[progenitorensis]

Rudimentivirus Progenitorensis, of the genus 'rudimentivirus', of the family 'progenitorviridae', of the order 'rudimentivirales', of the class 'primorecombinoviricetes'.

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—A portrayal of Albert Wesker from Resident Evil 5. 18+ / MDNI - very dark content, possibly suggestive. Penned by Erwynne.

Tags? [𝓟 ] [ᯤ]

Rules & more below.

ABOUT MUN :

I am a variable multi-para roleplayer w/ logorrhea. I don't often style my roleplay excessively, as I want it to remain friendly to those with dyslexia. I write C-PTSD, O-OCD & autism from the lens I experience them through.

I respond slowly & tend to write in a flowery fashion, e.g.

Right now it is quiet as a dormouse when it should be alive like a plated organism; people in long hallways without airlocks peek sparingly at the arrival. They have seen countless other escorts, none quite so kind or followed by so much power, the aerosol of black orchid luxury. Half of the onlookers want to know what man is on death row now, and the other half attune their eyes to the glowing red aura cast by perpetually disgruntled lens. There is whispering on the air, something sterile, the drowning-out of Wesker's vetiver-and-leather traded for the impossible stench of recycled air (some odd staleness achieved only by precise simulation of atmosphere), alcohol wipes, bases, acids, death.

More writing examples here.

I'm willing to compromise on the length (I often write 4-5 para+) and verbosity of our exchanges. Tone often slips between clinical horror & soft absurdity, depending on verse.

I tend to drop threads without direction. It is important to establish a loose plot for long threads.

I often enjoy writing hard sci-fi virology & pharmacology. You don't have to mirror this. I'm a nerd.

I take no issue with silly questions, multiverse/your muse 'poofing in', rude openers from your muse, contained potions/events (to their own verse/thread), etc. When I get asks detached from a thread, I may or may not draw them.

I am a multi-shipper. More in Rules & Warnings.

ABOUT MUSE :

Voice & faceclaim are both RE5 Wesker, personality leans more towards RE4OG.

Albert Wesker is the secret scientific mind of TRICELL, pulling the company's strings in private with the help of figurehead, fellow scientist & financial front Excella Gionne. The power in TRICELL's lobbying, personal connections, and his own ill-gotten gains allows for the manipulation of the FDA, CDC, BSAA, and even the NIH.

While he strays from the spotlight of public appearance to avoid the inhibiting gaze of the BSAA, he often shows up at the opportune moment to surveil or make an offer you can't refuse.

HAIR & EYES : Wesker is a silver-streaked blonde. His hair is slicked back with product, and he has intense, unnaturally red eyes which glow under duress due to the presence of Progenitor-mediated luciferase.

HEIGHT & WEIGHT : His height is between 6'3'' and 6'8'', mildly boosted by the Progenitor virus. Attempting to lift him, you would find that he's oddly heavy (260 - 290 lbs, part of which is dense, modified muscle fibers; he appears lean).

AGE : Wesker lands somewhere between his early and late 40's, but his appearance suggests older; this is a result of Progenitor's skin-and-scalp aging. Internal organs have an age held in stasis.

PERSONALITY : Clinical, charged, & cold. Wesker is exploitative, egotistical & endlessly ambitious, deeply singleminded and highly obsessive. His beliefs are nearly impossible to uproot. He struggles to feel positive emotions as a result of his upbringing, and can scantly, if ever, relate or care for the suffering of others.

PERSONALITY II : He has autism, O-OCD, C-PTSD (as a result of his upbringing), many of the traits of sociopathy, high-functioning psychopathy, and suffers from intense, delusional egomania. He also experiences mild mental & physical symptoms as a result of the creeping presence of Progenitor 67 up & into his brain.

SEXUALITY : Albert Wesker is paradoxically drawn to those who challenge, outmaneuver, or outwit him - particularly brilliant minds who can match or exceed his own intellect. He's pansexual with a preference (but not exclusivity) for men, a dom-leaning switch, and a man who often obsesses. Contradicting this, his general aloofness lends to activity often used as a tool of manipulation or a temporary indulgence (and under these circumstances, he has no preference at all; he'll flirt if it grants him leverage).

LANGUAGES : Wesker is fluent in English, near-fluent in German. He knows piecemeal Russian and is well-acquainted & affectionate with dark web slang. He often conducts his high-risk transfers on obscure, illicit radio space with rotating ciphers.

SKILLS : Biology, including virology & epidemiology, pharmacology & chemistry, and genetics. Neurology. Engineering, including minor cybersecurity knowledge, cryptography, and programming (Lisp, IBM's Z, & Assembly, though he's awfully rusty). Combat proficiency. Miscellaneous skills include social engineering, field ops & tactics, and interrogation methodology. He also bakes... occasionally.

RULES & WARNINGS :

ON LANGUAGE I : I do not share my muse's politics; Wesker is a biotech cryptofascist. His diatribes are insulting & classist.

ON LANGUAGE II : Wesker is incredibly rude, argumentative, and often assumes malice, something he responds to in kind. This is a trait he assumes with almost anyone, especially strangers. Please, don't take him too seriously.

ON LANGUAGE III : I avoid using modern ableist language & ethnic slurs as a rule; I expect you to do the same. Do not use language such as...

ON SHIPPING : If you want to ship our muses, please understand that I require build-up and discussion. I follow the Harkness Test - Wesker won't romantically or sensually engage with a character who cannot vocalize their consent (but he does like intelligent monsters, considering he is one).

ON LIMITS : I won't write CNC/NC, filth, or permadeath, and I don't enjoy writing main character death (there may be discussed exceptions to the latter). I don't enjoy writing inexplicable fantasy seriously, but ask potions/silly questions/etc are fine! I can't write mental hospitals or institutions - this is a hard limit & trigger for me. This list may update over time.

On LIMITS II : Please discuss your limits with me if they are applicable; I am happy to abide by them if I am made aware of them.

last updated: Fri, June 13, 2025

[hackxr]

♯ [!!!] » Acc░ss ▓rant▒d~:

She listened. Waited. Expecting a reaction more akin to a panic or concern that usually occurred during these little encounters she'd had in the past when the tech stack of an unfortunate organization hit her radar and something popped.

CTOs of financial firms offering hush money personally to preserve their appearance in the industry. Information Tech Officers from logistics corps screaming to have their data returned before morning — hemorrhaging millions every hour trucks, ships, and planes sat idle. InfoSec VPs from nearly every vertical, terrified of being tomorrow’s headline as the next scapegoat fired to make it seem like the victim company was ‘doing something.’

All of them posturing to some degree to preserve themselves over actually giving a shit about investing in their architecture. She used to take it more seriously. Used to create ominous video messages with glitched out text like those Anonymous kids. Then that turned... boring. Now, it was just sport. A  l a z y  tap on the glass. A warning to the capitalists that thought they were untouchable while doing the bare minimum to save a dime for the sake of stakeholder ‘profitability’.

But this one…

No panic.

Barely even an undercurrent of concern.

Irritation? Sure. But that was it. Didn't even make a demand. She was almost offended.

Who the hell was she talking to?

