the knob and entered. From a staircase he entered a huge two-storey lobby. He randomly chose the double door on his right. Through the leaf, however, he heard two low voices and a very high voice, like a girl’s. Fearful of being discovered, Albert retraced his steps at a brisk pace and stepped back out into the garden-cemetery.

No one noticed.

He took a puff.

He wanted to know what was really going on there. A mansion in the woods... A secret laboratory... Biological weapons... Experimental viruses... The creature...

His interest in research had begun to pale in comparison to the shadowy network that underpinned the structure of the company itself.

It was not like the military, where the nature of classified information could be predicted. In this mansion, however, where there was no higher government than that of private interests, secrecy changed masks as easily as they disposed of guinea pigs.

A puff.

The director had left the premises. Spencer and the administrator were in charge.

William did not share his interest. He was alone.

Puff.

On his days off he would go to Raccoon City.

To look around.

[geralddurden]

Umbrella Pharmaceuticals - Advert “Green Mountain Fumigator”

Fumigation of homes and facilities at low cost.

Specialized in rats and insects.

We operate throughout Arklay County.

Call us to schedule an appointment: 555-0174

[geralddurden]

Umbrella Pharmaceuticals - Chapter 34

He had chosen Raccoon City for its isolation, its poverty, its vibrant decadence. It was a wasteland, terra nullius[1]; a chimera, neither an industrial centre nor a small town in the foothills of the Appalachians. It was a want and I can't; a kind of American East End[2].

He landed there on the recommendation of a good old Californian friend. This friend, who knew of Oswell’s eternal desire to found his Motor City [3], recommended the Midwest because of its accelerated post-war boom. Cities such as Detroit had expanded relentlessly, and others such as Gary had sprung up like mushrooms. In the late 1950s, he opened the first Anzec Pharma plant in Detroit. Twenty years later, the Umbrella Pharmaceuticals plant closed due to the oil crisis of the early 1970s and the ongoing outsourcing of manufacturing to the Third World, a process Oswell hoped would be completed with Thatcher's impending election victory. Because of its terrible location and limited industrialisation, Raccoon City participated in the birth of the Rust Belt [4], becoming one of the few towns whose mayoralty was sold to foreign and domestic investors for four pounds. This attracted Oswell like a moth to a fly lamp. He took over the town hall and in less than five years, subverting the law, had his country house and training centre built. The financial boost he brought, in return for his guaranteed interference in the council, meant more jobs, more houses and more middle-class families happy with their bland lifestyles, less crime, fewer vagrants and well-fed bellies thanks to co-optation and bribery. In short, his plan had worked.

But there was another problem. The question of the Progenitor. It all fitted into the jigsaw of interpersonal relationships, favours and shell companies that would be used to carry out the second phase. With the approval of the City Council and the dismissal of the police, the disappearance of a handful of junkies, prostitutes, beggars and poor Whites, Blacks, Latinos and Asians would not attract attention if it was done with care and wisdom. He had already chosen his first “hotbed”: Eastside, the city's poorest area. A rattrap of dilapidated housing, half-ruined squats and caravan parks. Its residents struggled against the common ills of unemployment and drug addiction, the wilful incompetence of the authorities, the total neglect of the federal government and an unbearable desperation. In this situation, there was one problem: rats, and he proposed the solution: a fumigation company. They would either knock on the door or find an unsuspecting person driving a large, well-equipped van. The training centre was half an hour away. Sick, crippled or healthy: it didn’t matter. Marcus would process the “commodity” and some of it would be diverted to Spencer Mansion. If it worked, the next step would be Europe.

That was what had been agreed.

[1] Literally Latin for “no man's land”.

[2] The East End of London, often referred to within the London area simply as the East End, is the historic core of wider East London, east of the Roman and medieval walls of the City of London and north of the River Thames. The area was notorious for its deep poverty, overcrowding and associated social problems.

[3] Detroit's nickname, in the sense of an industrial and corporate city.

[4] The term "Rust Belt" refers to the impact of deindustrialization, economic decline, population loss, and urban decay on these regions attributable to the shrinking industrial sector especially including steelmaking, automobile manufacturing, and coal mining.

