Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

One thing that Karl would be willing to credit Miranda for, no matter begrudgingly, is that if it weren’t for her, he might never be as smart as he is now. He didn’t have to push himself, to force his own eyes and mind to read and learn and experiment through the deadest of nights, to fail then to succeed after hundreds of tries. Miranda forced him in this path, and sometimes, Karl couldn’t remember anymore what exactly he wanted to become in his childhood. It is just one more thing she took away from him.

The papers are half damp, but they are the only things he can even remotely use. Karl writes down his findings, tapping his foot to a nonexistent beat while he listens on the grunting and moaning the pipes let out. He hasn’t been back here for years, favoring his factory more when he finally got things going. Besides, he rather let Miranda knew about that than finding out about everything he does. The sprawling complex of his dominion is something comforting, but even Karl needs someplace that is his and his only. Miranda can’t mar this place with her presence, he won’t allow that. He keeps on writing despite the fluctuating temperature the room suffers.

His old equipment has miraculously survived, even down to the monitors, microscopes, and centrifuge. Karl had only needed to reroute electricity to get everything going. The process still takes up more than two hours though, he clicks his tongue, with most having needed to be done more manually than automated. For all the ancientness and backwater-esque of Miranda’s village, she always has technology in the bowels. Karl was just quicker than anyone else to notice and spirited away several whenever she brought some back. Then, again, he doubts Dimitrescu needs anything than fancy plates and clothes for her daughters’ entertainment (with the addition of… torturing people into wines, of course).

He finishes his writing at the same time Chris appears in one of his screens. The man finally arrives back in the swamp perimeters, hauling a bag used for feed and a… lycan in multiple ropes. Karl chuckles, whipping his sore wrist. “He really did it,” he shakes his head. “He actually fucking did it.” The monster is half-struggling, nasty gashes all over its body with its mouth muzzled. Chris frowns as he drags his load towards the entrance, his face unchanging when he wades in the wet forest floor once more. His breath fogs as he moves, but Karl notices the way his eyes are scanning his surroundings. “Smart for a boulder,” Karl shrugs. “Very smart indeed.”

Chris can definitely read his handwriting, then. The Lord piles the papers into one wrinkled stack, wipes the sweat off his nose, and heads in the direction of the main corridor. The air here is better than the rooms, having more circulation from the small gaps and the general coolness from the underground stones. He hums a classic tune he heard somewhere a long time ago, ignoring the creaking metal door one floor up as he then leans against the railings in Chris’ line of sight.

“Welcome back,” he grins and waves a little. “I see you had a successful hunt.”

The soldier ignores him, he supposes that is his adapting mechanism in anything he dislikes, then drops the feed bag and the lycan at his feet. He takes a deep sigh, his outfit deeply drenched, undoubtedly making the cold unbearable, but shakes it off like snow after a moment. “What should we do with these?” He asks.

Karl rubs his chin. “There is a kitchen,” he emphasizes on the questionability of that, “we can store them there. For the lycan though,” he kicks it lightly, “Winters probably will appreciate the early lunch or is it late breakfast? Brunch?”

Chris ignores him. Again. He leaves the bag, stained and drenched near Karl while he pulls the dying lycan body downstairs. There is almost zero effort if not for his arms straining at the weight. Karl muses the likelihood whether Chris actually used his weapons or plain cracking the poor creature’s skull with his bare hands. Considering the talks throughout his career, that is something fun to assume. The clanking and thudding of both echo until Karls sees him reaching Ethan’s room.

The man turns his head. “Do you have the results?”

He waves the papers. “Some,” he says. “I only need to check something before I can come to the conclusion.” Before Chris opens his mouth, Karl lifts a hand. “It won’t take more than thirty minutes, I’ll see you there, alright, soldier boy?” He hides his grin when Chris blinks before he takes off.

Dusts collect easily despite the shelves being perfectly placed three floors deep. Karl swipes a film of it as he rifles through the books and boxes. He holds the flashlight between his teeth, throwing out useless titles haphazardly and sneezing, he knew he should have done a spring cleanup three years ago. Thirty minutes morph to forty-five then more towards an hour. By the time Karl does find the much-wanted manila, he already knows the waiting time is long. He licks his finger before flipping through the yellowed sheets of data, results, and photos. Ignoring what had entailed forever eternalized there still brings a twinge of sourness in his mouth.

It doesn’t take him another hour to confirm what his initial findings had made him suspected, though. Karl huffs, putting his flashlight back in his pocket, and collects everything within his hands. The bundle is thick, stained, and musty, Karl grabs them all with a grin and a small quickening pace. He might need to suffer through Chris’ boring glares, but he is returning with gifts that should alleviate his downer mood. Karl takes two and three steps to where both him and Ethan are, already hearing the rustling and voices filtering through the barred window.

Ethan is awake, and likely is eating the lycan. While he knows he has a chance in seeing the man in a corrigible state behind the door, maybe he shouldn’t have still slammed the door wide open as he arrives.

“Ah, he’s awake!” He says in announcement. “Ah, good morning, Ethan Winters. I must say, you must have seen better days.”

The result of his poorly timed entrance is… less than stellar.

