Year 2015, B.S.A.A. base of operations.

The low hum of the fans was the only constant sound in the spartan room. Two weeks. Fourteen days since she'd returned from Alcatraz prison. The enforced silence of "recovery" was already weighing on her bones, a burden more irritating than any physical injury. The room smelled of antiseptic cleaning and residual gunpowder, an aroma that reminded her too much of a cage.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, one earbud in and the other resting on her ear, her fingers tapped impatiently against her thigh to the beat of an '80s drum beat. On the screen, a recorded reality show showed people arguing over trivial matters. It was white noise, a cheap distraction to avoid the post-mission analysis her mind insisted on repeating over and over again. Chris, Leon, Claire... the faces mingled with those of the infected in a collage of unpleasant memories.

With a dry sigh, she turned off the screen. The silence returned, more oppressive than before. Her blue eyes, cold and appraising, scanned the room until they settled on a half-open military suitcase in the corner. Old clothes and equipment she hadn't checked in years.

She stood with precise movements and knelt in front of it, moving garments with a mixture of nostalgia and disdain. Until her fingers touched a cold, familiar fabric.

No. That.

She pulled out the tight-fitting, black and blue combat suit. The fabric slipped through her hands like the skin of a dead snake. A bitter taste filled her mouth. Just touching it brought the metallic echo of Wesker's voice, the feeling of loss of control, the humiliation of being a puppet. And her hair... dyed that unnatural blonde that still made her feel sick.

"Garbage," she muttered to herself with contempt. "I should burn this stupid thing."

But a morbid curiosity, a personal challenge, drove her. With abrupt, almost aggressive movements, she took off her sweatshirt and sweatpants. She stood in her underwear in front of the large mirror on the closet door, her pale skin contrasting with the darkness of the room.

She took the suit and began to put it on. The fabric, which had previously slipped on like a second skin, now offered resistance. She pulled harder, zipping it up with an effort she couldn't remember needing before. Finally, it was snug to the point of discomfort.

She stood in front of the mirror, breathing heavily. The image reflected back through the glass was that of a stranger. Her, but not her. The suit highlighted every curve of her athletic body, but in a different way. More constricting.

"Damn," she cursed, her voice a husky whisper in the quiet room, pushing a side of her short hair behind her ear. "Was this always so... tight?"

She turned in profile, then completely, looking over her shoulder. Her brow furrowed in pure irritation. The material stretched obscenely tight around her hips and buttocks, confirming her suspicions.

"Really?" She wondered aloud, skeptically. "Did I gain weight these past few years? Impossible. My butt feels suffocated, damn it."

She leaned sideways, attempting a basic stretch. The fabric pulled, protesting. A spring ready to spring. Straightening, she stared at her own reflection, a line of frustration marking her brow.

"Compromised flexibility. Bulkier muscles. Bad combination. Even my breasts don't allow me to zip it up completely." The analysis was cold, professional, but the slight grimace of annoyance on her lips betrayed her true feelings. That suit was no longer just a garment; it was a reminder that nothing, not even her own body, was ever the same again.