[geralddurden]

Umbrella Pharmaceuticals - Chapter 33

I

Spencer's driver picked them up at the airport in the morning. An hour and a half later, the vehicle was driving through the Arklay Mountains. Exhaustion was killing him, exacerbated by the random obstacles that littered the dirt road and which the driver swerved to avoid. But he fought back the nausea as he endured a throbbing headache.

He took Alexia's hand. She was distracted by scanning the landscape through the window. An unexpected stop on the way. Just as they were about to leave, Alexander received a call from Spencer. Oswell was inviting him to his country home in Raccoon City to discuss an urgent matter of vital importance to the company. The second phase of the Progenitor. Apologetically, Oswell offered his transport at no extra cost. The point was that Alexia would have to go with him. Oswell didn't mind, he let her come too. Their arrival in Massachusetts was delayed by a day.

Alexia increased the strength of her grip to reposition herself in the seat. The gesture gave him a moment of satisfaction. For the first time in years, he was happy. Anomie. Intrusive thoughts. Apathy. Sadness. Negative feelings he had avoided by working out at the gym and focusing on parenting and business. Imitating his parents and with the support of his mother, Alexander took responsibility for the care and education of his children, minimising his absences and the care provided by others. This parental approach was confirmed when Alexia learned to speak within a few months.

It was unexpected.

He sat down to watch a boxing match, as he usually did in the evening to relax, and she suddenly appeared in the living room to tell her father that Alfred was crying because he had tripped over a toy. The diction was awkward, but the words were unusually precise. It was then that he knew that Alexia was Edward's desired granddaughter. After tending to Alfred, he scooped her up in his arms and ran into Elizabeth's bedroom. Her mother, thrilled, congratulated him on having fathered a genius.

His initial surprise turned to genuine self-absorption. His demeanour changed to a self-imposed aloofness that caught Elizabeth's attention. Despite his constant presence, Alexander hardly interacted with his children. Elizabeth asked him why. He didn't know what to say. It turned out that he was still trying to adapt to Alexia's accelerated learning. Elizabeth empathised with his only child's inexperience and his fascination with her granddaughter's chaotic personality and unexpected reactions, such as biting a babysitter, taking apart half her toys by herself, hiding in the most unlikely places until the police were called, and the demonic pranks she and her twin brother plotted, which included liquefying a clown doll in the kitchen and turning on the microwave to heat the carcass of a rat that no one knew where the hell she got it from. Precisely because of this, and to avoid future misfortune, Alexander needed to get to know his children and not become obsessed with maintaining an absurd and selfish safety distance that would never benefit him. He had to learn to be a father to his children so that they would not reject him as a stranger, something Edward and Elizabeth always avoided with him. He realised that his mother was right, so he tried to change his ways.

The change included spending quality time with Alexia and defining his relationship with Alfred. He still didn't know how to relate to his son. He was looking forward to the possibility of a second successful embryo... Alexia withdrew her hand. Alexander shifted in his own seat. It reminded him of himself with his father. Elizabeth was always telling him how much Alfred looked like him and Edward. Alexander denied it. Alexia was more like Edward, a comparison Elizabeth underestimated because of Alexander's apparent lack of knowledge about himself and Alfred. He didn't care; he still believed that Alexia was the one most like Edward. Although Alfred was the apparent heir by order of birth, it was Alexia who was on her way to university at the age of seven. She was Edward's heir.

II

The hallway of the Spencer mansion gave her a dizzying sense of déjà vu.

“Alexander.” Oswell caught his eye. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. I'm just tired.”

Oswell gave them a tour of the ground and first floors.

“What about the traps?” Alexia asked, genuinely intrigued.

“Because of the lab.” Oswell winked.

As the host led them through the rooms, Alexander took a temporary break from reality to fantasise about writing a romance novel to distract himself from the post-traumatic association of the manor with the base...

“Dad.” Alexia grabbed his hand.

“Yes?”

“What happened to George Trevor?”

He had no idea.

“He disappeared,” Oswell replied immediately. “He and his wife and daughter. The Arklay Mountains must have taken them to the afterlife.”

Oswell opened a door. The room resembled a pub, with a huge grand piano huddled to its right. A sheet of music lay on the music stand. Oswell approached the instrument and lifted the cover of the keyboard.