There was little chance this was some blue team security tech or incident responder. Too cool. Too calm. None of that underlying twitchy fear of losing their job. Not legal either — lawyers opened with threats, not admissions. This one… sounded like a man nursing a migraine while rotating knives between his fingers and reading off a script handed to him by PR.

And there was an air of authority behind his bullshit press statement that indicated someone with a higher pay grade. And suits only pick up the phone when something important is at risk.

Which begged the question -- what had she tripped over?

With a few clicks, Sen7inel opened up the recon files from her quick peruse she took through the network earlier for another review on screen, internally cursing herself for being too lazy to run a more intensive scan. The subnet had looked like a dead zone — endpoints barely whispering with heartbeat pings and encrypted packets. No standard traffic patterns she’d expect from a healthcare environment -- or one remotely similar. No EHR syncs. No timed burst batches of med data.

No — this appeared quieter. Cleaner. Sterile.

'Interesting.'

Her head tilted slightly. “Oh, come now, Mr. TRICELL.” It oozed from her mouth with saccharine mockery, a fiendish curl of a grin creeping upward. “You, me, and the dark corners of the internet all know pharma corps know how to move product around -- regardless of your system status. I'd bet good money that there's a number of shipments that are never logged that make it to their final destination just fine."

Alright — maybe she was leaning into the rumors from the cesspool of conspiracy theorists that hid out in the deepest trenches of the net. Maybe she read some. Maybe she made some up herself. She definitely made some up herself. But it was hard not to after the accusations that had been publicly and privately hurled at Umbrella during its downfall.

And when would she get another opportunity to throw such accusations around to see if she could make a phara exec choke?

She leaned forward now, elbows on the desk, chin resting on folded hands. Her tone dropped — not louder, but closer. "Besides,” she murmured, "I didn't see any lifesaving going on behind that subnet." A beat, then more pointed, "which means that's not what you're actually mad about… huh?"

[progenitorensis]

"Fine." I'll play your little game, he wants to add, but he bites his tongue and grits his teeth and doesn't let his comment slip from the hard press of inhuman dentition.

Any extra moment for his own men to both trace this attacker and pull her off the lines must be earned. The stakes are entertainment, at least, though he much prefers to emerge with the spoils of the hunt than to be the hunted.

It's insulting. Beneath him. This is wasteful.

Part of him so desperately wants to tell her just who she's snagged so he can watch her churn and squirm like a piteous thing. She seems like one of those ill-fated "script kiddies" that lurks hack forums waiting to be swallowed alive by a larger, meaner fish, but to hold off will make the reveal all the more appealing when he audibly hears her stomach sink over the line.

Doubly so when he's got a name and a face to follow. Will she continue in light of it? Surely she has heard the rumors...

There's a reason this business cycles its CEOs like the marching of red pennies, just like there's a reason TRICELL is one of the only companies that operates as a stark outlier.

He'd been so close to...

"Your attack fired off an autonomous system that halts our outbound to prevent fraudulent pallets from being shipped." A cool, clean lie emerges that gathers every thread of truth it can along the way, building itself into the believable. He maintains an air of dispassion.

Who is this woman, threatening someone she presumes so highly? Has she lost her mind or her shame?

He clicks a syringe-shaped pen up and down, up and down, Umbrella logo adorning its cap, memorabilia hailing from a different era.

She's cute. It's true for almost every shipment that hits this center – they're not on that server. Those RSA keys are nice to have, but they have to be paired with something if she wants to bite.

— What, exactly, is her lateral spread like? Will his servers be offline for a while? This delay demands blood, and —

And if she bites, he will send his dearest teams from the sorted, picked pellets of Blue Umbrella to defang & debark her. What does she even plan to do with the information? If that backup server contains evidence of tax fraud, astroturfing and pay mismanagement, it's par for the course of any company at this grand & imposing scale.

Does she think the BSAA is her friend? Silly girl.

"Make your demands." Click, click, click — up, down. Money is an object to him – a vehicle, more precisely. Speak up.

[nshtn]

In Vivo

Albert Wesker has such sights to show you behind your eyes, shock collar adorning your neck like the most beautiful noose. You have such sound to give him in return, something he attunes his manipulations to when realization hits.

Where could this knowledge possibly lead?

1.9k, tags: Sadism & Masochism; electrostim, shock collars; Psychological Manipulation; Pheromones; Dubious Science; Obsession; Sprig of Plot Sprinkled over the Pot like an Excuse; Extremely Dubious Consent, TRICELL - NSFW Dubcon / Albert Wesker & Researcher Reader. AO3

Loosely inspired by Three Steps Ahead: 4: Dazy.

“Wesker, I-”

Click.

You feel a shock go through your body. It interrupts your thoughts, drags you to here-and-now. The electricity courses through your nerves like fire, like ice – it carves a home in your bones, in places you didn’t even know could feel pain as if ignited gasoline. Your body shivers with it in its’ timed ticks.

Albert Wesker looks disappointed. “Don’t refer to me as my last name.” It comes out clipped, sharp. No please, he’s not that kind of man – not now, at least, when you feign forgetting over the climbing need to act, to feel.

Surely he must know by now. It cannot possibly be coincidence, or the pretense of hatred, especially not when just twenty minutes earlier you’d had his head in your lap.

There’s a moment of silence as his head dips, remote perched in his left hand, pointer finger sliding over its cool metal. You can’t make out his eyes behind his glasses, filed away from your vision as intentionally as they are everyone else’s, worlds away from you and yet so focused on your very being that you might find the construction of you in them if you only looked in those twin voids long enough.

There is a distinct lack-of within Wesker, one that you’re acutely aware of when you’re not gasping through your clenched teeth. It is at its’ most notable when he foregoes his shades – evergreen in hunger, a force that precedes a blank gaze – and you both know that’s why he doesn’t.

It’s not a vacancy behind the eyes, though – he’s there, too present, always calculating something just beyond your reach. It’s an abyss, like flesh had been scooped from something that had maybe been warm, once, and now the only thing left behind was bitter, yawning pith.

And he had taken to filling the pit with work, and hurt, and black, dripping hatred, anything to placate the burden of this infinite, gaping wound, a loss deeper than anyone was permitted entry and least of all himself, and then… you’d arrived.

. . .

An assistant researcher meant to last until the turn of the month, when PG67 would curl around his tendons like stiff, barbed-wire death, coiling and convulsing and needing of your precious chelated iron and the adipose of your abdominal wall more than he’d need of your brain meddling in his work as it rewrote him, birthed him anew.

You were locked in with him by design. And you had managed to escape your binds, slippery thing that you were... human.

Instead of running, you’d closed the distance between your bodies, wrapped your arms around his shaking frame at its’ most paradoxically fragile and pulled him in like he was the one in need of refuge.

He should have killed you then – when you hadn’t taken to banging on the door’s exit. He should have killed you when the opportunity presented itself, round and swollen with your prior pleasantries, the apple in the pig’s jaw.

He did not kill you. But he did sink his teeth into your shoulder, and you did scream.

Even with a mouth full of you, ready to aim for your jugular next, you hadn’t turned hostile. Were you stupid? Why did you hold onto him tighter?

“It’s okay, gonna- gonna b-be okay, sir,” you choked out, hackles raised, voice fear-stained and smelling deeply of adrenaline.

