Chapter Text
BSAA MEDICAL DIVISION // ARCHIVED RETROSPECTIVE PROFILE
FACILITY: Classified Subterranean Medical Facility – Sector Echo
ENVIRONMENTAL CONTROL: Negative pressure air-filtration / Ozone scrubbing
SUBJECT DESIGNATION: Zeno (Status: Post-Capture Isolation Phase)
SURVEILLANCE LEVEL: MAXIMAL — CONSTANT CAMERA & BIOMETRIC FEED
CASE NOTES: Subject demonstrates acute, hyper-vigilant cognitive awareness of surveillance apparatus. Baseline physiological markers indicate permanent fight-or-flight elevation during mandatory testing.
ACCESS HISTORY: Unsanctioned physical access logs indicate persistent, recurring breaches of isolation perimeter by HWS-Alpha (Captain C. Redfield). High Command query regarding security clearance bypass remains open.
The irony wasn't lost on Zeno. That the one person who knew Wesker best would be the only one not to see him in his face.
Not to look for it. Ever.
For all his efforts in trying to distance himself from the memory of his predecessor, Zeno could never shake the conviction, deep down himself, that he was a mere copy, a pale imitation, an experiment.
The people around him had never ceased to make it known. Whispered gossip behind his back, mostly. The occasional direct barb.
He had been arrogant in his power, ruthless in protecting himself.
Now powerless, he feared the renewal of mocking, of the calculating stares, waiting to see if he lashed out the same way.
Redfield had been the exception. He had walked right past his cell, said a few things to the guards on duty to send them away, dismissed his second in command, who had been trying to shield him from the memories, and let himself in.
Chris had entered his space sure of himself, unafraid. After all, what could Zeno even do to a man who was a mountain of muscles, from his padded cell, under surveillance and surrounded by armed personnel?
Captain Redfield didn't study him, like all the others, he just took one of the white plastic chairs and sat down like he belonged. "I'm Chris," he introduced himself, as if his hadn't been one of the files the Connections had made sure Zeno studied by heart before he had been allowed to go anywhere. "Tell me your name."
Zeno felt antagonistic, he didn't like games where he didn't know the odds. And Redfield was certainly playing one, pretending to start from zero. "You've read my file, you know who I am." What I am.
Chris shook his head and took two cigarettes out of a brand new, red trimmed packet, offering him one, a silent proof that he had read the files about him, and was just pretending that he didn't. "You're not a name on a file, kid. Let's start from scratch, I'm Chris, and you are?"
Zeno took the Marlboro Red and let Chris light it for him with his zippo. "Zeno," he replied, sitting down in the chair opposite him. He disagreed with being called 'kid', but he had to concede that he was about half the man's age.
"What do you usually smoke?" Chris asked, lighting his own cigarette, taking a drag and looking around the room for something to use as an ashtray.
There was a no smoking policy inside, obviously, but being the Captain of the Hound Wolf Squad clearly offered you privileges prisoners weren't afforded.
Finding nothing suitable, Chris raised a hand to call the attention of Umber Eyes and attract his resigned dismay at having to fetch an ashtray for his nicotine-addicted Captain.
Zeno took a puff of smoke, feeling the nicotine hit him immediately, stronger than he ever had. The taste was harsh, chemical, pure mass-produced mediocrity. "Does it really matter?" he replied, flexing his hand around to look at the unremarkable Marlboro Red between his fingers. He hadn't had a single cigarette since he got captured. Perhaps that was why it felt so different.
Chris huffed, amused, at his deflection, then took another drag of his run of the mill cancer stick. "I used to smoke whatever I could find. I was damn broke at your age," he reminisced.
Umber Eyes opened the door and put a used coffee mug on the little table in front of Redfield. "Here you go, boss. You can toss it in the dishwasher after." There was a hint of disapproval in his voice, whether it was at his Captain's smoking habit or choice of companion, Zeno couldn't tell.
