“ And it's not often I get to go abroad these days, ” Cass muses. she keeps talking to her husband about maybe taking a trip to Buenos Aires one of these days to visit her extended family; she'd been once when she was seven, and she doesn't remember much of it. but other than that, all of her travels have been to prevent bioterror incident, which made her insides twist with nausea on the entire flight here. Her own gaze travels to the helicopter as it lands, and she gives a slight nod.“ Unfortunately for us both, I'm here on business, not pleasure. And they don't send me out unless shit's really fucking bad. So. ”

Cass had been briefed on Vincenzo a week or so ago, and she has to say that he's good. the B.S.A.A. had to do loads of digging to uncover any present day bioterror connections, which means she's already on guard. she folds her arms over her chest, the weight of the sniper rifle against her back impossible to ignore. she hopes it doesn't come to violence, but then, she's prepared for anything.

“ At least we're not beating around the fucking bush. Yeah, that's what I'm here for. So, we can talk politely like civilized people or we could duke it out in front of my entire team. You tell me what you'd prefer, 'cause I sure as fuck know what my answer is. ”

“Well, considering I am an old man, I have no intention of fighting you in front of your team. Or anyone, for that matter.” He tilts his head, looking the team over. “It’s good to know that the B.S.A.A. is already investigating their previous benefactors.” Ever since the B.S.A.A. became the property of the U.N., he expected this. He expected it to be a little more routine, and less sudden, but where was the fun in that?

“Not worth wasting dinner over. You may as well come in.” Vincenzo stepped away from the door, gesturing inside. “I’m sure we can talk it out, but considering the sight I’m getting, I assume they’ll be raiding the Vicari hospital while you’re here.” He shrugs.

“They wont find anything.” He replies. “But in the spirit of good will, I won’t resist. I used to fund the B.S.A.A. you know? Before the takeover. I assume this is against my actions taken in Kijuju after the… incident.” Vincenzo looked around, and shook his head. “Nothing extralegal, I assure you. I will be upfront. I wish to find a cure to the Uroboros virus.”

Jake is particular about how he takes the paper, a solid grip but he makes sure that their hands don’t touch. He learned that lesson the hard way when he was young and still a runner, the people who hire you don’t want to be sullied by touching the hands that dole out their work. The paper is tucked securely into a pocket, he’d check it after this.

“You need me to brush up on any languages for the passport to pass, or is English enough.” Being on the ocean for two weeks sounded like a new type of specially trapped hell, but if it paid what did he care. Though hearing about someone’s distaste for Vicari raises some flags. He hates these political games, but they keep him employed.

A sigh. “If you’re having me kidnap a scientist thats more than a delivery cost.”

Simple words that turn his world on its head. Everytime he manages to get his head above water and start to tread, start to feel he has a handle on it, he’s shoved back under by yet another person with more knowledge about a man who’s DNA he shares. It reminds him of Sysphus, because who is he but someone tasked with the impossible.

Vicari offers him the impossibility of seeing his father. The slight widening of eyes followed by a clenched jaw, all to be shown for the opportunity for an orphan to know his origins. It’s easier when the mercenary persona is on and poised to stay in the shadows.

“Not particularly.” That part is true. He’s already spent more than he’d ever admit to find scraps of Wesker, a grainy photograph, records half destroyed. Dead drops in the middle of the night where he scrapes through a manilla file with scraps of anything related to him. A bad photocopy of a grainy photo is all he can go on and for a moment he wonders if that’ll be enough. He does not want to see the monster who could not be assed to help him or his mother in any way. But he can play along for the big reveal, even if the tightness in his stomach gets worse.

Jake’s standing and gesturing for Vicari to go first. “Might as well see what we’re dealing with. How long until we leave Rome?” He will match the other in gait, he isn’t too eager to be headed wherever it was anyway.

