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@abirkin
ABIRKIN-an independent roleplay blog for Annette Birkin of Capcom's Resident Evil franchise. Heavily headcanon influenced. 18+ only.
A study in survival, living to work, masking, playing house, and leaning in to spaces that weren't designed for you. Written with love by Luna (30+, she/her).
Verses available: Resident Evil, Dead by Daylight, The Walking Dead, DC, and more
interest check | promo | headcanons |
I have tried to come back on like 3 different blogs recently and nothing feels right anymore.
"...Good God, William WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"
promo cred
me: i only ship with chemistry
also me:
@coffinshared from x
She resists the urge to grimace. "I must admit, I didn't think you would be happy to see me, but that... Was a bit cold." She sighs. "I came looking for you. I've been on the mend for a while now, and I wanted to see you. That's all. If you want, I'll leave."
It's presented simply. She wanted to know that Sherry was alive, that all was well... She knows her own shortcomings. She won't try to force feelings that may not be there. After all, she hadn't been close with her own mother, though that was for wildly different reasons.... But she wanted her daughter to know she was alive, and that she had looked for her. And having accomplished what she set out to do, the ball was in Sherry's court now.
Plotted starter for @agent-birkins
Some would say the years had been kind to her.
Those were people who didn't know her, who didn't know what she had been through. They would say she looked damn good for her age without knowing that she had been through literal hell, that Helene Labeaux wasn't even her real name, that she had spent the last however many years (she had lost count) hiding away in case someone somewhere had an inkling she might still be alive and was still looking for her.
But that was the bitch of it all, wasn't it? The one person she wanted to see looking for her definitely thought she was dead.
It had taken a long time to gather intel, to piece together all the bits and pieces of information she could glean from library archives and old newspapers, to figure out her daughter had escaped... She had to have. Claire had. And Claire had promised her she would get Sherry out.
It had taken even longer to track down even the smallest trace of Sherry Birkin anywhere, but she had managed. And that was what brought her here, now, standing outside a door that she had been trying to work up the courage to knock on for nearly fifteen minutes now... Before she finally raised her fist and brought her knuckles to the wood. Here goes nothing, Annette....
her parents left her with curse and bless. one was her age, no pursuit of opponents. one was her genes restrict her life. she doesn’t know what childhood or teenage years are. missing on it for being a birkin. it hasn’t bothered her. after all she was born a second time to be something more than just a kid and to carry the consequences of the surname.
no one had asked her about her emotions regarding the trauma she faced. watching both her parents leave this life in horror memory. sometimes claire would. it helped her but it was so rare for her to heal. the dosage too low to change anything. she lived regardless somehow. sherry had not got a lot of visits. everyone busy with their own life. everyone traumatized to have more than week as ordinary.
she was not expecting ring today “ coming “ door sways slow to the right to show the resident of the house. stares at ghost never stops haunt her. blinks aggressive to erase l hallucination. this stranger just resembles her. no more no less. even if under layers hidden she could tell the likeness. composed as she started . “ uhm , who are you ? “
"Sherry...." The word is uttered as a sentence all on it's own, layers of exhaust, relief, trepidation, anxiety all showing through as she says it. "My god, you've grown up... You look beautiful..."
She hasn't answered the question yet. She doesn't know if she wants to, doesn't know if the other will believe her.... Why would she, after all? Why would a ghost come back into her life now, after years of silence, of distance?
She exhales softly. "Don't you recognize me, sweetheart? It's... It's me. Your mother... Annette." She expects that not to be particularly well received, but... It needs to be said. She has to acknowledge it.
“ are there any fears your muse still holds from childhood? “
From here-- always accepting
Not really. Annette wasn't an especially fearful child, outside of the normal phases kids go through, where they're scared of monsters in the closet, the dark, that sort of thing. She's not crazy about clowns, but it's not so much a fear as it is just... Vague disdain.
"You keep searching for the correct variable.
The one adjustment that will rebalance the equation.
You think if you analyze it long enough, if you trace every decision, every hesitation, every missed opportunity, eventually the formula will reveal the answer. The step where everything diverged. The moment where a different input could have saved the outcome.
But life was never an experiment you could rerun.
There is no control group for regret.
You say you failed twice.
As a scientist.
As a mother.
But what you are really mourning is the belief that you had to choose between them in the first place.
Umbrella told you that sentiment was weakness. That hesitation was contamination. That the ideal researcher would observe even their own loved ones with clinical detachment.
You tried to become that.
And you couldn't.
You call that failure.
I call it proof that something inside you refused to die.
