"There had never been any reason, insofar as might immediately be obvious, to suspect that any of them would wind up leading normal lives. They had all come to each other as exceptional members of their various specialties, those who made up S.T.A.R.S. Jill, among the first women to place in special operations; top ranked at that. Chris' varying levels of military excellence. Barry's oddly domestic leanings in a squad of young, single, decidedly commitment- phobic peers. Wesker's own hidden past.
He often wondered then, if there were any indication that his motives weren't what the others expected; more often wondered if the reverse of that coin existed as well. They were, all of them, breaking the mold in some small, unobvious, unmentioned way that no one ever seemed to voice openly. No one made stray remarks about Jill's womanhood, Barry's age, Chris' sexuality (or Wesker's for that matter, though they doubtless must have guessed). Since such things stayed so unspoken, compartmentalized, locked forcibly away from open air… what else could be beyond that – just out of the range of enhanced perception – that any or all of them might be keeping from the rest?
More importantly he often mused, though it never applied to Wesker himself: which insignificant lapse in sanity had caused them to turn down this road, and then press on? Despite every red flag, every subtle (or blatant) warning that their path was never meant to proceed as expected? Whichever fatal flaw was subsumed in his colleagues' collective unconscious, he could only use hindsight to guess at it; seeming then like a yearning for a life that was something, anything beyond ordinary. They all would have done whatever it took to grasp at it.
Yet if that were so, why in heaven and hell's names was he here now, sitting down after breakfast on a bright Sunday morning with a stack of income tax forms staring him in the face?
Admittedly, he may have brought all this upon himself. The house was by no means a modest dwelling: the kitchen was one of four, with seven bathrooms and too many bedrooms for any sane person to ever use. Not counting the grounds, the greenhouse, the forest surrounding them, a car port filled with any number of vehicles- his idle purchases and whatever kept Chris occupied for hours on end. The basement laboratory. The vast majority of it was cared for by the modern equivalent of what was once acceptable to term "servants"; these days one was supposed to refer to them in more euphemistic language.
All of this juxtaposed with the lives they lived barely a decade earlier… It was still so clear in his mind's eye: a tiny push, one small event would make that wish of an interesting life come true for them forever. Even though he knew some of them (Barry especially, but not the least those who never survived past that first night at the mansion) sorely regretted it. If it had all gone according to the wishes of his erstwhile employers, that night would have been the beginning of a new world order. At times - mostly while working alone, awaiting the PCR to run or turning over a new batch of plates - he was privately wistful for those days. Thoughts of what might have been, the prospect of men becoming closer to gods, the idea of unlimited ability…
Those were also the moments he was aware, intellectually, that it was time for another dose of antiviral serum. Much like the management of a transplanted organ, this would be a lifelong struggle for balance now, but unlike that analogy Wesker had never required this to live; this was entirely his choice. And unlike the recipient of a transplant, the T-virus would never stop trying to supplant its host's natural immunity. The mutations would never cease. The lingering fear that he might wake up one morning no longer in control of his body would dog him until the moment of his death.
If he could even die.
Well, they would cross that bridge when they came to it.
Given all of this – the enormous importance of his private work, the vast amounts of disposable resources, the presence of the help at any reasonable hour – it was with great distaste that Wesker was facing down his live-in domestic partner, who stood across the bar counter with heavily crossed arms in evident refusal to allow him to escape.
"Explain to me once more exactly why I am required to complete these." The purposeful application of his most annoyed tone of voice was not as successful as he would have hoped; Chris remained unmoved, not even shifting from his stance.
His face darkened as Wesker watched, and he leaned over to close the gap across the bar; Chris' way of demonstrating his own displeasure, "Do you even know where all of your money is? Look at it. You have shares in corporations that have rights to the same research that Umbrella was doing. You have shares in corporations funding overseas testing."
Most unexpected. Chris could actually read.
"Well of course I have those shares." He was trying his very best not to sound condescending, "Whose research do you think they're using?" Only half a lie: though the lion's share might have been Birkin's it wasn't as though he were around to contest it, and who else should collect on the private sale of that data? With all her BSAA and government work and the 2% funnelled into her trust fund, his daughter was more than adequately cared for.