“English is considered an official language of Singapore, so you’re in the clear for that. Unless you wish to flex your skills for Malay or Mandarin language, though I doubt it will be necessary.” Vin listens to Jake remark on the scientist, and scoffs. “Not to worry, if I needed you to do that, I wouldn’t be hiring you. I could hire any schmuck to do that. No, you’ll have to leave the scientist to me. We need to have a talk.”

Vin doesn’t react when he sees Jake’s eyes switch, when his jaw clenches, and he almost flinches. Internally, Vin smiles, but externally, he shows no sign, like a funeral director, complete control over his personal emotions.

In that reaction, he knows he has him, whether Jake wants to be ‘had’ or not.

As Jake responds, Vin nods his head in understanding, but when he stands, and gestures, he looks a bit perplexed for just a moment. Vin understands then. 'Might as well see’ is his response, but he assumes incorrectly.

Vin remains seated.

“Three days. The cruise ship will arrive tomorrow I believe, and then need to clean and restock for the following trip.” He turns to look at Jake.

“You misunderstand.” Vin tells Jake plainly. “He’s already here.”

“You must understand that one of the problems is I cannot have him out of my sight anymore. Lest they take it from me. They are trying to take what remains.”

Vin leans to his left, beside his seat, where there are some bags, his briefcase, his cane and… a small box, almost the size of a lunch box.

The SherpaPak is a smooth white container. it has a digital display on the front, it almost looks like a rice cooker. Vin places it down on the coffee table in front of his seat, and places his thumb on the digital display, scanning his fingerprint, and then typing in a code.

Mist immediately erupts from the unsealed lid. It’s cold. The fog is like that of someone’s breath in the cold winter air. Vin opens the lid, and grabs, within it, another container, with another handle. He pulls it up slowly.

It’s a holding case, the thing is covered in water, and inside the structure are several different jars.

Vin takes the first jar. It’s about the size of a can of soda. He turns it over in his hand, trying to view the contents through the condensation. It’s a clear glass full of fluid. Inside of it… a bundle of pinkish threads that almost look like a snake. It winds around its own container, bundled neatly and seems to be a thousand threads.

“This is…” Vin looks closer. “Ah, yes. This is his spinal cord.”

Vin places the jar on the table.

Another jar.

“This is his ocular nerves.”

If Jake expected that to be his eyes, he would be mistaken. It’s the root of his eyes, more pieces of wiry sinew and meat, but not even his eyeballs remain.

Vin looks over the third jar. “This is what remained of his heart. It’s the first to deteriorate in a Tyrant, you see.” It’s nothing more than a collection of orangey fluid and hardly anything you would call a heart.

Another jar. The contents are beige and slightly stained blackish.

“Part of his lower intestine.”

The fifth and final jar is not filled with water like the others. Instead it is filled with cotton, and there are white fragments dispursed throughout it.

“These are a couple of fragments of his teeth… and some of his skull. As well as his spinal bones, that got chipped off his spinal cord.” He gestures to the first jar, of which such bone fragments were extracted.

All five jars sit on the table.

“This is all that remains of him.”

Mr. Vicari walks with a cane. He has a clear limp in his leg, it seems not to be from joint pain or disease, but general nerve damage. There’s nothing physical to prove such a thing, other than the way he drags the toe of his shoe as he walks. There’s a rubber fitting colored the same black as the shoe, that goes over that one shoe, so it doesn’t scuff or look out of place against the other.

Still, he walks carefully beside Noor, keeping up with her, and speaking of certain things, probing if there is an interest in fashion, and to see if she would be interested in a dress. Laughing about it. Smile. Blink.

Breathe.

Beat.

His heart pumps quietly. He walks up a set of stairs and… he doesn’t pant. Sweat doesn’t form on his forehead. He doesn’t need to sit down. He doesn’t feel faint.

Sunlight glistens as the dust in the air streams through the rays of light, the dance of shadows make for a sight of both beauty and decay. This house is so well used, and so empty. For now, Vicari merely watches the dust dance.

Blink.

Laugh.