When you stood there with the gun in your hand, every calculation told you what to do. The trajectory was obvious. The risk assessment was undeniable. Ending William's life would have been the logical solution.
But logic falters when it collides with memory.
You didn't see a specimen.
You saw the man who once stayed up all night arguing theories with you over coffee. The man who held your daughter with trembling hands the first time she cried. The man who believed the two of you could change the world together.
Pulling the trigger would not have killed the monster.
It would have meant accepting that he was already gone.
And you were not ready to perform that autopsy.
So you hesitated.
Not because you were weak.
Because you loved him.
You see the consequences now, the city in ruins, the child you fear you failed, the work you can never undo. And you measure those outcomes against that single moment of mercy and decide it proves you were unfit for both the laboratory and the nursery.
But listen carefully.
Your daughter did not need a perfect scientist.
She needed proof that the people who made her were not monsters.
And despite everything, the distance, the late nights, the coldness you regret, the one thing she will remember is that you fought to stop what you helped create.
Not with data.
Not with theory.
But with the one thing Umbrella never understood how to cultivate.
Conscience.
You cannot fix the past, Annette Birkin.
Not the virus.
Not your husband.
Not the years you wish you could return to Sherry.
There is no experiment that restores what has already been broken.
But regret is not meant to be solved.
It is meant to be carried.
Not as punishment.
As direction.
Because the part of you that hesitated, the part you once tried so hard to bury beneath numbers and ambition, is the same part that still asks what you should do now.
And the answer is simpler than the work you devoted your life to.
You keep choosing the thing that made you hesitate.
The thing that made you lower the gun.
The thing that made you look at a child and remember you were more than a scientist.
You cannot undo what happened.
But you can decide what kind of person walks forward from it.
For someone who believes she has failed at everything.
You are still asking the right question."
The words are comforting, strangely so, even though she feels as though they weren't originally meant to be. The reassurance that she somehow hasn't been a complete failure, that the piece of her that chose love, that chose her conscience and her feelings over clinical detachment, has somehow separated her from Umbrella, has left her with an opportunity to do something now, to make something of this that she may not have otherwise had the opportunity to execute....
She inhales. Exhales. Inhales again.
"Thank you," she says softly.
“You left me in the dark.”
((@coffinshared Sherry!))
"I didn't have a choice, ma cherie... Everything happened so fast, and by the time I was ready to tell you, it was too late.... I thought for sure I was going to die, and by the time I got out, and found out you were still alive, I didn't know where to find you..."
The argument feels weak even as she raises it. She knows she could have told Sherry the truth sooner, that she had every opportunity to tell her daughter exactly what she and William did, but neither of them ever saw fit to do so.
long story short, i survived
Psst!
Y'all should promo some cool people. I need to find more blogs to follow.
Plotted starter for @agent-birkins
Some would say the years had been kind to her.
Those were people who didn't know her, who didn't know what she had been through. They would say she looked damn good for her age without knowing that she had been through literal hell, that Helene Labeaux wasn't even her real name, that she had spent the last however many years (she had lost count) hiding away in case someone somewhere had an inkling she might still be alive and was still looking for her.
But that was the bitch of it all, wasn't it? The one person she wanted to see looking for her definitely thought she was dead.
It had taken a long time to gather intel, to piece together all the bits and pieces of information she could glean from library archives and old newspapers, to figure out her daughter had escaped... She had to have. Claire had. And Claire had promised her she would get Sherry out.
It had taken even longer to track down even the smallest trace of Sherry Birkin anywhere, but she had managed. And that was what brought her here, now, standing outside a door that she had been trying to work up the courage to knock on for nearly fifteen minutes now... Before she finally raised her fist and brought her knuckles to the wood. Here goes nothing, Annette....
Hit the heart and I'll go through your meme tag and send you some stuff. Could be serious, could be silly. Feel free to specify.
Consider this express permission to come into my askbox and ROAST my muse!
random headcanon q’s
1. is your muse able to keep a secret?
2. is your muse skilled at using technology?
3. how skilled is your muse at communication?
4. who would your muse consider their best friend?
5. are there any fears your muse still holds from childhood?
6. what is something that ticks your muse off, no matter what?
7. what clothes does your muse feel most comfortable in? why?
8. how many fights has your muse been a part of? how did they fare?
9. does your muse have any nervous habits? (biting lip, fidgeting, etc.)
10. how often does your muse find themselves daydreaming? what about?
11. how often does your muse cry? do they cry silently, privately, or out in the open?
12. what is a lesson your muse’s parent(s)/guardian taught them that they still hold onto?
