9mm
Albert Wesker sat perfectly still in the darkness. He liked to let his thoughts stir in his mind from time to time. It kept his head clear, stopped him from going crazy.
Well, crazier.
He often thought over the events of the past ten years, the Spencer estate, the underground laboratory, the destruction of Raccoon, the destruction of Rockfort island and the Atlantic base, the fake sample retrieved from the Spanish island; the deaths of so many colleagues and valued researchers, William and Annette Birkin being two, not to mention the genius of Alexia Ashford gone to waste.
All this mess was made by a small group of vigilantes linked to or involved in his own 'team' of disciples.
The S.T.A.R.S.
How he hated them. It stung even more that he was partly responsible for their 'creation' so to speak. No, not creation. Evolution. He had valued their friendships and treasured their commradery a long time ago. Before he realised his own true potential. Yet nothing gave him greater pleasure than to plan each and every single act of revenge he would bestow on each of their worthy shoulders. He didn't necessarily want them all to die, just to suffer by the most elongated and excruciating means available. There was one person who he wanted 'permanently out of the picture'.
"Chris Redfield".
Never has one man been the focus of such hatred, such passion for distress. Yes... Chris could have the most painful death he could imagine. And he had all the time in the world to mull it over.
Wesker felt inside his jacket and laid a hand on the sturdy grip of a 9mm Beretta handgun. It was a standard handgun that had been customised to equip a laser sight and a silencer. It was a piece of machinery, a bringer of death and pain, a weapon of destruction; it was his old friend. It had been with him since the beginning. Every event of the past decade, big or small, it had been there with him, loyal and true. He took kept it on him all the time, he took good care of it and cleaned it every day, polishing the surface to a mirror sheen, disassembling and assembling the parts over and over again, checking each and every inch of the weapon. He made sure only the finest calibre bullets were loaded into it. He knew every millimetre of it like the back of his hand; he would sometimes disassemble it just to marvel at its parts, piecing it back together in record time like a puzzle. He did this everyday and yet he still got a kick out of figuring it out. It was the one thing he knew how to handle better than anything else.
It was exactly the same for people too. After all, knowledge is power, and power was the one thing Wesker craved the most. He sat in the high wing backed chair and stared at the huge monitor screen that devoured the wall in front of him and watched his victims. Day after day he stalked them from his sanctuary, lingering in their presence like a shadow without them even realising they were being hunted. He sat and waited till one of them revealed a weakness, and every one of them had one. Leon Kennedy was perhaps the only exception so far. Wesker had often thought a certain someone had been his Achilles heel, but the more he watched them the more discontent he grew with that conclusion; he seemed to have ways of repelling her, he made her scared of him in a way, and he of her. There would certainly be a chance to pull at his heart strings, but she was simply too much of a risk factor to take at this moment in time. She was of course very unreliable, not to mention extremely unpredictable. Unless it came to Leon of course. And he would figure a way to make that work in his advantage one day soon. He had very big plans for the two of them.
At the moment the monitor was blank, probably for the first time in weeks. He enjoyed watching them all, letting them lull into a false sense of safety, thinking they were in the clear. He enjoyed most of all, knowing they didn't know they were being watched. Wesker often worked in the shadows; it was how he liked it; minimum effort and maximum result. And he always got away with it.
Wesker took a deep breath and brushed a hand through his slicked back blonde hair. He held the 9mm up to the light. Only he knew of its potential, its power, its past. He could see his sunglasses reflected on its silver surface, and in his sunglasses, the gun smiled back at his. It was like looking at yourself in a hall of mirrors, the images deep and infinite, but merely a trick of the mind.
A flicker of a smile forced itself at the corner of his lips. He pushed a button on the control panel and the screen flickered to life. He pressed a few more buttons until a young girl appeared on screen. She appeared to be sleeping lightly, her short brown hair partly covering her face. Her pink dress hitched up to her thighs as she rolled over, showing the black hot pants underneath. She appeared to be mumbling something as she lay on a large leather couch; pink heels lay scattered at either end. The floor was covered in dirty laundry, pizza boxes and used mugs. A young man appeared on screen and walked over to the couch in his boxers.
"Slobbishly in character I see, Chris".
Wesker gripped his Beretta, his forefinger resting delicately on the trigger. Chris pulled a blanket off the back of the couch and laid it over his little sister, kissing her lovingly on her forehead. Wesker tightened his grip on the handgun.
Chris picked up the pink shoes that lay strewn on the floor and paired them neatly at the end of the couch. Such sickening displays of affection were common viewing for Chris. He was yawning, his handsome features distorted and twisted. Wesker grinned and aimed between his eyes. Quick as a speeding bullet, he pulled the 9mm out and shot; the screen went blank. The smoke that escaped the barrel was intoxicating. A fresh burst of adrenaline fed into his system and felt his eyes flash with power.
A broad grin slowly spread across Wesker's face. He stared at the shattered screen, At the image that disappeared with it. He imagined Chris's handsome features twisted and distorted as he fed a bullet into Chris's flesh. He began to laugh manically. He had found Chris's pressure point, now all he had to do was squeeze. He imagined the memories he would be looking back on the next time he sat in this chair and cleaned his 9mm. After all, his old friend never let him down...