He can see again, through his eyes, unclouded, unbroken, completely in focus. Vincenzo Vicari has rather good eyesight in fact, not just for a man his age, but in general, he loves the finer details of fashion, his eyes have been trained to catch the glistening of light and the shape of things.

When Vincenzo Vicari sees the man before him, he sees a model, an actor even, possibly. Maybe a musician. Sharp features and cheekbones, still young, but pale and blond – he’d have about ten or fifteen years in the business before he’d have to retire. Vincenzo thinks this, yes, that’s about right. It’s cruel, but it’s the show business. You can only show people what they want to see, and they want to see youth and handsome features.

But the man before Albert Wesker is not entirely Vincenzo Vicari. He is something else. He looks at Albert as if the man has done something to him. It lasts only a second, and then he laughs at Noor’s comments. He didn’t hear her, but he could vaguely hear the shape of her tone of voice, and so he laughs.

Micheal?

“It is a pleasure to meet you both. I shall be in my room down the hall. If there is anything you wish to ask me, feel free to ask.” Vincenzo Vicari remarks with a perfect tone and only the slightest of accent.

When Vincenzo is in his room, he sits like a mannequin, at the edge of the bed, his cane balanced over his thighs. His back is straight. His eyes are drifting back, starting to go behind his eyelids, because this body isn’t what matters to him, and he isn’t thinking about it. So he’s sitting there, poised, and dead, like a marionette with the strings cut.

The sound of a knock brings him to sit up, and then stand, getting on his cane, and allowing the young man to enter.

Immediately, something is wrong, and Vicari seeks to correct it. “Leave the door open, would you? It’s a bit stuffy in this old place.” He wants the room wide open. Windows open, curtains drawn, sunlight, warmth, mid-morning air that brings the dew on the tips of grass blades. Harmless.

He watches the boy, no, the young man, look around his room, and he seems to catch notice of something beside Vicari’s bed.

It is… a very large box. On the edge of the box is wheels, and a handle to tilt it. It looks almost like a portable cooler, and is sealed like that too.

“You’ll have to forgive the ugliness of the room.” Vicari tells the young man. “Those are my medicines. I need them to stay refrigerated or charged. Insulin. Joint medication. A C-PAP machine. Things like that. I won’t bore you with it.” He shrugs. “The joys of growing older.”

Vicari doesn’t even flinch as he measures Albert, writing down quietly on a notepad, he only stands for a second too long as he measures him from head to toe.

He’s just as tall as you, Leonie.

The number is written and he moves on.

He smiles at the question.

“Oh yes. About a hundred years or so?” Vincenzo looks up to the ceiling as if he actually has to remember the numbers. He knows them by heart. “The Vicari family was the leatherworkers of the King of Sicily since about 500 or so years ago. When Italy unified we became a leatherworker of the King of Italy, and eventually through word of mouth we ended up in the courts of the French, the English, and the Ger- well, to be specific, we had already been in the German courts, ever since the 1100s, when the King of Sicily was succeeded by his German son.”

“My mother used to say, that when Marie Antoinette stepped on her executioners foot, and said 'Excuse me’ before being beheaded, it was Vicari leather shoes she had on.”

Vincenzo smiles. “I think she was just poking fun. But I like to tell my French clients that like it’s the truth anyway.”

“Suffice to say, yes, I’ve know Oswell Spencer for a long time. Or the Spencer family, in general.”

Jill wishes she could have turned down the invitation, but the company loved and needed some good PR, especially where she was concerned. Its the only reason she agreed to meet him. Out of commission is a way to put it. It sounds better than what she wanted to say, so she decides to adopt the saying.

Tongue runs along her teeth, trying to hold in her temper. Choosing to speak ill of Chris is a choice, she’ll give him that. “Don’t bring him up again.” Her words are firm, short and to the point. Sometimes it still feels like she struggles to access her voice when she feels that burning rage pulsing through her. The scars on her chest itch and she’s grateful for the high neck of her top, despite the weather.

Jill picks up her iced coffee and rattles it to make it colder, much to the dismay of several people around her. It’s hot, this guy is needling her, and she’d rather be looking for Chris.