How dare you put him in this position. How dare you run your hand in pained sweeps from the top of his back to its’ bottom and then to the top again, how dare your fingers sink into his hair as he wept. How dare you drag up from his pith the fruit of his waning humanity at so inopportune a moment – the moment precisely meant for the ritual to commence, your sacrifice to a higher power.

Him.

From that moment onward, the months that commenced had stained him with the color of your kindness, like the light of you spilled onto him and gathered in his nooks and crannies where work and hurt should’ve gone. Of course, it didn’t interfere with his grander plans; it only seemed to rear its’ head when you were around.

You were like a disease to his better judgment, a slow, insidious venom to his singlemindedness that threatened it with another contention – yourself.

His mercy was exclusive to you, malice deferred in your stead. Albert Wesker, man of inhumanity, could scarcely figure why, only how. When.

You should be long dead. You were so smart you could rival him in conversation, dry wit of an aperitif. He found more use out of you than he could have ever bargained he’d get; you were a fine scientist and a finer geneticist.

But you didn’t quite share the length of his views. You did not understand the frenzy in his feet, or the life he lived, shades of casual cruelty that stretched far longer than his own shadow to grease the wheel. He'd do anything to move it forward.

Lines dulled still, then blurred regardless. Professionalism slipped through nitrile gloves and shared overtime and the tending of that bite, like a brand he didn’t quite want to fade without the surety of why.

Slowly, he found he did not like when you were not around – a painful, aggravating realization.

And, slowly, he found that in his free time he calculated the lines he’d cross to keep you closer, to make you understand.

And, slowly, he found one day upon waking up from a dream in which he’d held you the way you’d held him that there were none left at all.

. . .

“You’re more than a coworker to me. Act like it.” But there’s no real venom, no bleeding malice; this is more compliment than complaint. There’s a hint of hurt, almost, in how quiet the last sentence slips from him, though – like the barest taste of something you could make out with finer detail if not for the low distraction coiling through every digit and churning low in your gut.

You wished it wasn’t, partly – this is an inappropriate reaction to being contained like a variable, and regardless of whatever he’d done to your conscious, you were lucid enough to be aware that this should feel like an intense, personal violation on every front.

But it doesn’t. You like the attention. You like the sensation. You’re too fucked and in deep to see this for what it should be, because to you it isn’t: it’s some sick, twisted affection that you want to poke like a hive. Will honey come out, or will you get stung? You hardly care – you're fucked any which way you wander.

By offering you this shock, he does you more favor than harm; your thighs twitch together and you pray to a god you don't believe in that he doesn’t notice the effect it has on you, this filling of a vice. As if there was even the possibility he wouldn’t notice.

Click.

You stumble forward in his abode, calves hitting a black couch before you fall onto it. “Y-yes, sir.” There is pleading to your tone not entirely begging for his mercy – he can smell it in your pheromones.

Wesker tilts his head, lets it raise up as he scents the air. Sir? No cruelty laces his silence – just slow, deliberate interest, diagnostic, disquieting. You hide everything, but your body gives you away in ways you cannot fully fathom.

There is the barest twitch of his jaw, considering; it betrays you now. Then he moves closer, free hand coming up to the side of your head; your tired muscles flinch instinctively and then loosen as leather slides along the side of your jaw, appreciating. His other hand’s thumb slowly circles his options.

Your pulse flutters in your facial artery, pupils dilated. His fingers stroke, and your eyes slit. You know.

“That’s fascinating.” It’s warmer than it has any right to be coming from him, baritone sliding into lower territory than mere fascination suggests.

“Sorry, w-what?” You’re so good at pretending, true property of TRICELL. You could be an actor. He wouldn’t let you. Your performance now should belong to him – and he itches to pull it from you like a snag.

“You see…” he begins, pregnant pause as his thumb ceases its’ circling and hovers on burst, not pressing, just hovering, all intent. Your vision has locked onto the remote in swift recognition. “...your limbic system doesn’t seem to differentiate.”

Click.

"Ah!" You tense up and whimper as he continues to stroke your jaw, unfazed. This is lower than the first, and it pulses, then stops, then pulses again – two seconds on, two seconds off. Your hands come up to his hand, gripping each side tightly, and he allows it with a dark chuckle that seems to echo off the walls like a living thing.

He croons, squeezing your fingers, a sound you’ve never heard before until this very moment. “Cute. Eyes on me, now.”

You oblige him as fireworks of color pop with each pulse, hot across your face and hotter than the timed searing in your body. He lets the remote go, sat in his lap, free hand pushing his glasses down so he’s privy to every minute dilation. They follow each pulse of your pupils – blooming, constricting, blooming again – and your face, lit with the burning wick of your uncovered shame.

This close, he can see everything. Hear everything, too, like the way your breath stutter-stops as another pathetic whimper slides out from your throat unbidden, exposure igniting your arousal utterly.

“Do you want me to stop?” It’s a tone like you’re a pitiable thing, as if he’s about to tut and fuss. Sarcasm leaks in, though, a special, pointed satire. He offers you the rope with which to hang yourself as he picks the remote back up. “You sound so pained...”

“Ple—” To begin again? To stop?

Click.

The next shock burns through your fingertips and behind the lids of your eyes and you moan loud and near-involuntary, a mortifying thing, letting go of his hand to cover your mouth like you’ll curl up and fizzle out of this existence. How spectacular. You are a specimen pinned alive, heart beating for him, knocked so far from your pedestal and the safety of the lab that this act is blasphemy.

In response to your clipped plea, he leans back just enough to continue his observation, just enough to...

Click.

It doesn’t stop. It gets brighter, louder, more painful; the snag is tugged. It’s like lightning is crackling behind your eyes, as beautiful as it is deadly. Your heart hates this, but your traitor of a mind loves this, and now Pandora’s Box is opened. This goes beyond simple conditioning and enters pathological intimacy.

You convulse properly this time, and he cuts it after a second elapses. Safety first. Your hands have fallen to the sides of you in tightly-balled fists that dig crescents into the meat of your palms. God, it burns so good.

“There we are…” Another chuckle, pleased, self-satisfied by the results of his study. Bastard.

He leans in close enough for your noses to brush. You don’t move backwards. Wesker can feel the heat emanating from your capillaries. “Now, tell me…” A brush, pointed nose nuzzling against the side of your own. He’s poised to lean back again, promise of more on the tip of his tongue, lips too close and breath too hot.

Wesker knows your answer before you open your mouth, of course. The click is inevitable. He just wants to hear it spill from your lips – it’s sweeter that way, confirmation of the hypothesis around your neck and between his fingers.

“Would you like another?”

[progenitorensis]

Dr Wesker, do you have a favorite flower?

Sonnentreppe. It's Sonnentreppe, obviously, genetically imprinted in his finest design, a flower transcending its' temporary nature that cycled between death and rebirth and brought the same unto those that consumed it, but Albert Wesker can't say that.

It's an odd question at this 'convention' from the scientist sitting across from him - but it's not unconscionable, given the circumstances he and several others find themselves in, baited into a company-wide trap of socialization to discuss the latest in key speakers' research.