“I doubt that such a piece would challenge a young woman of such unparalleled genius as yours, princess,” Spencer challenged, imitating the style used in Jacob's Circle to refer to them as suitors.

Alexia ran to the armchair. Beethoven, Piano Sonata No. 14, Moonlight.

Alexander and Oswell retired to the bar.

“Princess?” Alexander whispered in confusion.

“Edward told me a few things about your family.”

Alexia began to play. After the first few notes, the floor shook and a wall panel began to rise. Without stopping the melody, the pianist concentrated on the trompe l'oeil.

“Ha!” Oswell let out a chuckle.

The panel revealed a secret corridor-like room with a bust of Beethoven in the background.

“Ludwig Van.” Oswell lit the cigar he had taken out of his jacket. “You can go in, but don't touch anything.”

Without a second thought, Alexia ventured into the glassed-in secret room.

Their last stop was the library in the west wing. Alexia lost herself in the shelves, anxious to find a book that would interest her. Alexander and Oswell settled into a pair of armchairs that had to be wiped clean with a handkerchief because of the fine layer of dust that had accumulated on them.

III

“Marcus insists. That old cunt even calls me to remind me.” Oswell lit a second cigar.

“Uhm…” Alexander drew his gaze to the shelves in case he could see his daughter through the gaps.

“And he's right.” Oswell took a long drag. “We must begin the second phase. We can't go on like this. We built the company for this and I'm not prepared to give up, and I doubt very much that your father would have given up either.”

The deliberate allusion to Edward forced Alexander to look at Oswell.

“No.”

“I have a plan.” Oswell extinguished the cigar in the ashtray. “Leave the rearrangement of the second phase to me. James will be a pain in the ass and you know how annoying he can be when things don't work out. It'll take time.”

Alexander turned the ashtray, ready to speak.

“I will run the company from Harvard.” Another full turn. “And what about our research teams? Will we continue as before, each on our own?”

“That's a question you and I will work out.” Oswell was concerned about the long-term viability of the model based on independent research teams. “We'll discuss it when I've finished designing the second phase.”

Alexander sighed and removed his hand from the ashtray.

“We can't give up now,” Oswell continued. “Umbrella hasn't taken off.”

“I know.”

Alexia appeared, holding two books.

“I'll give them to you.” Oswell picked up the ashtray.

[geralddurden]

Silent Hill 1-4 Content Warning Screens (1999-2004)

[geralddurden]

never understood when people called the Alfred Ashford arс "transphobic", exposing "queers" in a negative light, or when people say that in the supposed CV remake they should devote more time to the "gender issue" of Alfred as a "trans person" or something like that.

Alfred Ashford was never trans-person. he's not a "trans woman," not "non-binary," or anything like that. his arch is not "transphobic" because it's not about trans people or gender at all.

"I don't want to be a woman, I just want my sister back."

what Alfred Ashford is about is mental problems. I mean, even his sadism is a manifestation of an unstable, broken psyche, it developed after the loss of his sister and a feeling of constant loneliness (the beginnings were in childhood, we all remember the dragonfly, but it intensified against the background of his emotional state and loneliness due to Alexia's "leaving").

he developed dissociative identity disorder (split personality) as a way of mentally coping with the fact that Alexia has not been around for so many years. Alexia was the only and most important person to him. his sister was the point for him. even if he lived in her shadow, even if Alexia herself could "look down on him" as her "ant soldier" (this does not negate the fact that Alexia loved her brother too).

he felt empty and lonely when Alexia fell into a "cryogenic coma." at first, he tried to cope with this and get emotions from the perverted torture of prisoners (I'm not saying that this is normal, of course all these unfortunate people did not deserve their terrible death from his "games"), developing sadism helped him feel at least something after Alexia was gone. but this was not enough, perverted, sadistic games could not fully fill the void that was in him due to the absence of a twin sister.

so eventually he developed a split personality, where one of the personalities was his twin sister Alexia:

«Not everyone with DID experiences it the same way. For some, their "alters" have their own age, sex, or race, plus their own postures, gestures, and distinct ways of talking.» — Joseph Goldberg, MD.

we are talking about a mental illness, a mental disorder caused by a traumatic experience (long absence/loss of the dearest person, a twin sister). we are talking about a person with obvious mental problems (except for the "split personality" Alfred clearly shows a huge amount of sadism).