A bodyguard? Part of her wants to say if she was to do some job like that she would have gone into the secret service and be guarding the president. But the other part of her is stronger and far more nosey. “Why would it be difficult?” Jill doesn’t bother to answer if she’s interested in the job. Playing meat shield for some CEO isn’t high on her agenda.

“Well… your question is problematic if you don’t want me to bring him up again.” Vin explains rather simply. “But I imagine, if you are working with me, you will meet that man once more.” He takes a sip of espresso and looks her over again.

She isn’t happy, and he has a feeling what he’s asking of her will make her… decidedly less happy. So he was purposeful about meeting in public. If anything, he needs her to feel secure in the environment. Exits aren’t blocked, area is open and visible – all the things military and the traumatized look for in a space.

“I don’t want to miscommunicate, so I will be clear. After the incident in Kijuju, my team worked on clean up in the area, helping quarantined people, giving surgery to the children disabled by… you understand I’m sure.” He can’t go on with that detail, he’s not sure if she might have been the one to disable the children in the first place. Not that it would have been her fault, but what can be done about these things? How can anyone explain the feeling of losing control of your body? Vin understands. He understands more than she will ever, and can ever know. But the blame never goes away.

“I intend to create a vaccine for the… creation, which… that man invented.” He talks around the problem. “But as you can imagine, it’s difficult. These bastards had 50 years of research passed through dozens of hands and minds to work with. I’m only just beginning to understand.”

“Suffice to say, I think your partner misunderstands my intentions. I wish to be more transparent, for all of our sake. That would start with asking for your help.”

Missiles. He’s starting to think about trying to get out of Edonia and yeah, missiles can be a big fucking problem. There was so much blood. She’s going to die and you can’t do anything to stop it-

When asked who he’s dealt with he gives a grumbled “yeah, something like that.” They talked around him more than at him and months in that cage felt like a prison sentence. “None of them have much originality as far as names go. But no one should be surprised, look at the people that make them up.”

“I do take Cashier’s checks.” He says with a laugh. “I can give you a routing number and you can make the transfer through them. I prefer Swiss Accounts, if you have them.” Less scrutiny when its not coming from the islands, he’s learned that through past transactions.

The discussion of America makes him tense, not physically of course but in the way of why. Giving any American agency the power of- fuck or even their Government? That’s a headache and a half.

“Are you supplying the papers for crossing, or am I?” It’s no matter to get his ‘American’ one, he knows he hasn’t been flagged and there’s nothing remarkably off about his accent that would give anyone pause. Honestly might even encourage him to do a surprise visit with Sherry. But if he brings her into this- he can’t do that. She already has enough of her own shit to handle. He’ll just give her the play by play after.

“You know what kind of missiles you were hit by? Air to Air, Surface to Air?” He’s already thinking about how closely they’re going to be watched and the headache is already making him think about a six month vacation after this. Jake looks him over with a mercenaries eye, if push came to shove a fight shouldn’t be a problem.

“What are you planning on doing with it.” He might as well ask, even if he expects him to lie right through his too white teeth. But he couldn’t pretend he’s cool with it, unless he gets to encase him in carbonite.

“Swiss it is then.” Vincenzo takes a small notepad that is tucked into his breast pocket, and begins to write down something, before tearing the paper out of the spiral notepad, and folding it between two fingers, holding it out to Jake. “This will be the account. I’ll make sure it’s sufficiently filled by the end of the day.”

“Papers will be provided. You’ll have to accept a Singaporean passport. They have the most amount of visa-free access. It shouldn’t be much of a problem. The ship will be departing from Rome, and should arrive in New York City some two weeks from now.”

Vin tilts his head about the question of missiles, but he obliges. “Most likely air to air, I don’t believe the Connections would attempt to settle in one location long enough to set up ground ordinances. Then again, it’s hard to tell what they have going on.”

Vin can tell the tone of Jake’s voice makes this last question the most important. He sits up a bit, shoulders pulled back, and looks Jake over. He doesn’t have a choice. This man is the only person he can really trust in regards to transport.

