Staring out the window into the dark storm outside, Wesker reflected on how much the blood on his glove was reflective of the mortality of the man lying dead on the floor nearby. Shortly after taking the deluded man's life, the ruby tinged liquid was a beautiful viscous sheen against his glove, vibrant and full of life. Even now, not too long after, the substance had become tacky and clotted on the leather, transitioning to an unpleasant rust brown color as it dried, losing it original attraction. The owner of the glove glanced at his covered hand, the corners of the blond's mouth turning down in a disgusted scowl.
The right to be a god. So much for that fantasy, Spencer. The reality is much different than you imagined, is it not?
Spencer had sealed his own fate, expecting his creations to honor their master and bend to his will. He had not expected to have his pet bite the hand that fed, had never once doubted that his secrecy and hard work would contradict with the will of his carefully grown specimen. He had not skipped a beat when it came to priding himself with Wesker's creation, and degrading the fact that he was incomplete, only a stepping stone to the real dream, the ultimate Utopian race evolved from the virus. And Wesker had not tarried in reminding him that his goal was far from his reach. Slipping his index finger of his clean hand under the glove, he rolled the offensive article off, revealing the clean, sleek, murderously strong hand that hid beneath. Without pause, he withdrew from his trench coat pocket a glove, twin to what had sheathed his hand before. Slipping the glove on, he regained the careful equilibrium he upheld, returning to normalcy. The disdainful sneer relaxed, handsome features settling into a look of passive prowess. While absentmindedly adjusting the cuff of his coat to cover his wrist, a flash of lightning illuminated the room, and the discarded glove again caught Wesker's attention.
He could've easily fit the part. He did for so long. Infiltrating the S.T.A.R.S. Team, acting as the noble civilian by day, and by night following the bidding of Umbrella. He, along with William, had done much of the dirty work for Umbrella, for Spencer. He had bloodied his hands by the murder of James Marcus. He had led the S.T.A.R.S. Team into the mansion, and by such, led many to their untimely deaths. Covered secrets. Protected them. For so long he was the bloody glove, doing Spencer's bidding, handling the dirty work. And when it was all said and done, and he was considered a failure, he was cast off, counted a loss. Replaced.
But he had risen from the ashes. Reaped the rewards he was never meant to have. Made advancements never expected of him. And now he stood victorious, standing now on the road to godhood. Slowly, his emotionless mask slipped, allowing a satisfied smirk to curve the corners of his lips. He flexed his hands beneath the leather gloves. He had complete control.
Just then, his heightened auditory system picked up the clicking of heels against marble flooring. His vassals had arrived, to usher in the creation of the new master. Wesker's smirk broadened into a fierce, feral grin.
We shall see who is god.