I don't think it's right to cross out the story of mental illness (caused by Alfred's longing for Alexia) and rewrite this story under: "well, Alfred dressed in a dress and wore a woman's wig, used women's cosmetics, pretending that he was his sister, so he's definitely queer/trans. Capcom, don't be transphobic!"

(this is explicitly stated in the game.)

of course, you won't be able to see a story about the pain of losing dearest person and the obvious mental problems it caused if the only thing you see is "well, the man in the dress is definitely a trans person that Capcom portrayed as a psychopath, it's definitely transphobic".

damn, this is such a misreading. people refuse to see what this story is really about, even though it doesn't even need much analysis, it's on the surface.

Alfred is literally talking to himself... well, with his second identity, sure that it was Alexia who had returned to him. and he believed that he truly talked with Alexia (in DC, he even heard her voice in his head).

his reaction when he sees that Alexia, who has finally returned to him, is actually himself in disguise, says about everything.

[geralddurden]

Umbrella Pharmaceuticals - Chapter 32

During the first week of probation, while his classmates were busy getting acquainted with the school’s facilities, the uniforms, the nets between the three houses, and memorising the initials of all the school’s staff, Alfred was forced to lead a double life.

From half past six in the morning until seven in the evening, Alfred went about his business like any other student. In the dormitory on the first day, he endured the tears of longing for home and family from his roommates, while he himself took refuge in the bathroom to stifle them. From the second, he learned that none of them were from his class, and none of them were Scottish. Bryson, an eight-year-old southern Englishman, shared his accent and boasted of his wealth. Alfred, remembering the advice of his relatives, refused to reveal his true origins. He told how his ancestor, Veronica Ashford, a UK’s peer, had founded his house in the 19th century and been one of the leading industrialists and intellectuals of the Victorian era. At first her name did not ring a bell with any of his classmates, a fact that did not bother Alfred because it was supposed to go unnoticed. The other eight-year-old, Everett, was from the city, from Manchester, and from a less than privileged background, as evidenced by his thick regional accent and fickle manners, which contrasted with Alfred’s restrained manner, Bryson's middle-class sobriety, and the military firmness of the eldest in the room, nine-year-old Moore.

Moore was their watchman. In Watford parlance, a watchman, or wak, was a second-year pupil who helped to integrate newcomers into the school. In the school hierarchy, the wak was one step below the prefects, who were chosen from among the best and oldest pupils. The wak were responsible for ensuring that the boys behaved and did their homework. The wak were also responsible for carrying out the punishments devised by the prefects for the rebs, the naughty and disobedient boys. Moore made them aware of the rules they had to obey at all times, on pain of punishment, and of their roles. Using some abstruse criteria, it was decided that Bryson would be the morning boy, waking up an hour before everyone else and going door to door to warn them that it was time to get up. Everett was given the job of cleaner: tidying the room, making the beds and taking the laundry to the laundry room. And Ashford, as he was now known, would serve as Moore's fag because he was the youngest [1]. Alfred's reaction was to clench his fists in anger. Moore told him that his duties would include carrying his books to class, making his tea, polishing his shoes and acting as his informer. In return, Moore would protect Ashford and their relationship would ensure that when Ashford moved on, he would have a fag of his own.

On the third day, Alfred enrolled to play the piano and cello, was accepted into the school's small choir because of his particularly high voice, and joined the Northumbria House football team. On the fifth day, the opening of the school year was formalised with a closed session, which was not attended by parents. On the sixth day, Alfred received his first caution when, still angry about his role as a fag, he took out his frustration on one of the boys in his house with a hard tackle. The boy sprained his ankle, earning him an ejection and a scolding from the captain. On the seventh day, out of obligation, he went to the chapel for the morning service conducted by a Protestant priest.