13. is your muse proficient at any musical instruments? how long did it take them to learn?
14. does your muse prefer cooler or warmer weather? how does the heat/cold affect them?
15. does your muse know how to cook? what is the most complicated dish they’re able to make?
16. is your muse argumentative? if not, what is a topic they feel strongly enough about to argue for?
Annette!.ogg
"You prefer numbers.
They behave.
Numbers don't scream when the procedure begins. They don't look at you with wet eyes and ask if it will hurt. They sit quietly on a monitor and confirm what you already believe, that the work is progressing exactly as it should.
Efficiency.
Progress.
Breakthrough.
You built a world where those words were enough.
It was easier that way.
Because numbers never ask why a child waits in another room while her parents work through the night. They don't question why exhaustion becomes irritation, or why irritation becomes distance. They never ask when you last spoke to your daughter without glancing at a clock.
Numbers don't notice the moment a husband stops being a partner and becomes a colleague.
A competitor.
A man standing between you and the next step forward.
So you buried yourself deeper in them. In cultures and samples and formulas that promised something greater than the fragile lives outside the laboratory doors.
You told yourself it was worth it.
All great discoveries demand sacrifice.
History says so.
But history does not show you the quiet moments.
The late nights when William's ambition burned hotter than yours, when you realized the work was no longer simply science but obsession. The moment you saw the look in his eyes, not curiosity, not brilliance, but hunger.
You recognized it.
Because it lived in you too.
You told yourself you were different. That someone had to maintain control. Someone had to ensure the research didn't spiral into recklessness.
Someone responsible.
Someone rational.
And yet the virus grew all the same.
It spread in petri dishes, in locked chambers, in whispered conversations about military applications and funding streams. You told yourself you were studying it. Containing it.
But the truth was simpler.
You fed it.
Just as surely as William did.
And when the world began to collapse under the weight of what you had created, you clung to the one thing you could still call logical.
Contain the damage.
Protect the research.
Finish the work.
Even if it meant leaving pieces of yourself behind.
Even if it meant a little girl wandering through a nightmare you helped build.
You would say you did what was necessary.
That someone had to be strong enough to make the difficult decisions.
Perhaps that is true.
But strength is a curious thing, Annette Birkin.
You had the strength to continue the experiment.
You had the strength to stand in a laboratory while your husband transformed into something unrecognizable.
You had the strength to chase the results to the very end.
And yet, there were moments when something in you hesitated.
A flicker of doubt when Sherry's name crossed your mind. A quiet awareness that the work had grown far larger, far uglier, than anything you once intended.
You buried those moments quickly.
They interfered with the data.
But they remain.
They linger in the spaces between your justifications, in the silence after the alarms stop blaring and the facility grows cold.
Because beneath the scientist, beneath the discipline and the calculation.
There is still a mother.
And she knows the question the numbers will never answer.
When the experiment finally ends.
What remains of the family you sacrificed to complete it?"
She's quiet for a long time as she considers the words. Numbers, yes. Numbers were easy. They came naturally to her, more naturally than people did, than perhaps anyone ever had except for William... And in the end, she had lost him too, hadn't she? In the end, only the numbers made sense. Only the numbers hadn't hurt her, hadn't left her for dead in the wake of blaring alarms and broken glass. Numbers didn't make her feel like a failure. Numbers didn't remind her of a little girl, left to fend for herself, or of the marriage that had grown cold, distant, had simmered into something tepid that she would have once given anything to save.... And yet when it had all come down to it, had she done that? Had she really saved anything?
She had hesitated. When she should have pulled the trigger, to end William's life before he mutated, she had hesitated. She hadn't been able to do it, even with the loaded gun in her hand, even knowing there was only one possible outcome... Something inside her had stopped her. Something she had tried to bury, had tried to hide away from almost everyone in her life.... Something she had hated once, until the day she held a tiny bundle of blankets with blue eyes and blonde hair that cooed and smiled back up at her as if nothing else in the world could ever matter....
She had failed, she knew. On two fronts. As a scientist. As a mother. By attempting to straddle both, to bridge the gap, she had succeeded in maintaining her footing in neither. The love in her heart had stopped her from being the heartless thing Umbrella wanted, but her desire to prove herself to the scientific community had stopped her from ever truly being the mother she could have been, should have been, for poor Sherry.
She suffered because of this. Because of me. She almost died.
She leans back, takes a breath, closes her eyes... Another breath. Another. It's clear she's processing, trying to choose words carefully.
"I know," she says finally. "I know I made mistakes. That I can't fix them. I just... Don't know what to do about that now."