“I have a scientist, up in the Midwest. He’s a bit… stuck, at the moment. He can’t go anywhere. I want to try moving him, getting him out of the country, but I think he, understandably, doesn’t trust me. I’ve been trying to contact him, in vain, for a few years now. Ever since Kijuju, in fact.”

“I need him to help develop a vaccine. He’s the only person I’m familiar with that would be capable. Believe me, I’ve tried. It’s not like Vicari Hospital staff isn’t trying their best it’s just… the virus within Wesker’s DNA is rather complicated. It was hazardous material, mixed with something Umbrella developed, some 50 years in the making. I need someone with expertise. In the attempts we’ve had so far, we’ve wasted too much tissue. I should have known better and pulled out sooner, but now… we’re left with very little to work with.”

He tries to think of how to appeal to Jake’s better judgement, but he supposes there is no way around it other than to show him.

“Would you like to see him?”

“Your father?”

Any representative knows that dressing for the occasion is a key skill. Appearance is a tool like any other, and how it is utilized determines the story one wishes to project for first impressions. Bethany wears a modest but tasteful suit; not as expensive as that of those milling around, but a proper fit is more important than the price tag, in her estimation. Her hair is sleek, with a natural shine, and the jewellery she wears is understated and tasteful, matching perfectly. The only outlier being her grandmother's wedding band on her finger. A simple ring, but knowing her grandparents it is likely worth the rest of her outfit put together. Unlike the majority of TerraSave staff present she does not wear a name badge or any signifier of office. Those who need to know who she is, will find her. Or be found. But, today she is simply glad for the opportunity to do something other than stare at budget sheets and grand proposals.

Once, the decor and location would have been breathtaking. The version of herself that would have swooned over the prospect of witnessing such grandeur feels like a lifetime ago. Now, she regards it neutrally. The surroundings are beautiful, yes, and those who engineered it are masters of their craft deserving of praise. But there is no sense of wonder in it. Rather, it makes her curious about the master of this place.

The realm of NGOs is no stranger to bored billionaires looking for a diversion, or to whitewash their image, or merely seeking a tax break. Idly she wonders which of these their host may be.

It does not take long for him to materialize, spotting him once her gaze is drawn to the children. So young to have endured all they have. The cruelty of bioterror truly does not discriminate.

The child supported by his arm is young. Even younger than Bethany herself was the first time she was displaced from her home. Her heart wrenches in silence, though her expression remains a schooled pleasant neutrality. At least the little one seems peaceful.

Bethany greets him with a nod and pleasant smile at the introduction. Loath to disturb the child, she responds quietly in the affirmative.

"Yes, that would be me. Bethany Hawke. Your generosity is deeply appreciated, Mr. Vicari. These are... troubling times we live in."

She pauses, giving him a subtle, evaluating once-over. "I'm old enough to remember your company being one for high-end products, a few of which were quite coveted by my mother. What drew your interest towards funding anti bioterror, may I ask?"

Vincenzo smiles slight at her quiet tone, looking to the child in his arm. “No need to speak quietly, this one isn’t waking up for much of anything anytime soon.” He puts his other hand, crutch still held, up against the child’s back. The child is slightly drooling on his shoulder. “Three surgeries in the same week will do that to you.”

Bethany Hawke. So the Amell’s daughter did marry. Or perhaps something else happened. He chooses not to pry for now. As he listens to her, he tilts his head slightly at her words, a slight expression on his face is one of surprise.

“Old enough to remember…?” Vincenzo repeats. His expression almost looks hurt, but he has a slight smile on his face to indicate his amusement. “Last I checked, Vicari still is a luxury brand. Are we considered old fashioned now…? I suppose I havent designed much new dresses in a bit…” He scoffs. “I blame those Florentines over at Gucci.”

Her more serious question is met with a more serious expression. “It was Raccoon City that made me decide to get into medicine. Before I took over the family business, I used to be a scientist, I suppose the interest never left me, but it seemed it was in good conscious to do something then.”