From seven o'clock in the evening until nine o'clock at night, from after dinner until lights out, Alfred would temporarily go to the housemaster's office for his daily lesson in Scottish[2]. Cornwall was apparently a member of Jacob's Circle and had been instructed to teach the suitor to speak and write in the Circle's lingua franca. From eight o'clock it was his turn to study in the common room of the building with the other fifty children of the house. On Sundays, at the same time, Alfred would report to Dr Ward's office for a type of study not included in the school curriculum. Their first meeting consisted of Dr Ward explaining his role as tutor.

“Your great-grandfather Arthur left a memo for the tutor who looked after the first Ashford to come to the school.” Ward cleared his throat. “The memo tells the tutor how the Stewart is to be distinguished, and as you are an extremely intelligent young man, I will be frank about its contents. The Stewart will be instructed in the history of his dynasty and its clans, in the social role of that dynasty, in Jacobean values and ideology, in the perpetuation of his bloodline, and in the leadership of the fraternity of free men and women loyal to the Stuarts of the United Kingdom. For your role will be to succeed your father as Head of the Circle, master of your bloodline and chief of the clans, just as your father succeeded his, and so on down to Veronica Ashford. Any questions, prince?”

“No.”

“Fine. Welcome to Watford, prince.”

[1] Fagging. (UK). Fagging was a traditional practice in British public schools and also at many other boarding schools, whereby younger pupils were required to act as personal servants to the eldest boys. Fagging sometimes involved physical abuse and/or sexual abuse. Although lessening in severity over the centuries, the practice continued in some institutions until the end of the 20th century.  

[2] Scottish Gaelic.

[geralddurden]

Alexander Ashford and His Children - Headcanons

Early Years

The twins are not Alexander’s biological children. They are hydrides between Edward and Veronica. Initially, he wanted to use his DNA instead of Edward’s, but Alexander was unsure if there were genetic factors for interests like virology. Using Edward’s DNA appeared to be the safer option.

The twins were the third attempt to create a Veronica clone. The first did not result in a pregnancy, the second ended in a miscarriage after about two months.

At first, Alexander was excited to have two children. It was a lucky coincidence that he must have switched storage vessels, placed two clones in one vessel, and that both turned out healthy. This changed after he did the DNA tests and realized that Alfred must have been one of the prototype clones that shouldn’t have been used for this stage. Then disappointment set in. Giving Alfred away for adoption would have been too suspicious, so he had to keep him. He still hoped for a while that they would have a good relationship later on like he and his father did.

Alexander married the surrogate mother in early 1970 and divorced her in late 1972. Alexander wanted his children to be legitimate. It was also less suspicious to pay her for her service with the marriage contract. Otherwise, he would have resorted to money laundry to hide the payment. The woman got 2.5 million pounds after the divorce (1 million per birth + 0.5 million for every year of marriage). She was not allowed to speak about the events or to see “her” children again afterward. Alexander told her if she would act against their agreement, she would never be seen again.

The surrogate mother left when the twins were 1.5 years old. They shouldn’t become too attached to their “mother”. However, Alexander wanted her to stay and take care of them as long as the critical stage wasn’t over. Alternatively, he would have needed a wet nurse, and he wanted to avoid involving more people in his experiments. Furthermore, while both children were healthy, it was still possible that Alexia died from sudden infant death, in which case Alexander would have to repeat the experiment. (The same applied to Alfred, but if he had died, Alexander would have accepted it as it is what it is.)

Alexander only told the surrogate mother that she should bear a child for him. She didn’t know about the human experiments and assumed Alexander’s girlfriend died and that the children were from her and Alexander.

Alexander only talked to the surrogate mother when he wanted to know how she or the twins were doing or to give her instructions. She was only interested in his money but still had hoped to get along better with him. Living in isolation for so long was already hard, having almost no one to talk to made it worse.

Due to the loneliness, she became more attached to the twins than she wanted. Later, she collected all the newspaper articles about Alexia, cried for days when she heard about her “death”, and even visited Alfred during his graduation. He did not recognize her anymore, and she didn’t know what to say, so she pretended to be an old friend of Alexander, congratulated him, and left again.

The twins knew that the woman who gave birth to them wasn’t their biological mother. Alexander told them when they began to ask why they couldn’t see her again. He said that he would explain everything one day, but he never intended to tell them the truth.

