Disclaimer: The characters in the video game series, book series, movie series, or any other conceivable series under the title of "Resident Evil" do not belong to me. Nor do any songs I happen to use in the writing of this story. All rights to Resident Evil belong to Capcom and the songs belong to the respective artists. I am merely a fan, so enjoy.

...

Vas Domus

I

Angelus

...

Wesker

I remember the pain most of all.

My body had convulsed and tightened, a bitter and metallic flavor made it's way into my throat, the blood bubbling up and spewing from my mouth catching me off guard. Pain gripping my body in a way I have never experienced. I couldn't see; the darkness settling over me like a cold, unwelcomed visitor, and I screwed my eyes shut in defiance. Defiance of what? I find myself asking that question even now, as I sit here in this dim and dingy cafe settled across the street from her apartment building. I am watching people pass by on the streets, and I shiver from the cold as the door is opened. Things like temperature haven't affected me in so long and I find myself at a loss at what to do most times, roaming through this world that has rejected me.

Is that what I was defying against? Humanity? Death? Vulnerability?

I have never felt vulnerable, not even before the virus's effects on me had wrenched me back from the world of the dead and into the false world that I had built around myself. Never once had I felt like a true human, not even when I was one.

But now, now I find myself lonely and cold, and most of all confused.

I can't remember much but I knew that the reason for my newfound humanity was by the hand of the one I had so much hatred for.

Chris Redfield.

I lack the energy to be angry anymore, to hate him, and I have a new sense of apathy towards everything.

Or maybe it's not apathy, perhaps it's something else, I do not know.

I have no self-pity for myself, the loss of what I had worked so hard to achieve, it all came crumbling down in the end anyway, and who's to say it wouldn't have even if it hadn't been for Chris.

I see things differently, in a muted sense of something which I don't believe can be defined, and the heat of this cup of coffee warms my face in a way I haven't felt in so long. It's almost refreshing, to feel things again, if it weren't such a disaster.

I think about what I was trying to accomplish, and I realize that I was foolish. To become a god? A foolish notion.

I know that if it hadn't been for the accident that stripped me of my power I would still be the same tyrant I had been for so long, I would still be fervently plotting the destruction of the world, however in vain it may have been.

But I almost succeeded, didn't I? I had nearly acheived everything I had always wanted, but never once did I ask myself where I would be after that. What would become of me after the entire world had been morphed into blind, bloodsucking creatures?

And even now, I can't answer that.

My eyes are fixated on the building, waiting for her to return to the place of her residence. I have been watching her for some time now, about three months, although why I wished to seek her out is a mystery even to me. Closure perhaps? To tell her I'm sorry? What exactly am I sorry for though? Trying to kill her and her brother? Tearing away the innocence that I had secretly admired and loathed before this all happened? Being the catalyst behind the death of a boy who had professed his love for her moments before he died?

In a way, I never wanted her to get involved and in a way I did. I wanted to see her break, although like most of the questions I ask myself now I can't provide my answer as to why.

I remember the first time I met her, a young, freshfaced student at the highschool. She was bright and strong, clinging to her brother in a way that most younger sisters would. Her eyes so alight with innocence.

Innocence I had robbed her of.

Watching her get out of the car of some random man, her long hair mussed and tousled, her beaten up stiletto pumps clicking against the ground, I see no innocence left in her step. No bouncy happiness that had been her trademark, just a torn mini-skirt to match her broken heart.

She too, had fallen to the wayside.

I've wanted to approach her, to do...anything...but I find I cannot. What is there to say?

She has fallen even further than me. Her brother dead, her friend's rejecting her. The only comfort she could seem to find is at the bottom of a bottle and her repeated rendezvous with unknown men.

I say she has because, I never really had anyone to fall back on, people who cared. I had nothing to lose, but she did. It seems she lost it all too.

I find myself standing, my body moving in a way that I cannot control. I am walking towards the door of the cafe, the piercing cold stabbing through my thick leather jacket.

I will approach her tonight, uncaring of the consequences. I need this, for myself if nothing else. Perhaps I can...help her? I don't know... The kind of help she needs is nothing I can give her. I don't know if I am able of helping myself.

Claire

She mindlessly trudged through the mess of her tiny, rundown shack of an apartment, and fell into a heap on the couch. Her hand found the half drinken bottle of warm whiskey that sat topless on the table next to her, and she chugged half of it in one sip.

It numbed her to the cold that permeated the heatless apartment; she hadn't paid the heating bill in a month nor did she have the need to care for paying it. That money was money she could use to fuel her drug and alcohol habit; her own self-therapy.