The child in his arm stirs only slight, and Vin lifts her a bit more against his chest, carefully holding her back for support. “This may come as a shock to most people, but I too, in fact, like being alive.” He remarks simply. “Bioterrorism seems a bit counterintuitive to that.”

There are few people that he knows in the world who remember Avdotya besides himself. For her to be spoken with in a kind word, gives him a pleasant moment of pause. A slight bow of his head to say his thanks, because that is all he can allow.

“It seems like the loss impacted both your friend and you greatly. I hope time has helped.” Separation and acceptance in one package. Jake understands more than most that sometimes it’s the only way to keep going forward. Distance yourself from the pain enough, from the tragedies and you got it wrapped up in a nice little compartmentalized box.

Businessmen are always that, about business before all else. They never let someone like him enjoy something, hell he doesn’t even get the time to enjoy the wine before the talk turns to the job, but how could it not. There were not many reasons for a man of Vicari’s status to look him up, except for business anyway.

“I don’t typically do transport jobs.” They’re frankly usually too boring and if they’re not, they aren’t worth the risk. He acts like the contents aren’t something worth knowing, already calculating the numbers they’ll be talking and puts aside the rest. “Usually in negotiations, you don’t tell someone that they’re the only one for the job, really gives them the chance to hold you by the short hairs.” Those sharp eyes look at him, as if evaluating where he wanted to land in this.

“I need answers to a few questions before I’ll agree. Three hundred thousand up front, three hundred after, cash.” Vicari’s lucky he’s more interested in the job than negotiating a price all day. Blue eyes stare into their green counterparts, looking at him as if he looked long enough, maybe he could figure out his thoughts. “

“Where are you transporting it? I was thinking a crematorium, really make sure he’s gone.” The sarcastic way he speaks signals they both know that won’t be it, of course someone would want it for… shit he can’t even begin to hypothesize but it’s making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He finally scoops up his wine and takes a sip, leans back. If he has to move it, that means someone is sniffing around, which means- “BOW’s are extra, I run into any named agencies and the price goes up. I’ll keep a running total and tell you what you owe.” Terms that are easy enough to agree to, as long as he’s serious.

“Is this a solo gig?” Here’s hoping because he’e already trying to figure out pieces he can’t see, it’s like he’s playing with half the board in the dark. “Only asking because if you’re planning on having some asshole try and do a double cross, you’d save your money by just paying me their share. If you’ve read my file you know, I’ll make it back with what I have to transport.”

Vin can help but smile when Jake mentions being kept by the short hairs. It’s true, and Jake can see through him, he knows that. Transparency will be key, that much he knows. “If I wanted to cremate the remains, I could easily go up the road. I wouldn’t need you to help me so dearly. Sicily has been more than accommodating in that regard, in recent time.”

“I will be transporting it to America. It will be a long trip. I cannot do this by airplane, not even by private jet. Even if I could bypass an airport security, there is too much of a danger in going airborne.” Vin pauses, and looks to the blue skies over the property. “BOW’s I highly doubt will be a concern. The last time I attempted something, no such problem arose.” Vin tilts his head, looking Jake over. “The problem was a guided missile striking the aircraft.”

“As for named agencies, I apologize, I’ll have to admit the agency is rather unnamed. Despite that, they are, at least typically, referred to as ‘The Connections’.” Vin shrugs his shoulders. “About as vague as 'Cosa Nostra’ but what can you do? Although I suppose you’ve dealt with worse. What was that group the Americans had you dealing with…? The Family?”

Vin smiles slightly at the price tag. That much he can afford, although he supposes he’ll need to find a way to hand it over. “That should be easy, but I can’t exactly print out the money and hand it over in briefcases. I can prepare a bank account, and give you the credit card associated with it.”

“It will not be a solo gig, nor should you expect any betrayal. On the contrary, your partner in this case should reassure you of your security.” Vin explains. “I will be going with you.”