Research he has no personal, vested interest in save for its' finale, too confidential to be comfortable discussion at this mockery of a round-table. Much of the genetics research that has yet to debut results is soon to unveil.

He sits up farther, adjusting the hem of the grey-white lab coat that falls just above his knees, telltale lack-of expression adorned upon his visage. This room is full of lighter colors from various units; genetics, neurology, oncology, mutagenesis...

For him to be asked first implies an eagerness for an answer, and from that eagerness it seems the man finds himself a fan of his prior studies (it can be surmised, the way the whitecoat leans into his space most obnoxiously, brows that just barely avoid cinching). Wesker doesn't quite recall his name, pushed out of mind to take note of more worthy details passed from loose lips.

Part of him wants the attention. Craves recognition - the scent of approval. This man will feed him well & truly - he can say almost anything to garner it.

So... he pretends to give it thought, head tilting upward something self-aggrandizing as his fingers steeple in search of not-entirely-dishonest. A crumb. "I am quite enthused by Leontopodium." He pauses.

A man shuffles his papers in the background, electing to clear a parched throat.

"Pharmacophore screening has... potential." He clicks a pen idly, up, down, up, down.

"Leoligin interests me greatly." It's a potent CETP agonist that would be useful to offset initial dyslipidemia in primary Progenitor infection, maybe decrease intimal hyperplasia of venous bypass grafts in outstanding patients - the latter of which hadn't quite been necessary in humanoid subjects for some time.

Those who required such a graft from Uroboros infection usually faced rejection as it was, unfit ticking time bombs for whom the method of expulsion was yet to be refined.

They were set to be expunged, not worth resources save for further study if cases emerged new, favorable mutations.

Of those who didn't face rejection, most were animal bases or their batch derived from T, where cardiomyopathy was a common side-effect even in successful infection.

It was that first hurdle that often lead to fatal SCD, he'd theorized. Higher compatibility could be achieved with intravenous Leoligin, excellent toxicology results in tow.

Wesker's head bobs to the side, shades trained on his target while a presentation on something-or-other flashes by. How useful can this man be? Can he curry favor by pretending he takes interest in a reply? "What are your thoughts?"

[whatsyourprice]

There’s the smallest of jerks when Wesker steps away, Lance fully expecting a firmer retaliation, at the very least something closer, hand to throat, a grabbed arm, not this.

Seeing Wesker back up from him in the closest thing Lance has ever seen to hurt on the other man, and is not as fun as it should be, revealing a layer of his own emotions to himself during a time he really doesn't need such self reflection. Goddammit. [ᴵᵗ ʷᵒᵘˡᵈ ᵇᵉ ˢᵒ ᵉᵃˢʸ ᵗᵒ ᵇⁱᵗᵉ ʰⁱᵐ ʳⁱᵍʰᵗ ⁿᵒʷ, ʷᵒᵘˡᵈⁿ’ᵗ ⁱᵗ? ᴾⁱⁿ ʰⁱᵐ ᵗᵒ ᵗʰᵉ ʷᵃˡˡ, ʷᵃᵗᶜʰ ᵗʰᵒˢᵉ ᵉʸᵉˢ ʷⁱᵈᵉⁿ ᶠᵘʳᵗʰᵉʳ, ʷʰⁱˢᵖᵉʳ ᵐᵒʳᵉ ᵗʰⁱⁿᵍˢ ᵗᵒ ʰⁱᵐ ᵃⁿᵈ ˢᵉᵉ ᶠᵉᵃʳ ʳᵉᵃˡˡʸ ᵗᵃᵏᵉ ʳᵒᵒᵗ–] a quiet growl from him as his thoughts become unruly. Fucking hell, self, really?

Silence stretches between them for a long moment, awkward and strained, Lance easing out of his tense posture and assuming something more neutral, head slightly cocked to the side, eyes roaming over Wesker, staring at him the way he does when studying someone to better learn how they tick.

this is not the Wesker I know and we’re strangers to one another

suddenly transported to a strange lab when I've not been working for a while now.

no idea how to get out

the man in front of me is very unhappy with me

Conclusion: shit's fucked yo.

“You're right, this isn't a dive bar.” He frowns unhappily, taking a small step back, then another, closer to the wall behind him to show he's not trying to flee, and not reacting to the verbal barbs lobbed his way.

His mood is somber now, unconsciously rubbing the tips of his fingers together as he thinks.

“I…” his voice trails off, throat bobbing as he swallows. Another few steps back and he’s pressed to the wall, a shiver of unease crawling over his skin; this is not helping his mental state he's been battling with these last few months. Is this a hallucination of some type? Feels so real…it’s not any normal kind he’s encountered before, which means possible infection. There’s various people who would like to see him undone like this but…

Hallucination or not, he has no interest in pushing Wesker’s boundaries. Hell, there’s no telling if he’s reacting in real life to what he’s seeing either. And if this isn’t a hallucination or some other fucked up dream-state then, well, he’s out of options.

Dimensions? An unhelpful thought supplies for him and he nearly snorts derisively at himself for it, reigning it in so as not to antagonize the man that looks like a spooked cat. It’d be just his luck for some sort of near magic bullshittery like this to happen to him. Because at this point, why the hell not?

“I know that information because I know you,” Lance says, watching Wesker watch him, “my Pack worked alongside…you for several years now. All of us became close, of sorts, when we kept surviving all our missions. And…you and I would occasionally have fun together. There’d be nights that would lead to talking, and well, pieces could be put together.” The corner of his mouth twitches up in a humorless grin. “But that’s kinda hard to believe right now, yeah?”

Thunking his head back against the wall, he sighs, knowing he should be more bothered about this situation, but unable to rouse the energy, or care, to do so. He’s so tired. Not a normal tired either, he knows it’s coloring his actions and judgement but…

Then, once he thinks of it, he wants to smack himself upside the head so badly - his phone. There’s not many images on this device, but it should do enough to get things out of this stalemate they’re in.

“I have a phone in my jacket,” he says, motioning slightly with the stump of his arm to his chest where the inner pocket is, “with a hidden folder that has photos of my work, of us, in it.”

[progenitorensis]

"Talking." That's what he says? Wesker bubbles up a humorless laugh, the kind that knows you know he knows. It's barbed wire, clipped, canine teeth. "I am not a 'talking' man." Not a 'fun' man, either. No, he was normally a reserved man, or a business man, perhaps; the only other who'd known of his life was eliminated for his hand in orchestrating every twist and turn of it.

That left no one who knew its' every contour - the closest anyone got was those damnable Redfields... and Valentine, who had fancied herself a recent footnote.

Each clack of his boots prowls forth like an ornery tiger, tempering itself in the steeped sterility of this corridor. He grows impatient with the game... though he finds he lacks gravely in details.

Wesker huffs sharply through his nose, resuming his circling - but with Lance cornering himself against the concrete wall, it becomes half an arc of wide berth that speaks more to a need to pace. Adrenaline is still coursing through his modified nervous system, begging him to silence this uncertainty, to establish his own superiority, to end this in painted, demonstrated violence.

He slides his glove into the jackets breast pocket as if it were his own — possessive, intrusive — and fetches Lance's phone.