---

During military training, Mia was much more aggressive and assertive in almost everything, especially in shooting and self-defense. Chris hadn’t initially considered putting her in due to her background already passing the criteria, but she hated being separated from her husband, throwing everyone a glare that was asinine to the point Chris relented. It turned out to be useful all things considered, she built back her lost agility, her muscles, and her focus. Her presence was a balm for Ethan, who rarely looked even remotely excited at the prospect of a fight, it had taken some persuasion and reminder of the Bakers that did the man in. Still though, the man pulled his punches and kicks, the only thing he could do well was at the range. Currently, Chris throws his evaluation out of the window.

“You killed Mia, you son of a bitch!” Ethan swings yet again. His fist leaves cracks on the tables. “You fucking tried to take my daughter, then you had the audacity to be nice, and now you work for him?” His voice is borderline hysterical. Cracking and pitching higher as he goes on. “You motherfucker, I trusted you!”

Chris leans out of his attacks, evading and defending while sometimes maneuvers them away. He keeps his mouth shut, eyes narrowed, but keeps his body open. Chairs and a shelf become the new victims when Ethan yells, launching over them after the man takes some distances between. Karl laments at the messiness, noticing also the dark spot where the lycan’s fur is left out. He sighs, rubbing his head and picking his ear when Ethan is spewing curses again before he summons several metal bars from the barred window and door. With a finger’s flick, he pins Ethan to the far wall, the metals bending into cufflinks with chains.

“Fuck!” Ethan hisses. “You fucking let me go now, you shit,” he spits. “I’m not done yet with you!”

Puddles of mold start to form underneath him, bubbling in heavy globs, Karl strides pass Chris and takes the admirably still intact IV line. “Alright, we all need to calm down here,” he says. “Sorry, this might feel… unpleasant.” Then he rips it.

It is like witnessing a deflating balloon. The mold recedes, staining his floor despite it made from cement and rocks, while Ethan slumps down. His voice dies to a normal, bearable volume as he gasps. But despite the sudden stop of flurry rage, the man manages baring his teeth which does not look as normal as they should be. They are pointier, for lack of a better word, fangs noticeable sharpened with molars that are more for shredding than grinding. Karl belatedly notices the luminescence his irises have under the dim lighting.

He coughs. “Are you good, now?” He asks. Ethan wiggles his hands and legs, gritting his teeth when the shackles don’t budge. He refuses to look at either of them, eyes looking somewhere between their feet. “We’ll take that as a yes, then,” Karl fixes his coat as he throws a glance to Chris.

For his part, Chris thins his lips and rubs the bruises forming on his jaw and cheek. “Is he going to be alright being cut off from the compound?” He taps a gash on his lips.

“What do you care?” Ethan cuts him. “You traitor,” he murmurs.

That earns a reaction. “You think I killed Mia?” Chris turns his head. “That wasn’t her,” he stops tending to his gash and picks out his phone. “That was Miranda. We thought she did die, but apparently she didn’t and escaped, so I’m here to finish the job.”

Karl grabs a cigar when Ethan blinks. “What?” The blond raises his brow. He is shown the phone, the screen lighting his face. “How… H-how how?” He shakes his head. “She looked like Mia, sounded like her. How… how the fuck did she…?” The pictures don’t lie, the dead body is exactly how he remembered, but then in the transport, it changed. Morphing into someone with feathers and too many sharp claws as black eyes caught by the soldier’s helmet camera. Ethan can see his own jeans at the far corner of the screen, laid on a thin cot and he wasn’t moving. “Chris, what did she do?”

Karl is on the way to open his lighter as Chris rubs his forehead. “She had been ahead of us, and I was too late to notice,” he shakes his head. “I thought she was somewhere in northern Europe; my team had hunted her down for months after we received an intel. We didn’t think she would be so close to your new home; we thought the BSAA did their job when they placed you somewhere else,” Chris is in need of a smoke, “but apparently, they had not, and I made a mistake.”

The sight of his wife gunned down, their dinner ruined, and the peaceful night turning in a blink are still fresh in Ethan’s mind. He hasn’t even had the time to process before he dropped into this murder village. But he prides himself in contemplating clearly when he can or when he is able to at times. He tries calming himself, pushing away the fear, the shock, the hurt, and instead, channels the leftover adrenaline into thinking. “If you,” he sucks in a breath, “if what you said is true, then why is he here?”

Karl holds his hand to Chris. “Allow me to explain,” he grins. Ethan hates that because it is the same shit-eating one from when he stabbed him at the castle. “After Redfield here put an inconvenient damper on my plan of revolution by blowing my factory sky high, I found myself lucky enough that I wasn’t present at the site, thus I hung back near the bridge trying to find shelter when I came across you, Ethan,” he points to the man. “You weren’t exactly at the best of condition and after some negotiation between Redfield and I when he too arrived at the scene,” Karl ignores Chris’ stare, “we came to an… agreement that it is best for a truce while we find out what is happening to you.”

“My team don’t have the proper equipment to analyze and help, Heisenberg just happened to have the means and the curiosity to know,” Chris interjects. “Though he is hoping in having your cooperation in his new plan to take down Miranda.” This time, it is him who ignores Karl’s look.

Ethan tilts his head. “I thought you were Miranda’s lackeys,” he frowns. “How the hell am I supposed to believe you?”

“Listen,” Karl crouches down. “I am not that bitch’s lackey, Winters. For both our peace of mind, please erase everything that makes you believe that. I pretended to serve her out of survival, and now is the time for retribution because I am sick of her. You,” he puffs a smoke, “are the golden ticket to make everything perfect.”