She didn't cry anymore, her body completely ignoring the grief she had to bare. She never thought about Chris, or Leon, or even Sherry when she was deep into the bottle. She never wept for Steve, or any of the lost souls that had sold their selves to Umbrella only to be backstabbed.

She briefly remembers being alright after all of the American incidents were over, she remembers celebrating with Chris and Leon and Jill and the rest of her friends. Umbrella and it's sister organizations had been taken down and there was nothing to worry about anymore.

And then Chris and Jill got called to investigate the old mansion belonging to Oswell Spencer, and even though everyone was convinced that all of the terror was behind them it reared it's blonde head once more.

Wesker had fought Jill and Chris and in a last ditch effort to rescue the older Redfield from meeting an untimely death, Jill threw herself and the tyrant out of the window.

She remembers the service that was held, how she wrapped her arm around her distraught brother, how he wept into her arms, how he fled to Africa nearly one month later.

He truly believed Jill was alive, and she was.

A loud knock alarmed the girl who was sprawled out on the dingy little loveseat, and she nearly dropped her empty bottle in surprise. The voice that followed it made her actually drop it and shatter to the floor in tiny shards of glass.

"Claire! Open this fuckin' door...or...Imma kick it 'n."

She began to panic, clamoring to her feet and making her way to the fire escape. Her drunken fingers desperately tried to pull open the latch, but she was having a difficult time of it, and jammed her index finger on the glass.

"Bitch! I said open th' door." He was banging now, and by the slur in his voice she could tell that he was even drunker than she was. Just as she managed to get one latch undone the door flew off it's hinges, wood splinters flying right into her flesh, and she cried out as she was forced against the wall.

His grimy fingers were all over her and she tried to struggle but when she felt the cold steel of the pocket knife against her throat she froze.

"You tryin' to run 'way from me? Hmm?" For emphasis he pressed the knife flush against her neck, withdrawing a tiny trickle of blood. She looked at his face, his eyes were cold and alarmingly sharp for someone who was as drunk and drugged out as he was. Suddenly she felt overwhemingly sobered.

"J-Joey...I told you to leave me alone. I don't want...I don't want anything to do with you anymore." She shuddered as the words came out wavering as unsteady as she felt. She locked his gaze as he pushed himself further against her. She struggled in vain as she felt a prominent bulge in his pants become even more prominent.

Sick fuck, he was getting off on this.

"Baby," His breath stank of some disgusting gasoline smelling alcohol and days of not brushing, "You can't jus' say you're gonna do somethin' for me and then take my money and leave. Tha's bad for business." His tongue darted out to lick his lips and the hand not holding the knife began to trace up and down the valley between her breasts. She began to wish she had worn more than a midriff baring sleeveless vest. "Now get your sweet little ass back out there and make Daddy some money, like the good li'l slut you are."

A flash of anger coursed through her and she spat in his face, "Fuck off."

His snarl was the only warning she had before his threw her onto the couch, tearing her shirt in the process, and leaping onto her. One hand was covering her mouth, and the other was undoing his pants.

She attempted to squirm free of him, but his knees were bared into her thighs, and when she was able to free one leg to send a knee to his groin, the icy cold metal of the knife was back bearing into her throat and she froze.

"Wiggly little bitch aren't ya?" His tongue flicked out and he licked the side of her mouth, she flinched away and then brought her head back to slam into his. She forgot the knife in her fear however and the metal bit into her skin sharply.

He wasn't deterred, and now he was beyond pissed.

"Imma fuckin' kill you, bitch" He screamed, shaking her violently, so much so it ruptured a blood vessel in her nose and she could feel the warm fluid pour out like a broken faucet. He slammed her head on the couch arm, and she could feel her conciousness weave in and out as the only thing she heard was the rip of fabric and flesh.

She looked down, the world seeming to move very slowly, and found that the knife handle sticking out of her gut to be not as alarming as she thought it would be.

She was better off dead anyway.

And then...

...just when she thought her life was over and her trial done, the weight of the body on top of her was removed followed by a sickening crack and a scream.

Just before the blackness faded in and death took her over, she was cradled in the arms of an angel.

The angel was here; here to take her to her brother, her mother and father, to forgive her for her sins, to envelop her in love and understanding.

It had to be an angel, she consoled herself, it just had to be.

...

A/N: Well there. Review and the like, and even if I do appreciate constructive criticism-which I truly do-flames are not needed. If you don't like it, don't read it. Simple as that.

By the way, Vas Domus means Glass House in Latin. Angelus means Angel. I will translate the chapter titles at the end of every chapter for you.

Hoped you enjoyed reading the first chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Gratia ago vos.

Lol...means thank you.

A/N 2: Okay just a little change here. Hope you don't mind.