KIJUJU AUTONOMOUS ZONE, AFRICA. YEAR 2009.
To bite the hand that feeds. Hardly an unfamiliar concept, one which he had executed himself for the sake of the greater picture – a world freed from the shadow of the mad eugenicist Lord Ozwell E. Spencer and his mad establishment, one wherein those scorned would have what they deserved from the beginning. Raised in an environment where the screams of the living-turned-undead rang in his ears regularly, where assassination and sabotage among the inner workings of the corporate entity was commonplace…it was hardly a surprise when three years prior at the Kijuju autonomous zone – wherein the initial testing of the original strains of his Uroboros virus had been conducted – one Dr. Excella Gionne had decided to usurp all of Tricell all on her own. With the finalization of Uroboros as a weaponized virus, the vast sums of money provided by oil tycoon Ricardo Irving as their middleman, and Excella’s own storied lineage – making her rightful heiress to Tricell’s empire – Albert had anticipated the rise of the woman’s ambition over all other logic and ties.
Her assistance and willing cooperation during the research and bio-engineering process of Uroboros had been instrumental in achieving his goals, causing the tyrant to believe the Italian beauty an excellent asset, brains apparent before her physicality. Backstabbing the man she had been in bed with however, ( in all senses of the term ) was unacceptable. He had turned away from the horrific view as Excella’s DNA was rejected by Uroboros, causing her to mutate beyond control. Hundreds of former test subjects’ corpses piled in the area only aided toward the carnivorous B.O.W.’s towering stature and as the tyrant had departed, vitriol rising as bile in his throat adding to the rage already consuming his mind. Six billion cries of agony would serve as a reminder to everyone who still dared to defy his will: those that would remain would be the worthy ones. Excella Gionne had already proven herself unworthy by action, despite her words otherwise. No matter how things would end, he would remember the choice she had made.
CHIOSTRO DEL PARADISO, AMALFI, ITALY.
Representatives from La Cosa Nostra had agreed to discuss matters of import at the garden of the Chiostro del Paradiso di Amalfi, a few hours away from Sicily itself, regarding the operation of the Italian branch of Callidus Pharmaceuticals – and the upcoming changes to the establishment as a whole. The puppet C.E.O. to Callidus had been provided by the mafia in good faith in exchange for the chance of future investment in what would become known as Umbrella II – ergo, the meeting had gone rather well, as was to be expected. Turning his back to the departing men and women of the family, Albert prepared to make his prompt return back to the states; a familiar scent, however, caused him to pause.
At the other end of the garden stood a lone woman, in shades of creme and gold, viral markers present and indicating – …
“Hm, hm…what a surprise. You are just full of them, are you not, Excella?” Acerbic words from otherwise stony features.
@aheriii / THE ESTRANGED, FALSE QUEEN.
Often called the monastero del paradiso, the lavish and meticulously manicured gardens closer to the monastery of Chiostro had offered solace in the crisp evening air away from the talk of business -- and had allowed her to breathe (as much as she did these days) once she’d learnt of the family’s chosen guest for discourse.
Someone who had meant to die in the fires of il inferno itself.
She had meant to as well. Had done so, until the coil of uroboros had ripped her from the chrysalis of aheri; denied the right to die and burdened instead to live, a Regina torn from the throne and cast off. Reborn, but chained down by the ichor that now flowed in her veins and writhed in her gut.
She had been worthy -- only after surviving a trial by fire.
Excella had managed to secure safe passage back to a more civilised part of Africa out of the Autonomous Zone before the cani of the BSAA caught her in their cleansing of the area, and promptly tore down the very company she had aspired to claim all her own. The writing was on the wall -- the BSAA had all the intelligence they’d needed to pin everything on TRICELL and see to it that they crumbled under the weight of their crimes, so she saved them the effort. The Gionne-Travis families all too easily blended back in, casting the crimes off onto the shoulders of others outside of their inner circle, and in doing so Excella had found purpose once more.
Shame it’d caused her to cross his path once more.
She knew that save for outright leaving, she was only buying herself moments to steel herself in her seclusion. One didn’t work with Albert Wesker for over a year without learning that there was never an escape from the ombra della morte; that she couldn’t deny the way a primordial chord wound taut as she felt the threat of him everywhere.
(Nor the way his voice, richer than the finest wines, made her skin prickle.)
“Albert,” his name lilted off her accented tongue like honey. “I, too, could say the same of you tesoro.”
Excella turned to face the very man she’d been avoiding all evening, the motion elegant and sweeping. Effortless. The extravagant gold beading of her Versace gown glimmered in the low and warm lights of the garden, much like the gold flecks in her eyes did, her lips parting in a soft gasp as she took him in proper. He still was all hard angles -- chiselled from marble by God himself, yet beneath his ever-present glasses she could see the fire. She could smell him: cologne that was subtle to not overstimulate his own senses, and yet something more —
“It seems we both were worthy in the end, but at such a cost,” she sneered, face contorting haughtily for a mere moment before she dared lock her eyes with his own shaded ones. “I see your plans have changed somewhat from Kijuju—?”