“The fuck, do you mean?”

“Ethan,” Chris pulls away his attention. “We believe you might be infected.”

Silence. The wind outside is maintaining in their rattling of the entrance’s locks and chains. The sound echoes down to their place, far off but hearable. Then, someone snorts. It is, undoubtedly, Ethan.

“What?”

Karl procures his papers, thumbing the ones he marked in bold letter, before he reads them. “From your tissues and blood samples,” he licks his lips, “the test matches ninety eight percent with the mycete from around here. Cross-checking the characteristics and physiology, it also is similar with a Cadou transplant.”

“That thing?” Ethan almost shouts.

“Oh, you know that?”

“Of course, I know. That weird fetus abomination was at Moreau’s den.”

“Aah,” Karl nods. “Figures.” He remembers something about the moronic freak’s obsession with the parasite, his spewing of having Miranda’s gift to him at all times. Karl doesn’t doubt he also took it to sleep, he shudders.

“And you think it is inside me now?” Ethan is poorly concealing his disgust.

Karl shakes his head. “No, no, relax,” he says, “you don’t have any weird monster wriggling in you. But you do still have the strain of the Megamycete in your body, and it is a lot, to sum your condition up.” He taps at the flecks of grey near Ethan who blanches at the sight.

As if to make the poor man’s crisis finishes quickly, Chris adds his own information. “The Megamycete is the source of the mold network underneath the village, my team ran a test on one of the roots, and the strain is almost the same, more like the parent strain, from the ones we encountered three years ago.”

“Like Louisiana,” Ethan bites his lips. “You’re saying this place and that place are one and the same.”

Karl stays quiet, but Chris nods. “Yes,” he says and keeps his eyes straight. “Yes, you can say that.”

---

The ring of the phone had called for Karl, it was a good excuse for him to go. He didn’t announce his leave, already releasing the metal from him before the lord disappeared. Ethan slides down onto the floor, his bump immediately turning cold before he pulls his knees towards himself. He hears Chris coming closer and stops a respectful berth away from him. They don’t acknowledge the other until one of them speaks.

“After Dulvey, Blue Umbrella gave the full report on the case,” Chris starts. “The Connections was behind that incident, behind Eveline, and they left no trace at all if Mia hadn’t survived. But despite her information, we had to close the case as there were no more leads.” He opens his health kit. “We couldn’t keep you within the base for long, so the upper-ups decided to let you go under supervision. I allowed this since you and Mia needed the normalcy, in the best form you could get.”

The paperwork and the legwork were a nightmare. It is never easy making people disappear, not as swift as they told you. Live people leave trails, an inevitable fact that he and his team grappled with. If not for the BSAA initiative and resource, sending Ethan and Mia away would have been noticed by the Connections the moment they were out of the headquarter. Chris had side-eyed the decision still though, it wasn’t everyday the BSAA covered something as big as the Bakers, despite the lives lost and many news hungry for anything. The organization rarely works best in the shadows, after all – it wouldn’t do for they are an international face with the UN backing them.

“I didn’t have enough manpower to keep updates with you after you were settled,” Chris tells the man beside him. “At the time the BSAA was the only one who I could depend on since my team was busy looking for any tail of the Connection.” And there had been some more missions, sleuthing, and scrutinizing the higher-ups before Emily came across the intel. “We finally had some months ago. By the time we found out just where Miranda was, she already infiltrated your home. I had thought she was looking for you, but when she took longer, I surmised she was after Rose. Though,” he rubs his head, “I didn’t understand why until Heisenberg told me.”

Ethan stays with his head cradled between his hands, but he moves a fraction. Just enough to make him knows that he is listening, and Chris takes that as his cue to continue. “The Megamycete I just mentioned, it is the source of the mold. Apparently, Miranda believes her daughter, Eva, is in it after she died due to the Spanish Flu, and she is trying to make Rosemary to be the replacement who can be formed into her,” he shakes his head when Ethan looks at him through his fingers. “I don’t know how she came to that conclusion, but that was the reason why she split Rose into four. She is testing her because she is confident Rose is the one.”

There is a chuckle coming from Ethan, and Chris pretends the man’s hands aren’t wet. He looks away when Ethan wipes his eyes and blows his snot on his arms. “That’s just great,” he snorts into the sleeve of his jacket, “I escaped one lunatic only to get targeted by another lunatic.” Ethan returns to cradling his head. “Did we do something?” He asks. “Did I do something to someone that just chose this time to bite me in the ass? I know I cheated on exams and maybe did those also during job interviews but fuck,” he chuckles again, “I sure as hell wasn’t hurting anybody or did I…?”

“Ethan,” Chris looks down.

“You know, I actually did suspect Mia when we were first married. I never understood the long assignments, the secrecy, and her reservedness to not even complain about shitty coworkers, unlike me,” he bunches his fist in his hair. “We had a fight about it, all the yelling, really straight out of telenovela shits. But over time I understood she just wasn’t the type, so I dropped it, yet still sometimes, when she didn’t come back or didn’t message me when she worked the late weekends, I started thinking about… stuffs. Hell, I felt shitty after I did,” Ethan mumbles. “At the end though, she did hide something from me, and now,” he kicks away a stray cog, “here I am. Tell me, Chris, should I have done it different? Should I have just asked her again and again until she gave in? Should I have left her after that bullshit at that fucking house?” Ethan kicks another stray pin. “Rose doesn’t deserve any of this, she didn’t choose, but I sure as fuck did. God,” he pulls at his hair, “what did I do wrong?”