For all his derision and suspicion, his movements betray it, calm and queued.

The stolen device is bathed in two columns of spilling red light, and it is brought closer to them instantly for personal inspection. Wesker's eyes glitter — sharp, merciless, demanding answers. They sweep across the date as he tips it upward towards them, free hand adjusting his shades; they don't hinder his view at all, evidently.

February 23rd, 2009.

He grunts, confusion growing. Surely this is no one-man operation to break into a high-security lab. So, then...

"Really, now...?" It's all he offers, curiosity lilting its' end. Every second that passes deems this threat level sinking further. This is an annoyance, or a distraction, or...

One gloved thumb flips the device up - or attempts to, brows furrowing together at its' lockdown as if the decision to disobey his seizure is chosen. It demands biometrics.

Only half of him has listened to Lance's explanation. He only needs half for drivel. And yet...

He holds his hand out stiffly, phone wedged between two digits, closing the gap between them once more. Wesker's voice carries his annoyance in every barb he continues to lay, condescending. "Be a good boy and unlock it."

Now.

In the meantime, he turns his head, vision falling elsewhere as his eyes follow security feeds in his AR lens. When he next speaks, it slides into monotonous, terse authority — "Ensure perimeter integrity. High alert. Report to me immediately following anomaly..." a pause, head tilting as it returns to Lance.

It's unnerving, inhuman, debating whether or not he's worth the effort or the resources. There is no regard for Lance's humanity, and none lies within it.

Interest wins with brisk addition — "...and log a visitor."

[whatsyourprice]

What remaining ire Lance has drains completely, slowly replaced by confussion edged with something like concern.

He actually doesn't know me.

The thought lodges a wedge of ice in his stomach, heart rate once again ticking up higher. It’s disturbing in more ways than one, first the emotional aspect of having a sometimes-lover treat him this way, coupled with the growing creeping feeling of how wrong this all is.

Then it's all gone, his face shifting to that of a more cooly professional and bland mask. Eyebrows briefly furrow in concentration before that too is wiped away. He eases out a slow breath, body lightly relaxing as the threat of certain and immediate death passes (for now), head looking to the side down the corridor, gaze going unfocused as he's lost in thought.

He's not acting like the Wesker I know, I'm deep in a Tricell lab by seeming magic, then what is this whole mess?

His eyes refocus on current surroundings, sweeping around the place similar to when he first got here, evaluating it with a new light, slowly contemplating the few pieces of information he has.

At the sudden change of tone he hears from Wesker going from 'near murder' to cajoling him like a wild horse has the left corner of his mouth twitching up in amusement despite the situatuon, his syes slightly crunkling to match: he's always enjoyed Wesker’s ability to get under people's skin but having it directed at him like this certainly an interesting event.

Need to get him to believe me without getting killed. What a lovely predicament this is; I'd rather be fist fighting a Licker.

“Yeah, I do very much wanna get out of here, which is why I plan on telling the truth. And one of those truths is: we know each other. Or should, in any case.”

A pause, his gaze titling towards Wesker in the manner of a curious raptor. "I think there's something going on here beyond the both of us, sir." The honorific is intentionally used, in the tone of a soldier to another. "I worked with The Pack, a mercenary group,” he slowly starts, carefully saying each word as if measuring their worth. "The usual method of following the highest bidder, different governments, organizations, typical deep-pocket types."

Slowly, he raises his hand and moves it toward Wesker, checking his reaction with every inch closing between them. Other than the subtle tightening of his body, leather creaking in irritation, Wesker makes no move to stop him, perhaps too curious about Lance's motives to do so. Lance's small hand eventually comes tonrest against Wesker's torso, at the edge of his ribcage and sternum. A spot that means nothing, unless you know what's underneath the clothing.

“My group shifted around employers a lot, not liking to stick to any single one for long, until Umbrella, and you, until Raccoon." Pale blue eyes lift to look directly at blazing red, Lance's breath stuttering in his chest as he pushes out the next few words. “One of your bigger failures, a puzzle of what ifs and squandered potential that'd keep you up at night if you let it.” That small hand traces down Wesker’s torso, directly following the scar given to him on that fateful day when he'd died all those years ago.

Lance's whole body is tight now, eyes wide and dark to take in as much light as possible, stance wide to make flight, as useless as it'd be here, easier to accomplish.

[progenitorensis]

As Lance's mouth twitches up, the corners of Wesker's twitch down in tandem. "What's so funny, Price?"

Though he fires the jab off with a measure of venom, he allows the other man the opportunity to speak - the condemned usually have something interesting to add before expiry.

"Mm."

There's a pause as he drinks in Lance's explanation, eyes flat. Then he flexes his hand, stretching out the tendons, watching them crawl as he adjusts the cuff. His stance has grown none the less or more threatening for the duration of this, but his person bleeds of pent-up homicidality, gears turning suppressed violence. "You know who I am, but you doubt my vigilance?" He has killed for less. For far less.

Hmph.

"Curious."

Wesker is left with no choice but to concede, something he loathes; the time table of arrival doesn't add up. Killing the intruder now will squander necessary data - there are immutable systems, none of them disabled, not even disrupted - logs intact and unaltered, power delivery uninterrupted...

...there may be truth to his words, somehow. It buys the rarity of mercy to levy Wesker's confusion, but it invites interrogation, too.

Is that really better?

"A mercenary who reeks of pavement and nicotine," his nose crinkles, observing, a deep breath drawn in that he seems to take personally. When was the last time he'd even been summoned to civilization?

Wesker didn't need to be. He was superior to the frivolous need for socialization.

"must be good at blending in..." It's not a compliment. It's building into insult.

"...but this isn't a dive bar." It's true; Lance isn't standing here doused in ozone and rubbing alcohol, labcoat equipped, another man's keycard in hand... he's more lost lamb than seasoned infiltrator. Yes, he looks more like he'd just awoken into a worse nightmare than whatever one he'd been having.

And he did, to his credit.

Wesker allows the hand to settle on his chest, pride deafening the urge to flinch away from contact. He bristles, though; muscle groups tighten with the itch to carve the movement of fear into someone so unafraid, offended by the presumption of passivity. The audacity is worthy of his seething retribution as much as it demands pause.

It cannot hurt me. Discomfort heightens, eyebrows knitting with it.

Lance's words cleave, then, summoning memories he represses. Unwelcome recollection stains him, piercing. It's altogether less dusty than it has any right to be, recently drug from an untimely grave by a man he'd have called his father months ago, and it makes a flicker reminiscent of human ache pass through his chest.

Nobody knows my secrets. Nobody alive.

Nobody except...

His eyes, damnably bright, are constricted crimson pinpricks in this low-light. They tighten further from the woe of memory as Lance's hand wriggles down, prey drive wobbling to reveal unease that is just as quickly wiped away.

Wesker backs up, seizing a measure of space in an act more defensive than it has any right to be.

"Tell me." It's the beginning of an order, barked, but it snakes out from him coolly despite the flickering ember of embarrassing humanity. "Tell me how you know that."