That might not have been the best tactic. He noticed the anger building, saw the other's hands begin to move, had just enough time to weigh the consequences of moving away… and decided it best to just let himself be shaken. It was still a slight shock after all these years that Chris could lift him with ease now; once upon a time, that definitely hadn't been the case.
"Those corporations made Edonia happen." Ahh. Of course. There was the explanation, quite literally looking him in the face.
He took a moment to study it. Wondered if now might be the time to bring up some of the other issues he had been carefully avoiding since the other had returned from his latest efforts in China, though he hadn't thought it wise until now. When Chris wanted to talk about something, he was usually the one to open the discussion. Perhaps this was that signal. "…I realize it does seem that way, but there were circumstances beyond my control that lead to that particular outbreak. I do have some amount of influence over the private use of my research. I have less influence when government bodies come into play. Believe me Chris: what happened in China was not something I could have prevented."
"But you'll still make money from it." The bitterness remained in place, but the hands around his collar loosened.
"How else should I fund my own projects? Ask for grants? Publish? Run the risk of more corporations looking for ways to successfully infect their soldiers and produce more walking time bombs?" Chris might not have been a scholar, but neither was he an idiot- he knew reason when he heard it, and Wesker watched him deflate gradually as more and more of it hit home.
However much Chris might hate it, there was no value to that old data. The strains held by all of the corporations seeking to use it were doomed to failure under the same fatal mutation that lead to Birkin's transformation. Wesker himself had never managed to rescue it without rendering the virus susceptible to the human immune system, to a degree that would never confer any of the desired side effects of infection. The last remaining samples of the original virus were destroyed long ago… nearly. Only two strains remained: the ones hosted by the two infected individuals who remained in this mansion, isolated as far as possible from prying ears and eyes. Well. Technically there was a third, but it would also likely prove useless to whoever tried to weaponize it.
As he reflected, he could almost see the same thought processes pass in the other's mind. At the very least, he could watch the understanding and then the resentment, and eventual resignation set into his features. But then, looking closer, was there something else? Just a flash perhaps, but even Wesker could identify genuine sorrow when he saw it. Far more than could reasonably result from the simple loss of men under his command; though he had never asked, Wesker had heard from Jill and a few others about that story… and he'd been under the impression that Chris appreciated his silence.
"Would he have lived? If the world knew about your serum." His eyes had left the other's face for half a second, but shock snapped them instantly back. Everything he had been so meticulously avoiding laid out for the asking. "Tell me if Piers would have made it."
So, something had happened after all.
"No." His own response left his mouth before he could even consider it, and he felt a pang of something when the other's shoulders sagged on impact.
"It was a different strain. My serum is specific… Decades in the making. The chances of individualizing the same treatment in such a short time…" All he had left was to shake his head and try to share the other's regret. "In a different world, perhaps."
The other was turning, his hands leaving the bar. Wesker didn't try to stop him.
"Chris? I'm sorry." Too little too late, likely. He knew from experience as he watched the other go that he probably wouldn't be home tonight. Maybe not for a few nights. For the best, likely, because he didn't know how to give whatever comfort the other needed, even if he were to ask.
Besides, there were greater things to attend to. Shifting the papers aside into a neat stack, he waited until he heard the start of an engine, the opening of the front gate, and wheels pulling slowly out into the drive. When the noise of Chris' car finally left the edge of his hearing – approximately a mile and a half down the road – he finally made his leave of the kitchen to return to his lab. Among the holding pens and tanks was the delivery requisition he had been expecting. He made his way casually toward the dry dock, at the mouth of the canal leading out to the underwater passage. If Chris knew this area of the compound he had never made mention of it, yet Wesker couldn't help but look over his shoulder surreptitiously as he spotted the crew, waiting with his parcel. A simple stamp, and he bid them leave.
Again, he waited until the submersible had pulled out of the dock and long left to wheel that precious cargo into the tank he had specially prepared. With utmost care, unsealed the crate to inspect the vital statistics monitors. All green. He would wait until the morning to start the work it would take to revive his specimen.
The wait would be much longer to begin research, but he could hardly have passed up the opportunity; electrical conduction in infected individuals was a rare ability indeed.