The Scottish Highlands - September 2011
Two weeks had passed since Alen had arrived at his grandmother's estate. For Amelia, it was a time of unexpected joy, a chance to connect with the grandson she never knew she had. She showed him her hospital, a modern facility that stood in contrast to the rustic village, and introduced him to the locals, who treated her with a reverence born of decades of her selfless care.
Their days fell into a comfortable rhythm. Amelia insisted on cooking for him, filling the old stone manor with aromas that had been absent for too long. The house itself was a testament to her taste—a sprawling, elegant blend of old-world strength and modern comfort, filled with books, art, and the quiet hum of history.
One afternoon, as they toured the house, Amelia pointed out a small room with a sunlit window seat. "This is where your mother would sit for hours, reading. She loved the light in this room."
Alen listened, a silent observer to a childhood he could only imagine. His eyes, however, were drawn further down the hall to a different door: Amelia's private study.
Curiosity piqued, he stepped inside. The room was a sanctuary of knowledge, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a large mahogany desk positioned to catch the afternoon sun. It was the picture on this desk that caught his attention. It showed a younger, radiant Amelia beside a sharp-featured man with intense, intelligent eyes. There was a confidence in his gaze that bordered on arrogance.
"Grandmother," Alen called out, holding up the silver frame. "Who is this?"
Amelia appeared in the doorway. The smile she had worn all day vanished, replaced by a deep, weary sadness. She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she walked to the window, peering out at the Highlands.
"Close the door, Alen," she said, her voice low. "And check the lane. Make sure we are alone."
Puzzled but complying, Alen did a quick survey of the grounds from the window. Seeing nothing but rolling hills and grazing sheep, he closed the heavy oak door and turned the lock. The click echoed in the sudden silence.
Amelia gestured to two leather armchairs by the fireplace. "Sit down, my boy. It is time you learned the truth about this family. You are my grandson. You have a right to know where you come from, and the shadow that has followed us for generations."
Alen sat, his full attention on her.
"The man in that photograph," Amelia began, her voice steady but soft, "is Dr. James Marcus. He was my husband."
Alen's blood ran cold. He shot upright, the name a shock in his mind. "James Marcus? The founder of Umbrella? The creator of the T-Virus?"
"I know what he became, Alen," she said, holding up a hand to stop his outburst. "Please. Just listen. To understand your mother, you must first understand us."
She took a steadying breath, her eyes looking into a past only she could see.
"In the 1930s, we were all students together at university—James, Oswell E. Spencer, and Edward Ashford. I was a virology student, known for my strong opinions on ethical research. James was brilliant, charismatic, but drawn to the edges of science I feared to tread. Despite our differences, we fell in love. We married in secret in 1945. James knew Spencer would see a wife and family as a liability, a weakness to be exploited. So, he hid us away."
A sad smile touched her lips. "For a time, it was a good life. He was a devoted, if often absent, husband. In 1951, I gave birth to Jessica. Your mother. James adored her. But Spencer's influence grew, and his ambitions began to poison everything. When they discovered the Progenitor Virus in Africa, James thought it was our triumph. He wanted me to join them, to help 'guide' the research. But I had seen Spencer's true nature. I saw the monster they were trying to create."
Her voice hardened. "We argued. I told him this path led only to ruin. That he was building a house on a foundation of corpses. He refused to listen. Spencer's vision had consumed him. So, I made a choice. While James was away on one of his extended trips for 'research,' I took Jessica and I left. I erased us. I came here, to this remote place, to protect her from the world her father was creating."
Alen sat in stunned silence, his mind reeling. The woman who raised him, the kind and gentle Dr. Jessica Richard, was the daughter of one of the most infamous mass murderers in history.
"James found us, eventually," Amelia continued. "He never approached, never made contact. He was too afraid of leading Spencer to us. But he wrote letters. He sent money. He wanted to know his daughter was safe. I… I never told Jessica. How could I? I had men who kept me informed. I read about the Mansion Incident, the train… the betrayal by Spencer. I knew about the T-Virus. I knew about Raccoon City. I grieved for the man I loved, and I cursed the monster he had become."
She stood, her movements slow with the weight of memory. She went to a bookshelf and pressed a hidden mechanism. A section of the shelf swung inward silently, revealing a small, dark safe. From it, she retrieved a small, worn leather suitcase.
"This arrived for Jessica a few months before the news of his death," she said, placing the case on Alen's lap. "It is his journal. His life's work. The complete, unvarnished history of Umbrella's founding and his research. He wanted her to have it."
Alen stared at the case as if it were a live bomb. He flipped the latches. Inside, nestled on faded velvet, was a thick, meticulously kept journal, its pages filled with precise handwriting and complex diagrams.
"Grandmother, I… I can't take this," he stammered, pushing the case back. "This isn't a gift, it's a curse. I'm not worthy of this. She wouldn't have wanted it."
"I know she wouldn't have," Amelia agreed, her voice firm. "And I do not want it. To me, it is a relic of a terrible failure. But it is also the truth. It is power. You walk a path fraught with the very dangers James unleashed upon the world. Perhaps this knowledge can be a weapon. Use it to fight them. Or take it outside and destroy it. The choice is yours. But it does not belong with me anymore. It belongs to his bloodline. It belongs to you."
Hesitantly, his hands trembling slightly, Alen closed the case and held it. The leather felt cold and heavy. It was the weight of his legacy—a history of brilliance, ambition, and absolute horror. He had come to Scotland to find his past, and he had found a Pandora's Box. Now, he alone had to decide whether to open it.
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