[hackxr]

♯ [!!!] » Acc░ss ▓rant▒d~:

"Listen—"

There's the barest quirk of her brow from under her hood — a momentary flex, involuntary, mixed with amusement and something else. Challenge perhaps. Or thrill — that familiar, stupid, addictive jolt up her spine she always got when she danced on the precipice of poking the proverbial bear and waiting to see if it would bite.

Of course, it helped that she was on one end of the wire, audio distorted, mask pulled over her nose, and traffic heavily encrypted with assumedly miles of space in between her and one on the other end.

"— it's not my fault your techs missed one firewall on their latest patch cycle. I just so happened to be in the digital neighborhood to notice."

A beat. Considering. Debating how far to push.

"But hey — that's really not bad compared to other corporate monoliths of similar size, ya know. So, don't beat them up too badly. I'm sure they just need to…” a hand raises, waves around flippantly, “… update their network documentation. Or something."

Sen7inel reclined back in her worn computer chair, sprawling lazily, her oversized hoodie a shrug from falling off one shoulder, and twirled a freshly rolled join between her fingers.

"Oh — before you worry — don't. I locked the door on my way out, free of charge — you're welcome, by the way. Not a lot going on there, seemed like a dead end. Really didn't even expect you to find my calling card, let alone that quickly."

What she didn't mention was that they would have to pay the price for the ridiculously long admin password she’d changed on the firewall to unlock that door — or hard reset it to regain access. Either way, it was a small price to pay for poor cybersec hygiene, and she'd maintain a foothold on the network to keep snooping around in the meantime.

@progenitorensis

[progenitorensis]

A lone Linksys E4200's logs are empty. They should be full of useless telemetry to seed 𝚕𝚌𝚐_𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍().

[𝚃𝚃𝚈 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍, 𝙿𝙸𝙳 𝟾𝟸𝟶𝟹.]

Like any sitting duck, it has been inevitably shot, and the digital gore of one dusty, obscure backup server connected through LAN with file transfers has enabled a cascading, unprecedented breach to occur in a facility that he doubts this attacker is aware of the true significance of.

Why did it always fall to him - or Excella - to speak to whatever jester of the hour jingled by?

This duty — like tucking a tail between the legs — bruises his ego. And though he can play the part, it does not necessitate he desire to.

Naturally, it falls to him to answer. Wesker is the only one of two options that retains any modicum of IT knowledge, even if it's tailored to the long-defunct Z-series. He reclines with a sigh in his chair, a printed incident report — the only thing he trusts to be true in this room — in one hand, an unplugged Ethernet cord being twirled idly in the digits of his other.

Bone conduction carries the attacker's voice. The first string to pull will be guilt — "You do realize you're currently disrupting the availability of life-saving pharmaceuticals to hospitals, yes?" It is delivered smoothly, but the wry hint isn't lost.

Keeping the attacker on longer will allow internal teams more time to mount a defense, which currently consists of isolating the router by pulling services offline one-by-one, going under like glittering lights - green, yellow, then red...

"They will be dealt with." There is something restrained in that.

...and it's less time for them — no, her — to grep valuable data that would provide the RSA keys to—

In bitter hindsight, Wesker had known it was a bad idea. He'd warned the engineers when they decided to trim operating cost by scaling back infrastructure, nixing the upper-level's physical firewall.

So, when it was child's play to break in to the E4200, he was unsurprised. After all...

No firmware updates for three years.

Front-facing...

Not connected to Snort.

No matter how much you slather on top of it, you were bound to be found if your foundation wobbled.

He scoffs at her tone - she sounds so unbothered, careless. What kind of hacker exposes their vocal biometrics so freely? When he next speaks, his voice is measured calm — "We take data breaches very seriously here at TRICELL." There's a crackling pause as he breathes in an audible sigh, waiting for demands impatiently. This insolence detracts from important work.

[progenitorensis]

—Tags Masterlist

Hit [M] for a mobile-friendly link.

from the lion's mouth [M] — A post about Wesker the mun has written, such as headcanons or divergences for the general verse, which almost always broadly applies to subsequent interactions.

inbound shipment [M] — Externally-sourced posts about Wesker written by another person, such as headcanons, art, or character information often overlooked.

on the desk [M] — Posts that originate from the askbox ('studies') or submitted posts ('warplans'). [May also have the tag 'anonymous'.]

verse [M] — Refers to a 'universe' that separates itself from the 'general' universe Wesker operates within. Verse names depend on the character being interacted with and prevent crossover between different people and different threads. Anonymous asks can influence a thread if it's funny. [Also contains the second character's blog name as a separate tag for ease-of-access.]

//

willsker [M] — Albert Wesker/William Birkin.

chrisker [M] — Albert Wesker/Chris Redfield.

ocxcanon [M] — Albert Wesker/OC.

[howaboutcaptainwesker]

A reminder that Wesker's Report exists !!!

!!! Spoiler warning for RE1, RE2, RE3, and CODE: Veronica !!!

Wesker's Report

Wesker's Report II

Wesker's Extra Report

You can listen to them as voiced by:

Richard Waugh (CODE: Veronica / RE0 / RE4)

Wesker's Report

Pablo Kuntz (RE1)

Wesker's Report

D.C. Douglas (RE5)

Wesker's Report

Wesker's Report II ( PT 1, PT 2, PT 3, PT 4, PT 5 )

Wesker's Extra Report

[whatsyourprice]

When Wesker moves, it's all too fast for Lance to do more than brace himself and take it. He has to bite back a growl when his knife is torn away from him, the urge to reach out and hurt an itching sensation under his skin, made all the worse when Wesker frisks him like a damn enemy.

Then it's all done and Lance is left disheveled and staring up at Wesker with anger burning bright in his eyes. It takes a few harshly even breathes for him to wrangle his emotions under control and not making this weird situation any worse than it is.

Wide blue eyes stare at Wesker, one predator assessing another, his expression shifting as he realizes things are far more off than he initially thought.

"Fucking Christ," he mutters lowly, a small release of his ire in a way that shouldn't upset things.

Well, this is fucking bad.

Releasing a long, slow breath, and a shake of his body to expel heightened energy, he slowly straightens his posture, keeping his right arm slightly away from his body in clear view, lips pulling down into a frown.

"My name is Lance Price, as you should know. I've worked with Umbrella and you long enough we should be familiar by now." Never mind that they've been fucking lovers for quite some time now. And this is definitely not Wesker having a fit.

He could lie, but that feels like it's get him killed far faster than truth, even if it sounds outlandish to the other man.

Is this even Wesker? It has to be, no one else feels like that. Then, why is he acting like we're strangers? This ain't a dream, though I'm definitely not in Kansas anymore...

"Up until a few minutes ago, I was home, sleeping. I woke up here with no idea how I got here." He slightly tilts his chin up, voice steady like he's giving a report to a superior. "And surprise visits to labs like this aren't the most welcomed thing around, thus my caution."

Done with his speech, he drops his chin back down, covering his neck, for whatever good it'll do him here.

[progenitorensis]

Whatever seething glare that Lance tosses Wesker's way is happily returned, the gleam in — no, from — his eyes growing more visible as time elapses. Only when he is satisfied with his once-over does he finally, truly grant the illusion of breathable space.

Were the man foolish enough to run, he'd enjoy the chase, but...