“Ethan.”

“Tell me, Chris,” he snaps his head up. “Did I fuck someone’s life or something? I had a wife who worked for a company which killed people, I kept a blind eye on it, and because of that I got dragged into some bioweapon bullshit. A bioweapon! Then, apparently, I am infected which I don’t know how the fuck did that even happened when you all cleared me long ago, and now my daughter, my sweet baby girl who is only a half-year old got cut into four pieces because a crazy, psycho bitch believes she is her own daughter through some, some-” A laugh erupts from Ethan. “Some… stinky ass mold? Oh, Jesus fucking Christ, Mother Mary, holy fucking crap!” He screams into his hands.

“Ethan, listen to me,” Chris reaches out.

“Why us? Why her?” Ethan hits the wall. “Why me?”

And isn’t that the million-dollar question? His old neighbor, an elderly couple who looked after them when their parents died told him that ‘everything happens for a reason’, while Claire stuck herself to his side, her eyes puffy as she cried herself to sleep. They meant well, even at that young age Chris knew, but it still stung, because that just wasn’t fair. Claire was only a kid and he was just a teen with a house that suddenly turned too large to live in while the money and insurance bills vied for his attention. School was at the back of his mind since then, he didn’t want to rely on the few relatives they had, old and struggling unlike them. He sobered up two mornings after, mind set in providing for his little sister because Claire was his baby sibling, and Chris would always be there for her. He studied and worked, as hard as he could, taking the police academy since it offered him free tuition, so more money could go for Claire’s schooling and future college. He taught Claire self-defense and how to use a gun and a knife, he tried to be present through middle school and high school, never once missing her graduations, even when he got accepted into Raccoon City police branch, then quickly to STARS, it had been Claire who assured him that she would be fine.

Chris has lived a good chunk of his life holding on to that ‘everything happens for a reason’ since it gives him some faith, some hope that keeps him away from drowning, and he still doesn’t let go – he needs those words because letting them go will mean he just spirals into despair that the fairness of the world just doesn’t make sense.

But Ethan can’t hear that now, won’t hear it from the way he half-laughs, half-sobbing, and a quarter-shrieking. He just isn’t able to. Chris puts a hand on his back, staying there as he waits for Ethan to wind down. When the man does get back into some semblance of quietness, Chris takes a breath. “I don’t know,” he says, “I don’t know why this is all happening to you, Ethan. Maybe we’ll never know, but one thing that I truly know is that Miranda is still out there, and so does Rose. We still have the time, more than enough and we have my team, and Heisenberg,” though Chris bites his lips at the last one. “We can take Rose back, save her before Miranda does anything more, and I will make sure she is stopped. On that, I know.”

“No,” Ethan shakes his head, “no, it isn’t just you and your team,” he grunts as he pushes himself to stand. “I need to be in your ‘we’, because I’m going to take my daughter back, and when I find Miranda?” Chris sees the delicate tenseness in Ethan’s finger as he pulls out his knife. “She’s not going to get away.”

There is that glint of a deep broiling violence behind those words, Chris thinks he sees the black leaking from Ethan’s eyes before he nods. “Alright,” he says and can’t hide a small smile, “alright. I guess I owe you that much.” And maybe even more. “We’ll search for Rose, stop Miranda, and also find out where Mia is.”

“Mia? She’s alive? What had that woman done to her?” Ethan furrows his brows and grabs him.

“I don’t know,” Chris takes his fingers off his shirt. “But we’ll find out. She must have been in close contact with Miranda before she replaced Mia. There is a high chance she is kept somewhere, because I doubt Miranda would just discard her.”

Ethan grits his teeth. “Okay,” he nods. “Okay. Fuck, if she is alive, I’m…” He huffs. “God, I hope she is alright.”

“I hope so, too,” Chris pats his shoulder.

It feels assuring, his hand heavy and warm. Ethan allows it to linger before he looks away to the door. “So, what now?” He asks. “Do you think we can trust that guy? I’m only going based on your judgement here.”

Chris clears his throat. “We can trust him. For now,” he fixes his weapon’s pouch. “He is interested in you and your infection,” he smiles apologetically at Ethan’s scrunched face. “He seems like he needs your help in taking down Miranda, and isn’t that what we can currently use?”

“A distraction?” Ethan pats down his dusty and crusty jeans. “He attacks Miranda while we grab Rose? Is he not going to notice?”

“We won’t be giving any for him to,” Chris takes out his phone. “Here, see? Those weaponized zombies were called Soldats and Heisenberg were making them by the thousands before I blew up his factory. He told me about his joining Miranda, turned out he didn’t do it willingly, she tricked him into it, he only joined out of his hatred. That I can trust, the rest after we stop her? Not so much yet.”

“I see,” Ethan swipes the photos. “Well, it’s not like we have any other alternative, right?” He steps away. “I want to heal Rose fast and for that, I need to know what’s going on with me. The guy is our best lead, so I’ll play along, but don’t expect me to lay down and allowing him to pick me apart like nothing.” He pulls at his jacket, smoothing the creases, then folds the cuffs.