"Thanks, leave us alone," Chris ordered calmly, and his second in command left, closing the door behind him, leaving them their illusion of privacy.
Zeno still didn't understand why Redfield was there, why he decided to break half a dozen rules just to smoke and make small talk with him. He looked even peaceful, reclining against the back of the plastic chair, which creaked ominously from the stress. Chris took another pull, and a fresh ring of red expanded along the paper. He flicked the ash into the mug, onto the coffee residue at the bottom. He looked at Zeno, but with a kind of curiosity that he'd never seen before. Redfield's gaze didn't feel intrusive or hostile.
"You're asking yourself what I could possibly want from you," Chris seemed to read his mind. He smiled at how Zeno's expression shifted minutely from suspicious to surprised. "Nothing, I just came over for a chat. Must be lonely in this cell, being observed 24/7 like some lab rat."
Zeno wouldn't say 'lonely', more like intrusive. Annoying. Every one of his movements was monitored. It felt suffocating.
And the medical testing was invasive, unwanted. And entirely unnecessary.
"I don't really want to chat." Zeno almost forgot about his cigarette, too caught up in trying to study Redfield's face to see if he was being genuine. He looked truthful, at least. Zeno put the thing to his lips and drew the smoke in, then blew it out in Redfield's direction. It didn't seem to bother him.
"Then we'll just smoke in silence." Chris kept the cigarette between his lips and crossed his arms in front of his chest.
Zeno spent the next few minutes simply studying Redfield, and realized that there had been some truth to his words. The file the Connections had given him for Chris Redfield said a lot about his fighting style and his military record, but held no useful information on the actual man in the chair in front of him.
When they had both finished smoking, Chris got up from his chair, grabbed the mug with the ashes and butts, and promised him, "See you next time, kid." Then he walked to the door and when his second in command opened it for him, he walked out. The security guard returned after they had left.
Chris visited again, every day, sharing the rest of the Marlboros with him. Without forcing him to break his sullen silence once. Sometimes Chris told him pointless little factoids about everyday life that Zeno didn't care about. But deep down, he was glad for the break in the absolute isolation and constant surveillance.
Redfield never seemed to expect a comment on whatever he said.
It was easy to be in his company for those five minutes a day.
Sometimes Umber Eyes was exchanged with another member of the squad, and the others looked at him with different eyes, more suspicion, and an angry kind of worry directed at their leader. Umber Eyes seemed to indulge his Alpha's hobby with an air of resignation that hinted at more than one discussion already lost on the subject of these visits, and to the fact that Chris had won them all.
Towards the end of the pack, Chris caught him sneering at Lobo, who had started the visual hostility. Redfield turned back to the door, and Lobo looked away like a guilty puppy. Chris turned to Zeno again, hiding his amusement. "Don't worry about them. They don't like it when I smoke. I usually only do it when the shit's about to hit the fan."
"It seems like he has a specific grudge against me."
Chris looked back at the door, and saw the intensity with which his man was keeping an eye on them. He shrugged. "Doesn't matter. I call the shots. If I tell him to stay out, he stays out." Chris pulled out the last two cigarettes from the pack and crumpled the cardboard, leaving it to the side.
They had a real ashtray at that point. Cheap, blank, and plastic, so that he couldn't use to harm anyone, including himself. And Zeno was sure Chris had bought it himself, since it didn't have the BSAA's logo anywhere, unlike every fucking item in his cell.
The ashtray didn't make him mad, at least.
Zeno addressed Chris directly. "You don't feel threatened by me," Zeno stated, and they both knew it was the truth.
"No, and you don't really feel threatened by me, either," Redfield replied, and Zeno put the cigarette between his lips to cover up his frown. It wasn't true. He knew that he was trapped in there with a tiger, and while the tiger seemed well fed and trained, it was still a dangerous animal who could rip him apart.
"Should I?"
Chris flipped open his Zippo. "Not you."