A low, affronted sound rumbles from deep in him with Lance's profane muttering. Filthy thing. He adjusts one of the cuffs on his gloves as he impatiently waits for whatever idiotic excuse this... operative... can spare.

"'As I should know'?" Wesker repeats, voice lilting in a mocking echo. His fists clench; the squeak of leather-on-leather being pressed tightly punctuates the moment further, if ever it were needed. "Spare me the dramatics, you're an interruption." This unwelcome distraction pulls his attention away from laying a vital framework for refined extremophilia.

And yet, as Lance continues, he finds his head tilting; curiosity, like string, threads through the irritation until his vision parts somewhere unfocused, narrowing. The beams that cast themselves weakly on Lance's visage tighten in turn.

There's no Lance Price in the personnel registry. Obviously.

Not on TRICELL's, anyways, and he certainly doesn't recall ever working side-by-side with someone that reeks this heavily of the civilian. Not like this, anyway... The tobacco makes his airways itch in want.

Lance continues.

The niggling needle of interest lodges itself deeper and winds its thread around him with each word; the final draws that thread tight, taut.

"Do you take me for a rube?" Wesker slowly circles 'Lance' a single time. "Tell me why you're here. Who you work for... what they want. Now."

There's a pause as leverage builds, snagging on what little he knows to ingratiate himself. In the end, a gator's benevolence pours forward, tone softening from threat — "Come now, don't you want to leave? I'm your only salvation this deep. But you know that, don't you?"

[whatsyourprice]

Lance blinks at Wesker, the sharp tone and readiness for violence only slightly unexpected.

Ah, so he's in one of those moods. Wonderful.

His head tilts like a curious wolf's as he regards Wesker, eyes flicking all over, cataloging all the little details that Wesker is putting on display. Some of his stress is receding now that he's in the presence of someone familiar, though the edge of wariness doesn't leave him entirely since it's clear Wesker's in a mood to bite.

"Yeah, alright." He says, eyes pinned to Wesker’s body.

A flick of his wrist and his knife disappears into its sheath. Slim shoulders straighten, the the ofnhis right hand hooking into his jean's pocket, adopting a casual air as he rocks back on his heels a little, subtly stretching muscles that tightened from his time in here.

He tilts his head the other way, the hair covering the left side of his face shifting just enough to give a peek at the ragged scars clawed across the skin.

Something tickles the back of his mind, a sense of things not being right. Can't put his finger on anything more besides the fact he's in a lab, in a location he's not sure of, when his last conscious moment was back in Chicago.

"So! You're probably wondering what I'm doing here!" He chirps with a false cheer, his arms raising up, right hand in front of him, in a way that is clear he'd be clapping his hands together if he had two of them to do so. "Which is something I'd like to figure out myself. Since last I knew, I was home, and not here."

He smiles, eyes narrowed, heart thumping in his chest, keeping his body loose in case, well...

I won't be able to outrun him if he goes after me. But maybe taking the glasses hostage could buy me some time. Blinding him could work too, [the image of slicing his knife across Wesker's face so deep it pierces both eyes flash, the larger man staggering back with an angry cry, hand going up to check his sockets, the red such an ovely contrast against such pale skin flashes through his mind that he quickly skakes away] though that would really ramp things up in a way I'd rather not deal with right now and he'd pout at me for ages afterwards, too. Fuck.

And various other such thoughts filter through his kind whole waiting for Wesker’s next move, Lance keenly aware of what a disadvantage he's at.

Though maybe...could bite his neck and get him into a different kind of mood too. Wouldn't be the first time we did that. [sink his teeth in enough to draw blood, the hot liquid seeping across his tongue and...] Focus!

[progenitorensis]

"I don't find you're responding appropriately to the situation." It's daft. The way it rolls off of his tongue is flat, almost bored, judgment meted before they'd jumped one another.

Wesker is an inarguable wall; he treats the man like a puzzle to be solved, not a person with agency.

He tuts, then, as Lance moves to sheath his knife, a look of disappointment and danger lurking in the set of his jaw. Without delay, he descends upon him— his own arm moves forward, grasping the belt of the sheath annoyedly, pulling and pulling until the fastening pops free of the estranged bodyguard's leg with a snap!

He tosses it - and the useless metal within, like some kind of stake designed specifically for him, for this - to the concrete nearer to the stairwell with a large clatter, leaving Lance defenseless.

Before protest can form, his gloves descend coldly upon him, feeling front to back, up and down and collar-to-hem; it's clinical and absolute, patting pockets and every hollow surface where a fold of fabric forms until every inch of him has been assayed and rendered harmless, violated by a being for whom bodies and samples are congruent terms.

Tools? Evidence? None are produced in his search. Curious.

Next is a physical assay of his appearance, a catalogue of pressing features; Wesker's crimson gaze, made visible by luciferase and low light, sweeps Lance's face and every atrophic scar — Score lines. What did that? — and the absence of an arm. Interesting disadvantage... but, then... how?

This occurs in the tense space of ten loaded, silent seconds that feel like they stretch wide-to-snapping in the warm confusion of adrenaline.

At length, he speaks again, voice dry and weary enough to suggest sadism as a solution. "You're going to abandon this petulant facade and tell me who you work for," a venomous pause, dripping intended malice like he waits on his haunches for denial solely to punish, "or I'm going to snap your neck."

[whatsyourprice]

Falling asleep in his little nest of blankets in the corner of an abandoned building, only to wake up in the sterile envelope of a lab did nothing good for Lance's heart.

Holding still, taking in everything around him as he both waits for his heart to calm down and for any alarms to go off from his appearance here.

Nothing happens. And nothing keeps happening. For long enough that his heart rate lowers to a strong and steady thump, still primed for action but no longer living in his throat.

Thoughts race as he creeps towards the door, back pressed against the wall and cracking it just a hair to peek out.

How in the fuck am I here?

Lights are dim in the hallway, most red hued, signaling late night, the color chosen to not unduly stress the graveyard shift's circadian rhythm.

Well, that'll mean less people to deal with in trying to get the fuck out of here. The main worries will be cameras, other security measures and potential BOWs, if this is one of those labs.

Easing out into the hall, pale blue eyes intense with all senses on high alert, right hand going to his belt to unhook his knife. It’s kept sheathed for now, not needing someone to immediate shoot him if spotted with it.

The style of the place is being against some foggy memories, though it's not until he comes across the company logo blazened on the wall does it hit him all at once -

Tricell.

Lips dips into a frown, nose and brows scrunched in displeased confusion at the sight.

"Well, that answers as many questions as it raises." He mutters quietly to himself, minutely relaxing as he now knows he's not in a horrible spot, he simply needs to find a reason for an unemployed mercenary stalking their halls.

He's about to head towards a stairwell door he sees down the way in an attempt to find an exit when the hairs on the back of his neck and arms raise. Lips instinctively pull back into a snarl and he twists around, knife in hand, crouching low and ready to draw blood and -

A pair of familiar red eyes greets him. "Boss?"

He eases, slightly, still in a ready stance, knife lowered and kept behind. It's been ages since he's last seen Wesker, since losing his arm in that one BOW attack. Sudden butterflies in his stomach as he's hit with nerves; he knows the man likes to keep things professional but with how communication between them was so suddenly cut off, Lance isn't sure what emotions had been brewing in that skull. Not to mention trying to explain how he got here and the answer being one Wesker won't like.