Alexander’s relationship with his relatives took a turn for the worse after Edward’s death and the dispute over his heritage. The main reason was Alexander’s secrecy because of the Veronica project. Everything about his marriage and the children was strange. He married without saying anything and only told his relatives about his children when they were about six months old. His relatives asked too many questions, so he ghosted them if possible. Living at the end of the world helped a lot. Even his foster mother, who had tried to improve the situation before, gave up at one point.

He claimed that he had accidentally impregnated the woman during a one-night stand and married her because he felt responsible. This only made sense for people who didn’t know him. (It also didn’t fit the timeframe.) He was not the man for this. He wouldn’t even kiss a woman if he hadn’t dated her for several weeks and was visibly uncomfortable whenever a woman became a bit too intrusive before he was ready. His relatives often speculated if he was secretly gay.

The divorce added even more mystery to the situation. Alexander’s relatives tried to talk with the surrogate mother, but she never told them any details, kept her answers short, and what she said sounded memorized.

The way Alexander raised his kids was another issue. His relatives offered that the twins could stay in England and grow up normally as long as he had to work in Antarctica, but he refused. They also complained about Alexia’s workload. Genius or not, a 6-year-old shouldn’t already go to university.

General Thoughts

Alexander was a distant and not very affectionate father. He cared about his children, but he always had been terrible at showing affection, especially on a physical level. Alexander also had no idea how to deal with children in general, nor the time and energy to learn it. The best he could do was treat the twins as he treated his employees: performance and self-dependence were rewarded, while laziness was punished with more work and less free time.

Alexander hired private teachers for the twins. Both had strict education schedules. Alfred was doing excellent compared to other children his age, but his achievements were nowhere close to Alexia’s, who even exceeded Alexander’s expectations. Alexia never visited a school except to take some exams. Alfred only went to school for a while after Alexia started her cryogenic sleep.

Alexander had to work long hours to avoid falling too far behind other Umbrella research groups until Alexia was ready. As a result, Alexander focused even more on Alexia and her progress than he would have done anyway, while he simply lost interest in his son. He never hated Alfred, though.

Alexander tried to make up for the lack of quality time by buying gifts for the twins when he had the opportunity. But since he never engaged much in their interests, these gifts were often disappointing.

The only physical affection Alexander would give them was a few pats on the head, occasionally an awkward handshake, or rarely a short hug. When the twins wanted to cuddle, they had to rely on each other because Alexander was certainly not the one who would do it. For that reason, he was actually thankful for Alfred’s existence for once. Alexander supported the twins’ closeness.

Spencer visited them once. He got along well with the twins, especially with Alfred. Alexander had never seen him that excited when talking to anyone other than his sister. Alexander didn’t know what Spencer was up to and kept the twins away from him afterward. But it was more than reasonable concerns that bothered him. Deep down, he was jealous of how good Spencer was doing with his children while he was struggling ever since.

Even though Harman fulfilled his duty as a butler for the Ashfords, he and Alexander couldn’t stand each other. Edward had hired him. Alexander only kept him later because his father had liked this man. Alexander hated it in particular that Harman always backed up the twins when he had an argument with them.

After his mansion in the Antarctic Base was finished, Alexander lived mainly there. He only moved to Rockfort Island with children during the Antarctic winter months if his work allowed it.

The bar/casino was Alexander’s bedroom, and Alfred’s later office was the twin’s bedroom. Alexander wanted to do some reconstruction so the twins could have separated rooms on Rockfort Island too. He planned to expand Alfred’s later office and give it to Alexia. Alfred’s room was supposed to be the future office of his secretary after it was significantly reduced in size.

Later Years

Alexia became increasingly rebellious after she started working. It started with spiteful remarks here and there, and then she wouldn’t listen to her father anymore and refused to share her results. She even threatened to contact Spencer and let him be removed from the base entirely (mostly empty threats). Alexia was frustrated that Alexander would profit from her work while he contributed almost nothing, but she didn’t hold a grudge against him yet as Alfred did. She even planned to spare Alexander in the first outlines of her world domination plans. Her attitude only changed after Alfred told her about their origin.

Alexander planned to send Alfred to a boarding school in the hope it would better his and Alexia’s relationship and give her more time for her research. Alexia was old enough and didn’t need a playmate anymore.