Chris smiles. “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he says. The only time Ethan actually glared during the first year quarantined at HQ was when doctors were studying him. They meant him no harm and treated him with respect, though he seemed to have enough with needles and testing jargons. “Come on,” Chris walks to the door. “Let’s see Heisenberg again and tell him you’ll cooperate. I’m sure he is ecstatic,” he says.

“You don’t like him, do you?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“As clear as day, captain,” Ethan replies as Chris pushes the door. It creaks with its rusty hinges. He follows in step, silent for a while, but before they both are completely out of the room, Ethan calls out to his back. “Hey, Chris?”

The man stops and turns his head. “Yeah?”

“Why didn’t you try to contact me? You know I always have my phone with me. Or could you, at least, warn the nearest BSAA at the neighboring country?” The organization is huge, they have more than enough branches across the globe, especially a crowded continent as Europe. Ethan watches as Chris’ shoulders rise before deflating.

“I couldn’t,” Chris tells him. “I couldn’t because my team went rogue roughly three years ago.”

Ethan blinks. “Why?”

Captain. Captain. Captain. – Naivety, loyalty, and bravery.

Raccoon. Africa. Edonia. – G-virus, Uroboros, and T-virus.

Blood. Whispers. Scars. – The dead, sacrifices, and a patch left behind.

(“It is rare to see survivors making it this far under you.”)

“Because,” Chris turns his head to Ethan, “things have changed. I can’t trust the BSAA any longer.”

A bang echoes through the walls of the place, reaching their ears, and they stop their conversation.

---

Karl is sucking on a bruised finger when he returns, his glasses nowhere to be found on his person. The hat is skewed, and his hair is frazzled. He doesn’t wave or even grins, instead choosing to gesture towards a corridor leading to a mess-like room.

“So,” he pulls a stool from under the table, “how was it? What is your verdict after some time alone with your fellow friend?” Karl asks.

Ethan entwines his fingers. “I’ll do it,” he says. “I’ll join this… alliance. To find Rose.” He stares as Karl looks at him, witnessing the shuttered face turning back into one that is loose glee and danger. “But,” Ethan holds out his hand, “every time you analyze me, Chris has to be present in all the process, and you’ll need my clear say whenever you are going to prod and poke. I’m not a guinea pig, after all.”

“Deal,” Karl shrugs and snuffs his hard-bitten cigar. “I thought it would take more to persuade you, I’m surprised. But then again,” he flicks a glance at the larger of the two, “you have known each other for quite some time. I think trust has been built, no?” Everyone knows it’s rhetorical, so Karl proceeds to take two more seats out from the corners. “Now,” he wipes away the cobwebs, “since we are now in the same team, why don’t we start with a small form of civility?” Karl places the stool, the folding chair, and the wooden one around a metal picnic table. “I’m going to cook us some terribly late lunch, while you, Ethan, shall take a looksie through these papers I compiled so we can all start with the same page and information, eh?”

The thick file almost spills out from the binding. Ethan holds his sigh at the chicken scratch and old papers inside. It looks to be a heavy read, demanding his full attention, and he is not looking forward to it. He grabs at a spot on his neck, only to find nothing, then opens the very top one from the small pile. The blond doesn’t notice Karl slightly creasing his eyes. “Fine, I’ll read them,” he says. “What are you even going to cook?”

Karl clicks his tongue. “Have some faith in me for a bit, will you?” He sighs. “I am not going to feed us some mold or anything like that, alright? Redfield here went out to find some food, and as I am a generous person, I think it’s fair if I do the cooking,” he shrugs. “We all eat like a normal human being, no?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before he goes.

“I’m going with him,” Chris taps Ethan’s shoulder. “You just see through these,” he points down to the table, “I will make sure he doesn’t do anything funny.”

“Isn’t that going to hurt his feelings?” The blond raises a brow.

Chris huffs. “No, but he might burn the food, and I rather not eat charcoal.”

“Shame,” Ethan taps on one of the papers, “it could have been an offer to get to know him better by familiarizing ourselves with his diet.” He scratches his neck, then starts on a page. “Go then, make sure he is not giving us plain raw meat.”

Chris huffs again. “That is still better than the charcoal,” he says. “You have your phone, right?” When Ethan nods, he murmurs, “Snap pictures of the important things. I can send them to my team for safekeeping in case anything happens to the original.”

“Will do,” Ethan gives a thumbs-up. “Will do.”

When Chris leaves him, he has a loose albeit small smirk teasing his lips as he weaves the documents. But as the man returns half an hour later, it has already been long gone. Ethan doesn’t have a sliver of excitement at the prospect of food, can’t exactly conceal it even after Karl settles in his own stool after placing the arguably decent looking meat and potatoes, then stabs into the meat without any preamble. The eating is uneventful, each focusing mightily at their own plate while brushing off any inquiries, an awkward silence that refuses words until the required digesting time is up. Karl doesn’t mind, he is quite enjoying himself and pities the other poor men who are endeavoring to be as normal as possible despite Ethan’s face making the whole mood and appetite rendered useless. The lord puts away his finished plate, placing the stained ceramic on the corner as he dabs his lips with his glove.

“Not to your liking?” He asks. Ethan barely touches the innocent meat and potatoes near his mouth. “Or is it because you have eaten?” He glances at the last pages beside him. “Or,” he shrugs, “you can’t really eat this?”