"Ah, long time no see, yeah?"

@progenitorensis

[progenitorensis]

As soon as Wesker smells something that is nothing like the scent of any one of the employees working here - all ungated cortisol and wild epinephrine, sweat, dirt... tobacco - his body clicks its' gears into prowl. For a moment, he pays the invading scent no heed at all, as if it might be an intrusive ghost of his past; it's too civilian to be this deep; no alarms blare, no motion sensors indicate a missing keycard at key points.

After all, it's not the first time his senses have betrayed him.

He's being paranoid. Paranoia, that's what this is. His ocular HUD would never fail him. It is incapable of compromise...

...right?

He twitches. Irritation flickers across his features as his olfaction is continually betrayed. There will be no further analysis of the application of tardigrade-specific proteins to Uroboros in the face of such a potent distraction.

Some joke? An intern, far from the comfort of upper levels?

He silences the RSS feed on his glasses and rises to his full, intimidating height, head tilting upwards & nostrils flaring as a breath filters through them. It's outside - the scent trails outside, of course, obviously. He follows the pattern his senses lay before him, each careful footfall dutifully silent on this lab-unit's polished, sterile tile, the light of his lab's halogen abandoned. The quiet is unnatural and practiced, as if to be weightless.

Left. Turn left. It's stronger, now. His eyes dilate slightly behind his glasses, drawing in the scant strip-lighting of a facility that works dutifully not to betray its' top minds' circadian rhythms this late.

As he rounds the corner, he picks up sound - footfalls far heavier than his own, echoing and conducting through the tiles, alive, human in origin. Trained gait. Whose? Near the lift. Employee stairwell. His senses curdle, giving way into the predator's natural violence; fists balling with the crunch of the fabric, shoulders squaring as he stalks forward.

It's snarling. An unkempt figure. His arms splay from his sides, and he assumes a pose intending to disarm as he creeps up, up, up, and then...

Boss? No, that's not right. Where's its' keycard? How did it get in here? No scent of blood - but it's missing something; is it injured? How did it get in here?

"Lose the weapon before you lose your life." He enunciates it with quiet, pointed monotony, betraying the violence that coils low in his gut as his brows tighten; not a drop of mirth filters through.

[progenitorensis]

*hands a cocktail glass with a dark liquid and a red and white umbrella*

“Welcome to the party, pal.”

Wesker takes it from your hands with a derisive glare that you feel crawl up your spine even through the thick rims of his prescribed lens. This TRICELL quarterly staff 'meeting' is beyond him, he's not one for the frivolous festivities that invariably follow; you have instantly, awfully cemented yourself as the most interesting turn of the hour.

His head lifts from the drink to regard you before it turns down again, a minute tilt.

"Mm." It's more sound than anything else, a judgmental assessment. He swirls the dark liquid around the glass with his right hand, spins the decoration with a flick of a black-gloved finger from his left as if to humor you, but the edges of his mouth don't animate to scale with the action, mirthless.

Wesker is TRICELL aligned these days; Umbrella is nothing more than a dead man's dream, and each emergence of its' shards are swallowed whole by him, stripped for parts. Those parts either become grease or prove out as gears, and he ensures those gears are none too large or haughty as he; it's his job to decide how big any of them get before they're shaved and waxed, after all.

And these days, there's not many shards left. He has hunted them down and systematically stripped them for multiple years, a bloodhound thick on a waning red trail of heaving, breathless fugitives.

...so where does that land you? Since when did a shard, pitiful and hiding from his divine judgment, send an operative? Especially one so miscalculating? Do you pray to be spared, or do you want to be mounted on a metaphorical pike?

"Do you know how many cameras are in this room?" His voice is quiet, a silver, syrupy sound you can scarcely hear without straining. He leans into you, shoulder brushing your own; this is part of the game. No attention is drawn by his volume... he doesn't have to; by talking to him at this event, you've already spun yourself into the spider's web. "Make a guess. Humor me, won't you?"

But you don't humor him.

Those who know he hails from Umbrella officially are few and far between, hired arms or whitecoats with no business handing him any consumable liquids lest it's the Vietnamese Robusta he ordered to his desk.

"I'll have this scheduled for chromatography," he whispers, voice sliding thick and coiling into the shell of your ear as a hand clasps your shoulder, squeezing once, "thank you for the entertainment." He hums, dark and embittering.

Like that, he turns softly on his heels, gait unbothered as his long black shadow slinks away and out with The Proffered Substance™.

[progenitorensis]

greetings doctor, i am happy to see your face again since our days with the rotten man. may you continue your existence with peace and without your mutt (Birkin). - Kurt

Wesker looks at the letter on his desk with brisk, lukewarm confusion. Then, realization.

Did ex-Umbrella staff really fall for the falsified rivalry he had developed with Birkin to prevent unnecessary meddling? Targets on their back did them no favors; it was hard enough to find space to sleep or breathe in the later days between doses of Adderall. Ah, but of course they fell for it; Umbrella was willing to hire complete and utter wastes.

He tapped his fingers against his desk digit-by-digit as he read each carefully curved inky black letter.

As much as he searches the dusty shelves of his brain, nothing he pulls seems to give him much memory of a "Kurt". A first-name, too... quaint! Something mirthless leaves his throat. As if they'd known eachother - was he trying to mooch reputation off of someone with real brilliance to replace a lack of his own?

Or could he be a useful addition to his collection?

Wesker lets loose a short huff as he places the paper to the side, smoothing out its' creased edges. He'll have to look into the sender.

[progenitorensis]

kisses him on the nose

There's a short wait before Wesker— Albert Wesker— responds, brain processing such an unlikely scenario against an internal list of rules that forbade the occurrence from happening in his table of likelihoods.

He moves backwards with a jolt of something, a movement that snaps up-and-back with unnatural swiftness, shoulders tightening, the sound of his fabric rustling with it. With such fast movement, his shades, too, are uncentered. It's the movement of battle readiness, of course... it's self-defense.

It's being caught elsewhere. The past, perhaps, with William's unmarred visage at its' helm, or thoughts about the machinations he's developing.

How errant of him.

Wesker moves his shades back with a black-gloved finger, huffing a breath suspiciously close to a chuff.

"Settled in already, are we?" But there's no testiness in his voice. It should be there, and it isn't.

He stands to his full height in another series of swift movements, letting his arms fall to his sides. There is calculation behind his eyes, the lit flare of luciferase painting Birkin's face in weak blooms of red. The way he moves is nothing short of fully intending, forcing Birkin to step back to retain professionalism. It creates a bubble of space between them. There's no malice, though, no turning gears of bilious anger, no frown of 'mistake'.

He cocks his head mildly, letting the same finger push his glasses down enough that Birkin can make out where his eyes are centered: directly on him, like pinprick spotlights. This serves two purposes: it confirms his sightline & his attention; there's no chance he's looking at any scrolling field of data.

The red is stronger without a powerful, prescribed black filter to anonymize its' projection.

"What gave you that idea?" His voice is so very, very curious, curling at the end with a meddlesome purr.