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Master Copy of the RP: Anomaly Verse

Toyhouse Profile (put here until I make a small bio/version here)

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

There’s no resistance when Wesker grabs the phone, the barest of body heat seeping through layers of cloth drawing a whisper of a sigh from Lance. His mouth wavers in the way it does when he’s biting back a smile, tired eyes, exhaustion bruised-deep shadows coloring his skin, gazing up at Wesker with something flitting across his face that almost approaches fondness, at ease with the Tyrant in a way no being should be, before it’s quickly smothered under a bland mask once more. You only talk when you’re mad, or comfortable. But he keeps that particular thought to himself, the image of the Wesker he knows sprawled out on their bed, limbs tangled together, one hand clasped to Lance's hip and another carding through his hair, low words in a halting cadence against Lance's scalp, as if hiding his mouth would somehow hide the fact Wesker is willingly opening up a closed casket of himself to another person firmly in his mind's eye.

“Be a good boy and unlock it.” That earns a small noise, strangled somewhere in the back of his mouth, a shivering ripple traversing over his ribs.

“Of course, sir.” He murmurs, dipping his head in a small bow to hide the brief heating of his cheeks, heartbeat picking up at the bridled good boy thrown his way, needing to drag his mind out of the gutter it was swiftly diving into. Quick press of a thumb against the phone and it’s unlocked. Lance’s body is lax and loose, looking up and up at the taller man, nonplussed by the violent aura crackling under his skin - he’s been stared at too many times by too many people with the same disregard for his personhood for it to ruffle his feathers too much. The slight hurt that slithers under his ribs is thoroughly ignored.

There’s an intense urge to stick his tongue out at Wesker when he turns away to give more orders, one he violently suppress, knowing it will only end in bodily harm, at best, for himself.

“The folder’s in Images, the one with a bunch of knives in it.” He instructs, giving the passcode to unlock the hidden pictures contained within. Not the deepest of security by a long shot, but decent enough to keep any casual perusal from finding them, the photos easily seen in the folder are truly basic things of the different blades he and the others have used over the years, anyone seeing them would gain no substantial information.

In the hidden folder, there’s only a few dozen photos within, mostly of the Pack members out in deployment, showing various job sites they were stationed at and some B.O.W.s they managed to bring down, a few posed like big game trophy shots. This phone purposefully does not contain a large amount of personal or incriminating data on it, with him being in the streets and now an easy target for cops it’d be so thoughtless to carry that around in easy reach.

And it’s now that he starts to shift uncomfortably, because if this doesn’t prove that something is up, that he’s telling the truth as much as he can, that he’s not an enemy here, then he doesn’t know what he’ll be doing next.

It’s his turn to watch Wesker with a judging look, contemplating how much damage he could do to the other man if things truly go south. There’s no winning for him if Wesker decides Lance’s life is forfeit, but he can at least make Wesker work for it. Maybe a direct bite to the throat, most people don’t expect civilized folks to make that move, and ripping out a chunk will stagger him enough for perhaps a quick blow elsewhere, and at least it’ll leave a lasting impression. Really wish I still had my knife… The last thought is slightly mournful, more so because it’d help him hurt Wesker than anything else, empty fingers twitching as if he could somehow summon the item to him with but a thought.

#verse - anomaly #who has depression and self worth issues?#lance does! :D #he'd usually put up much more of an effort to save himself in a situation like this #but well...#there's worse ways to die than by wesker's hand #there's also like three semi-spicy photos in there that he forgot about #of himself and wesker #ft uroboros play/bondage #to be fair #he hasn't looked in that folder in quite some time

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."