It earns him a glare from the blond who immediately pushes his plate near the edge of the table before tapping Karl’s writing on the bottom of the paper. “You fed me something,” he says, “so how the hell am I supposed to consume anything again?” Ethan frowns. “Did the lycan really…”

“Yes,” Chris answers. “Yes, you actually did.” Twice at that. “I saw it.”

Ethan chuckles. Short and loud. “Jesus fucking Christ…” He rubs his face. “How?”

“Well, that’s what we’d like to know more,” Karl shrugs. “You don’t have any Cadou in you, but somehow the amount of the mycete in you surpasses the usual threshold, and,” he points, “they replicate.”

“You mean they are living inside me, like a happy home,” he mutters. “Which is why I could eat a whole, no, two whole lycans… which, mind you, I have no memory of.”

“Yes, but isn’t that one of the questions we need to ask?” Karl clasps his hands. “Can you eat normally? Or has the infection completely changed your diet? Do you even like human food any longer?”

To question that, Ethan pokes at his abandoned meat. With trepidation, he cuts a larger part, grabbing the proffered water from Chris, and swiftly chews. Flavors burst in his mouth despite the little spice, the juice flowing out, while he grinds it between his molars which don’t feel as familiar as they are supposed to be. Karl might have overcooked the meat, making him slower in completely pushing it down to his stomach. But he doesn’t vomit, even when he already feels irrevocably full (he minutely shudders at the reminder on what exactly made him so) and cleans his palate with the water.

“So, you can eat,” Karl nods. “You just don’t have the appetite yet.” He rubs his chin, “Interesting. I expected you would scarf down anything since that is a trait of a Cadou infection, but huh,” he bites his lips, “guess yours is different after all.”

“Are you going to give him that compound again, then?” Chris asks because he still is particularly dubious about it. “He doesn’t seem to be as ravenous, unlike you once were.”

Karl ignores the jab. “We shouldn’t unless it is dire and I suggest against being… dependent on it,” a shadow flickers pass his visage and he taps his fingers, “but we put that as a back-up if things go south with your eating habit, Winters. I might have a theory that you could survive on human food alone, but the resident inside you,” he shakes his head, “it couldn’t so it would push you to find the source it actually could digest directly.” The two creatures had been enveloped and swallowed by the mold, after all, which not once ever used Ethan’s mouth, teeth, and stomach. “But we should wait until it wants again.”

That doesn’t sound nice, Ethan sighs, but what else does he supposed to do in that matter? He lifts a hand. “Alright, we’ll leave that matter for later,” he fingers a paper. “What else can we focus on that better not involve my sane mind?” Though he doubts there is any, but he needs to ask.

“Let’s start on what you can remember about the events before we found you,” Chris sips at his glass. The water is refreshing despite the dubious container. “I think that is the best place to start as any.” He had lost track of Ethan ever since the Reservoir, the man simply vanished after Hound Wolf and he managed to pull themselves out of the murky waters.

“I… I don’t remember much,” Ethan pinches his nose. “After Moreau, I headed to the Stronghold, then I got the final flask, and went to put them all in the Giant’s Chalice. I might have taken a bit of rest,” he frowns, “I stocked up, picked Rose up, before heading towards your factory, Heisenberg. I needed to insert the chalice again at a different site with the giant stone statues, it brought me down to a cave, and… and then…” He winces. “I… it was dark, I think I nicked myself? I don’t know, it’s… it’s fuzzy. There was Rose but nothing. Nothing more.”

“Nothing else? Like you taking a detour or picked another route towards my place?”

“Did you find something, Ethan?”

Slithering, slimy, and cold. So cold that it felt numbing. A sharp smell with a horrible sound.

Ethan shakes his head down. “I don’t know.” But there should be something, someone, he just isn’t sure if he did. “Maybe? I felt like floating or wading, it felt tiring and made me weird. There sounds or things that I saw, but… I don’t know.”

“Not even the time you told me to shut up after I found you?” Karl asks.

“I don’t know, I did remember it was wet, and nothing. There is nothing else!” He hisses.

“Not once? A little bit?” Karl prods.

“No, no, there wasn’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!” Ethan stands, “Yes, I am sure. I don’t remember anything, alright? I’m sorry, but I just don’t. So, can you please just fuck off!” He yells. And he usually isn’t one to have a short fuse, but he is strained and stretched in all angles. “Please, child, can you go away for a moment?”

Karl goes quiet, his stance stilling. He doesn’t seem at all there as he nods and rubs his head. “Alright,” he says. “Alright, let’s drop it for the time being.” Then in a blink he becomes loose again. “Sorry, sorry, didn’t mean to hit your buttons.” He opens his palms in surrender. At Ethan’s brushing his apology off, he continues. “But maybe you should… ah, ensure to not always damage things around you when you are angry.”

The table between them has fissures on its surface, down to its legs, and onto the concrete floor. Chris steps one foot away from the bits and pieces of the furniture. He unspools the sudden tenseness, reminding himself that Ethan is not a threat as much as he is only extremely distressed. The soldier toes the huge crack that makes the table to stand on three legs instead of the complete four. For his part, Ethan looks almost dumbfounded at the mold spilling from his skin, disbelieving fingers trace the sharp claws from his left hand, and the way they have a certain sheen to them. It almost looks too similar of a certain former, inarguably dead, lord.

