Hiiiiii! Love your Wesker’s Assistant series! I especially love the latest one with HUNK. May we have some more reader, Nemy and HUNK moments please? Maybe something chaotic and badass? Hahahaha
Keep up the excellent work!
Thank youuuu!
Wesker's Assistant Chronicles - Part 5
❄️ FIELD TESTED, EMOTIONALLY COMPROMISED
Part 5 of Wesker’s Assistant Chronicles
Antarctica. Cold. Hostile. Definitely not approved for mic’d interviews and glitter bats. Too bad we came prepared.
A/N:
This chaotic installment is inspired by the anonymous request.
To which I said: Absolutely. And then I added subzero temperatures, a frozen Tyrant, and Nemesis re-braiding the reader’s scarf.
I hope this blend of emotional damage, mutant mayhem, and mic'd nonsense lives up to the chaos you were craving.
Thank you so much for the kind words and the idea—you lit the match. I just threw it into an Antarctic reactor.
Read the previous parts here:
Wesker’s Assistant Chronicles – Masterlist
A Wesker’s Assistant Mini-Special – Part 5
Previously in the series…
Wesker watched the footage in silence—Nemesis in a party hat, HUNK looking like he aged seven years in a single mission, and you, holding up a Twinkie like it was a victory flag.
He didn’t sigh. He didn’t curse.
He just quietly muttered, “Send her to Antarctica.”
The doors hissed open. A blast of ice and indifference greeted you like a slap to the face from Mother Nature herself. You stepped in like you were entering a ski lodge, arms outstretched. “Cozy,” you declared, your breath fogging up your face shield. “Smells like secrets, bad decisions, and at least one buried HR complaint. Possibly two.”
HUNK walked past you without a word, his entire posture screaming do not engage. His footsteps were clipped and efficient, the kind of pace a man sets when he’s internally screaming.
Nemesis followed behind, unbothered by the cold, his massive form dusted with snow like a festive nightmare. He carried your luggage. You didn’t ask him to; he just did.
You pulled your mic from your parka pocket.
“Operation: Cold Reception has begun. Status: freezing. Morale: dangerously high.”
Nemesis grunted approvingly.
INT. CRYO-WING – 16:00 HOURS
You took a deep breath, letting the icy silence settle before dramatically stepping forward, mic outstretched like you were hosting a true crime documentary.
“This,” you whispered dramatically, “is where they keep the emotionally repressed. It’s giving ‘ex-boyfriend energy.’”
Rows of cryo-pods lined the hallway, glowing pale blue. The hum of the generators was the only sound—until your boots squeaked with every step. You leaned in to a frosted pod, mic activated.
“Sir,” you asked the frozen Tyrant inside, “do you feel trapped by your conditioning, or is your cold shoulder just metaphorical?”
A crack ran up the glass like a bad omen.
HUNK was at your side in an instant, hand gripping your collar as he yanked you backward. “Touch anything else and I’ll personally freeze you myself.”
You adjusted your scarf with dignity. “Wow, okay, hostile environment.”
Nemesis silently draped a thermal blanket over your shoulders like a gentle yet horrifying nanny.
“See?” you said, beaming. “At least one of you cares about my wellness.”
INT. TEST LAB – 21:07 HOURS
You sat cross-legged on a dusty workbench, sipping hot chocolate from a mug labeled ‘Cryo-Queen’, while flipping switches with reckless confidence.
“Update,” you whispered into the mic. “Our emotional support mutant has adapted to the tundra. Our field commander is plotting my murder. I’ve found the good marshmallows in the supply closet.”
HUNK was in the corner trying to hotwire a panel with an expression that could curdle milk. Sparks danced behind him.
“Stop. Talking,” he barked.
You gave him a thumbs-up and sipped. “Too late. This is canon now.”
Nemesis stood in the background like a gothic statue, the glitter bat strapped across his back with pride, which you had gifted it to him before this mission. Occasionally, he shuffled snow into corners with surprising tidiness. You made a mental note to recommend him for janitorial MVP. “He’s the backbone of this operation,” you whispered proudly to your mic.
“Also,” you added, “I’ve nominated him for hallway maintenance duty. He’s very organized.”
INT. MAIN REACTOR CORE – 02:00 HOURS
It was supposed to be a routine sweep: check structural integrity, record data, leave. Instead, the facility alarms went off. The room was on fire. A mutant worm had launched itself at the ceiling.
Nemesis swung a steel pipe like Babe Ruth reincarnated. A screech echoed off the walls. HUNK was beside him, mag dump steady, eyes calculating every angle.
You? You were crouched behind a crate with your mic, narrating like you were hosting a wildlife documentary on fast-forward. You imagined David Attenborough quietly judging you from heaven—or wherever he spectated chaos.
“Here we see two natural predators in their element,” you whispered, crouched low and peeking over the crate with wide-eyed awe. “One is tactical, silent, deadly—he hasn’t blinked in an hour.” You zoomed in on HUNK with your mic like you were documenting a rare species. “The other is... covered in glitter. And rage. And I love him.”
The mutant launched again. You threw your clipboard at it like an Olympic discus.
“Note to self,” you muttered, “bring throwing stars next time.”
Nemesis roared like a freight train with hurt feelings. Something exploded behind you—possibly the mutant, possibly the cafeteria. You ducked instinctively as flaming debris flew past.
HUNK, covered in soot and visibly out of patience, kicked open an escape panel so hard it screeched like it owed him rent. “MOVE!” he barked, his voice cracking for the first time ever.
You dove through the opening with the mic still recording. “That concludes today’s field report,” you wheezed. “We rate this experience: 10 out of 10 emotional breakdowns.”
INT. OBSERVATION DECK – 04:00 HOURS
You laid on a bench wrapped in three blankets, mic still recording. Nemesis sat nearby, re-braiding your scarf because the wind messed it up. HUNK paced, checking his gear like he could will himself out of this narrative.
“You okay, team?” you asked, voice muffled by marshmallow breath.
HUNK stopped pacing. “No.”
You grinned. “Perfect. Let’s do this again sometime.”
Nemesis nodded solemnly.
EXT. ANTARCTIC SURFACE – EVAC POINT – 05:30 HOURS
Snow whipped around you with vengeance. The evac chopper’s blades churned the sky like it owed them money.
You were curled in your parka, eating a granola bar and broadcasting into the mic. “Mission complete. Ice broken. Literal and emotional. Results: fiery.”
HUNK sat slumped beside the bird, bruised, silent, recalculating every life choice that brought him here. Nemesis stared at the sun like he was pondering poetry. He offered HUNK a blanket. HUNK declined with a grunt, recoiling slightly like the warmth might infect him with feelings. Nemesis then offered you one. You accepted and tucked it over both of them.
“We are a team,” you said. “The worst team. But still.”
HUNK manually rebooting a reactor while muttering death threats.
You trying to knit them matching beanies labeled “Cryo Bros.”
Nemesis doing yoga.
He closed the laptop with a click that echoed like the crushing of distant dreams. For a long moment, he just stared at the blank screen, expression unreadable—but one vein in his temple visibly throbbed.
“She survived Antarctica,” he muttered, eyes narrowing like the words physically pained him to say aloud.
