A/N: I finished my Wesker drabble, Awakening, and felt like writing another. You may wonder why Excella isn't in this, but I wanted to have the fic solely from Wesker's POV.
Also, this is just a little story to tide me (and, hopefully, you) over, until I can get over the writer's block on Obscure.
Within the console room overlooking the grand silos full of Uroboros, the leather-clad blonde leant over a desk, reading an old file recovered from the original Umbrella laboratory. His gloved fingers periodically flicked pages over, and he continued his perusal.
Then, with a blink, several letters danced across the page.
He forced his focus, but it was no use. Leaning up slightly and glancing at his hand, he saw the outline of every object before him blur slightly. To anyone else, it would have been a result of fatigue, but he knew what occurred within his body. He swivelled on his heels and turned away from the desk, heading out of the room and toward his makeshift sleeping quarters.
There were three stages to the painful indicator that another dose of PG67A/W was due – blurred vision, shooting head pain, numbness. He didn't know what followed, because the agony had never been allowed to continue.
In truth, he didn't dare.
The warmth in the room offered little help, as he scrambled through desks and drawers to find the antidote. Where the Hell is it? In moments like these, Sod's Law dictated that the attaché case be well-hidden. Of course, it was in the last draw he impatiently tugged open.
His feline optics settled upon the desired object for a moment, relieved at finding it. A sharp bolt struck his head, and he gripped it with a gloved hand, a bestial growl ripping from his vocal cords in discomfort and anger. With a shake in a pathetic effort to ease the pain, he rose to his feet and placed the case on the edge of the bed in the middle of the room.
The aches came faster now and his vision worsened, occasionally tinting with dull shades of orange. His eyes itched, too warm and drained of their moisture. He reflexively rubbed at them, the knowledge that it would do nothing an afterthought.
Inside the case sat a dozen hypodermic needles, but he only needed one. A single syringe was held up to his wavering vision, as he stared at it with distaste. Yet there was no choice; he had to take it, correct the imbalance within his system. It would make him strong again.
Which means you're weak without the serum, his cynical subconscious bit. Birkin gave you little more than a mild poison that will slowly destroy you.
He growled at the defeatist part of his mind that had reared its ugly head. God cannot be weak.
The cap was tugged off the hypodermic, before he tensed his arm. The needle punctured skin and the serum slipped into his veins. Then he sat onto the bed and allowed the drug's effects to work, soothing the aches and restoring his power. With it, he truly felt himself once more.
No, more than himself.
Superior.
The End