“I…” He gapes. “I didn’t mean to, I am-”

“No need to say sorry,” Karl shrugs.

Ethan frowns. “I wasn’t going to,” he says and looks down on his changed hand. No tremble is visible, but he hovers his fingers in both awe and horror. He can already feel the cold sharpness from the sight of the blades alone. “I… I don’t know how this happened.”

“Clearly you defended yourself,” Karl rounds the table, making distances at the damaged furniture along with metal splinters. “You probably just assumed you needed to, your instincts only had to do the rest.” He low-whistles. “I just didn’t expect for you pulling something like this. Really? That super-sized bitch’s claws of all things?”

Those claws were the bane of his existence when he ran around like a scared mouse inside the maze-like castle. They could close the distance between Dimistrescu and him, stabbing him as if he were barbecue. He almost, almost gagged when he saw his blood sticking on her claws as they met again for the umpteenth time. And the thought that he could have ended up like those poor maids at the basement didn’t help his severe aversion on the sight of wine for a time. He hated the castle – at least, in the other two abodes, he knew he was in for some shits, the juxtapositions weren’t that uncanny, but Castle Dimitrescu? That place could go fuck itself.

Ethan sighs, noticing how his hand shudders along with it. “I have no idea,” he says and releases his hold. “Maybe it’s just like what you said, I probably saw those as good enough weapons to defend myself.” The claws melt, dripping back into globs of mold, and they collect around his feet. It is strange, he should have felt disgusted or appalled, yet he can’t help but acknowledge them as a part of him, normal to regard them as his limbs, and yeah, he is not going to think more about this.

The other two don’t share the same sentiment. Karl has a lopsided grin that ensures he is mightily interested, and Chris has his eyes staring at the mold with all the intensity of an operative. The mold doesn’t recede, stagnant under Ethan while they lap at his toes. How the fuck did they get into his shoes?

“Can you try that again?”

Ethan wiggles his shoes. “What?”

“Can you make something the same like that again?”

The blond gives up on keeping his shoes dry. “Maybe? Why?”

Karl is smiling as he rubs his chin. “To find out if you can do more than that, of course. If you can, then hurrah for a discovery which will help us defeat Miranda,” at the stare from Chris, Karl adds, “and save Rose. Especially her.” He claps his hands. “So, do you think you can do it? Try?”

The lord seems confident in his ability which is a bit disheartening because Ethan doesn’t really know what he is supposed to do to pull that again. But maybe… that is the point. He needs to wing it. The mold pops a bubble, excited for them showing off once more – Ethan takes that as a boost that maybe he does can. With a deep breath, he envisions the adrenaline, the terror, and the hunting sense when he saw Dimistrescu’s claws. The way they slice, chop, and dice. The way they cut his fucking hand.

 And oh, isn’t that a power he actually admires and wants?

When he opens his eyes, the claws are there. Sharper, colder, meaner. They resemble real metal, glinting under the lamps, and deadly as ever. He tries turning his hand, a bit heavy but he can manage. He moves each finger, glad that they listen to him, and not turning as hard as steel. Chris and Karl steps away when he lightly swings, the sound cutting the air around them.

“Good,” Karl keeps a grin. “Very good.” He brushes pass Chris who stays in his spot. “Now, could you…” He pokes at a finger, “… not only copy her claws?”

“You mean imitating her entire body?” Ethan asks then nods down towards the smaller pool of mold. “Yes, yes, good job,” he says and the mold pops tiny bubbles. As if preening from the praise. Ethan decides to ignore their antics. “Right,” he goes back to Karl, “what did you say? Forming a full form? Skeleton and all? You’re kidding me.”

“Nope, I am not, Winters,” Karl tuts. “The logic we should head after you proved that you can imitate is to test if you can do even more, no?” When Ethan thins his lips, he sighs. “Think about it. You, Winters, may just as well possess the ability like Miranda. She has something like mimicry allowing her to morph into anyone which makes her easy to hide or disguise,” Karl picks a cigar from his pocket. “Why do you think she could pose as your wife, then?”

And she had done it perfectly. Ethan didn’t know the difference for three whole months. Him, Mia’s husband for years, yet he still couldn’t tell. What a joke of a spouse he is.

“I don’t know if I can,” Ethan pulls his thoughts from straying.

Karl leans forward. “Try.”

He doesn’t know how, but the mold perks up at another chance. They are giddy like children on a sugar rush. The puddle flicks some bubbles to him, sticking to his jeans. The mold can’t talk, yet Ethan can hear the incessant ‘let’s do it, let’s do it,’ in broken syllables. Fuck, his infection is making him losing it.

“Fine,” he says. More to the black goo than Karl. “Fine, let’s try it.”

He shouldn’t have doubted his skill (or is it theirs?). Despite the weird way the form stands, as if it is melted wax candle rather than live organism stitching together, there is a figure made. It stands on the same height as Dimitrescu, the hands and the head are there, but they don’t look defined. Her lines are faded, as if Ethan drew them from memory with the mold which if we go by his artistic talent, Dimistrescu would have looked better. Not this wonky amalgamation. The mold doesn’t care though, they sway and sprinkle some dark flecks, puffing up. Ethan finds he has no heart to criticize their… creation.