The relationship between Alfred and Alexander would have escalated within two to three anyway, even if Alfred never discovered the truth about himself and Alexia.

When Alfred moved in permanently on Rockfort Island, he sold Alexander’s belongings partially and threw the rest away. But he wanted to add more as an insult. Alexander wasn’t a friend of alcoholic drinks. He rarely drank and avoided hard liquors if possible. He also hated gambling. So obviously, turning Alexander’s former bedroom into a bar/casino was the best use for this room.

After his mutation, Alexander acted mainly on instinct. There were only a few moments when he was somewhat aware of his situation and when vague memories came back. They felt more like surreal dreams rather than real memories, though. Alfred sometimes visited Alexander and talked to him (not in a friendly way). This could trigger these moments. Nosferatu recognized Alfred as someone he knew, but he couldn’t fully understand who this man was nor make sense of any of his words.

Alfred also used him for target practice. He made sure not to hit his vital organs. Nosferatu could regenerate, but Alfred didn’t know how much damage he could take before he would eventually die. He could have killed Alexander if he wanted but found it more delightful to keep him alive and watch him suffer for everything he has done to him and Alexia. Using Nosferatu as a living target went on until Alfred realized that some ricochets had damaged the shackles. This and general material fatigue resulted ultimately in Nosferatu’s escape.

[geralddurden]

Umbrella Pharmaceuticals - Chapter 31

I

Alexia Ashford and Mary-Anne Campbell were looking at a chamber portrait of Anne of Great Britain, the last Stuart queen of the United Kingdom. Their ancestor gleamed in a shimmering red gown trimmed with a simple ermine cloak.

“Someday you will be like her.” Mary-Anne stroked Alexia's fine hair, standing to her right. “A queen.”

II

Too much noise in the castle hall. Too much crowd. Alexia wandered among the excited adults trying to locate her father. She spotted Tony, Mary-Anne and Walter, some distant cousins of the Douglas clan she knew by sight, but not her father. Frustrated, she changed her strategy and began searching for shelter. By chance, she stumbled upon a forgotten armchair in which she curled up, wishing that the party in her honour for her admission to Harvard would end as soon as possible. If Alfred had been with her, they would have devised a way to sneak out of the room to spend the rest of the night playing in the gardens. But he wasn't, and neither was her cousin Auguste. There was no way out, and she had grown tired of hiding her discomfort at being surrounded by drunken relatives who kept shouting, singing and playing the bagpipes. She would have slipped off to the Stuart gallery, to enjoy better company with the mute portraits of her ancestors, but Mary-Anne had closed the door. In the end, she had no choice but to bear her despondency alone.

She closed her eyes to concentrate on her less chaotic inner world. She thought she would fall asleep until she noticed a hand on her shoulder. She opened her eyes in fright.

“Are you all right, Alexia?” Tony pulled his hand away.

“Where's my father?”

“He's outside. On the balcony. With Aberdeen's cousins. Do you want me to call him?”

“No. I'll go.”

Alexia sat up. Tony walked halfway with her and then broke away. She crossed the stony threshold of the balcony to catch sight of her father sitting with the cousins. As soon as she poked her head out, one of them, the one smoking an oversized cigar, waved his hand for her to join them.

“There's your daughter, Lexia.”[1]

Alexander turned around. As soon as he saw his daughter, he patted his legs so she would sit on him. Alexia complied so she could tell him she didn't want to be there.

“How are you?” Alexander asked.

“How does it feel to go to college so early? Aren't you afraid, little one?” The other cousin interrupted Alexander. The cousin with the cigar took a puff.

Alexia didn't answer.

“She's looking forward to it. It'll be a matter of adjustment,” Alexander replied instead.

“How nice. The best Campbell, you'll see.” Both cousins laughed.

“Vader. Ik wil terug naar mijn kamer.”[2] Alexia whispered in his ear as the two cousins talked to each other.

“Oké.”

Alexander and Alexia got up.

“I'll be right back.”

Alexia walked ahead of her father. She needed silence.

[1] Alexia Ashford's family nickname.

[2] “Father. I want to go back to my bedroom” in Dutch.