It takes everything out of him to maintain. His body tiring itself by the minute as Karl takes them all in. He is bending forward more, touching and prodding while muttering fascinations to himself. Ethan puts a hand on a chair, ignoring his trembling arm which starts feeling more like a jelly rather than solid bone and muscle. As seconds pass, Dimistrescu loses her hat and coloring, melding back into dark and grey with only a mouth marking the face. The mold, the mycete, is stubbornly holding their work – pulsing, grunting, and slicking. Ethan notices they seem almost pouting.

He is sweating and heaves heavy breaths when he faintly hears Chris speaks somewhere on his right. “Ethan, it reminds me of the monsters at Dulvey,” the man tells him. The blond strains just to make out what he is saying. His mind is turning cloudy and so does his eyes. Chris turns when Ethan becomes quiet. “The molded,” he says. “It looks like a molded.”

The mold creation crumbles soon after and morphs into a waxy lake.

Ethan blinks.

-

“Oh, someone actually remembered my family!”

A laugh. Light and shrill echoing the room.

“But you don’t look like you’re good at this, Ethan…”

A click of tongue. He sees her shaking her head.

“Well, it’s not like I could right from the start. But still though?”

Her hands don’t touch the mold despite how much the same they are.

“Ah, fine. I’ll give you some help. Listen carefully, okay? It’s not easy talking with you still like this.”

She is such a little shit. Arrogant, annoying, and downright creepy.

“It’s going to be embarrassing if you can’t do at least this. After all, we are a family now.”

The obsession never leaves her, huh. In life as she is in death – fucking crazy.

“You can make your own family by starting from already infected body parts. You know, like their core? That was what they did when I was practicing at the lab. It’s less fun, but I learned better! So, you should try that, okay? You are way older than me, you have to be smarter, right? Any adult should be smart.”

That has to be a ribbing. He is opening his mouth when she disappears. The room turns into its normal shade, the solid grey and yellow beam from the lamps, not the tinted glass with the analogue-esque filter crowding it. He sees Chris shaking him, hands large on his shoulders that house immense worry, and Karl who decides to watch everything unfolds. His sight is delayed, his hearing even more so, until the upturned glass drips its last water, and it is then he is there once again.

-

Ethan blinks.

“Let me try again,” he says as he supports himself on the stool. He halts Chris from saying anything. “Let me try again, but this time, I need something that can ensure I can hold the imitation. Long enough for me to also control them.” The blond swipes away stray mold from creeping up his arms. “An infected body part, preferably their core, their heart, and dead. I’ll start from there and we’ll see how far I can do this.”

Karl raises a brow. “A dead infected’s heart?” He tilts his face while he crosses his arms. Thinking. It takes a while before he lifts his head. “Like a starting point? A base for you to make them into your infected?” As he talks a smile overtakes his face. “Oh…” He nods. “Oh, I get it. A dead corpse still holds the mycete inside, and it has less resistance for you to overtake it or use it to make more bodies.” Karl snaps his fingers. “That’s genius! Oh, you do have a smart mind up there,” he grins. “Oh, if this succeeds,” he says, “this will make our move much readier!”

They watch Karl pulling out a pen and bend down to write on the leftover papers before Chris nudges him. Ethan already knows how to answer him. “I can do it,” he looks up to him. “We won’t know unless we do something, and I’d like to exhaust everything. The more we know, the more I can learn to use my infected body for Rose’s sake.”

“But are you going to be alright?” Chris asks. “You also won’t be any use if you drive yourself sick.”

Ethan chuckles. “I know, I know,” he waves him. “That was like rule number five you taught me back then.”

“And I still am going to repeat it if you forget.”

“Relax, Chris,” he stands. “I’ll keep that in mind. I’m always good at memorizing things.” Then brushing the small smile, Ethan truly looks at Chris then. “I’ll be alright. I still have you and your team. At least, I have people who I can trust to watch out for me, yeah?” He grabs a new glass from the table. Drinking from it, he can feel Chris digging holes with his stare, but as he finishes the last gulp, Ethan knows the man has finally calms himself. He decides to give him another small smile. Chris catches it and replies with a succinct one of his own – a promise and an assurance mingling into one.

Ethan cards through his hair, abruptly missing the length, and stops when his hands only find the strands on his neck. They aren’t that long, he always cut them on time. But his digits still try to comb through on reflex. He doesn’t pay them any attention, only dropping them to his sides after Karl stares a bit too long for comfort. The lord shakes his head in time, right before he asks for him to drop it. Ethan sees him fixing his broken glasses in his deep pocket as he speaks.

“I think I know where to find lycans or beasts to kill,” Karl taps a finger on a dusty map. “The Stronghold might still have some loitering around, the village probably also but I recommend against going there much since Miranda is in the underground, and we can check out my factory too,” he says. “In case there is anything salvageable and the surviving Soldats prancing about.” A puff of his cigar, then he continues. “We might need to kill more than a handful, you know, just in case you need their crystallized hearts for practice.”

They will, Ethan just knows, though there is a better supplier of crystals than these places.

“No,” he shakes his head. “No, we don’t need to waste our ammo or risk giving away our presence to Miranda.” He pushes himself up, sighing in relief when he notices he can stand with little strength. “I know someone who can accommodate our need better.”

Chris and Karl look at him. Confused and interested.

“Who? And where do we find this person?”

Ethan rubs his dry fingers. “He is called The Duke and the last time we did business; he was at the Ceremony site.” He needs to find his guns. “We are heading there. I’ll show you the way.”