Untitled
Absence
By Subverted
AN: This is my first attempt at Resident Evil fandom. This particular one-shot takes a look at Wesker's character attempts to delve into parts of his character that have remained largely unexplored. In terms of series canon, this story takes place after the conclusion of The Umbrella Chronicles.
Power corrupts.
And absolute power corrupts absolutely.
A decade ago Wesker would have smirked derisively at such an inane and clichéd remark, perhaps even would have laughed outright, although it was not usually in his manner. He could still picture the look on Ada's face, the sickly sweet mixture of fear and slight disgust that had twisted her lovely pale features into an expression that had seemed pitiful at the time, which had caused him no end of mirth.
"You actually infected yourself purposely?"
"My…condition is not a result of an infection by the T-Virus, Miss Wong. The sample given to me by William was an entirely unique strain, never before tested on a human host. William informed me that the virus would only bond successfully with individuals of a certain genetic disposition, and as you can see, I fit the bill rather well."
"So now you're…what? A B.O.W? God, who knows what that virus has turned you into…you're clearly not human anymore."
"On the contary, Miss Wong, I am more than human. I am perfect."
She had turned away from him then, her posture stiff, and she had pulled out that one-liner about power and how it corrupts and he remembers now that he had actually chuckled a little, because despite her attempts to appear nonchalant about the whole thing he had still detected the slightest of tremors passing over that lean form, heard the waver of anxiety in her lilting voice. At the time it had amused him.
Now, as he thought back to that moment, pictured again in his mind the horror in Ada's dark eyes, heard the quivering fear in her voice, Wesker felt…
I feel nothing.
In the beginning, the effects of the virus coursing through his blood had been primal, brutal. He had been transformed into a predator, sleek and powerful and unfettered by human weakness. He could tear steel like paper, could move as though gravity barely mattered, and could turn a man's skull into a raw, bloody mess simply by tightening his grip. He became, for a lack of a better term, unstoppable.
It wasn't until after the ecstasy had faded, and the frenzy surging through his body had begun to dull did Wesker begin to take notice of those things that were absent, and how, strangely, these absences began to leave their mark on his new existence. He first became aware of such oddities when he realized that his body no longer responded to painful stimulus. He'd discovered it rather abruptly when someone (he couldn't remember who they were or why they'd tried to kill him, he'd simply snapped their neck and not bothered with the details) had attempted to ambush him, getting a clean shot right in the ribs, shattering bone and puncturing the lung. He had been aware of the bullet's impact, had known that it had pierced flesh and bone but he had simply not felt it. Wesker surmised that if he hadn't sensed his attacker's presence beforehand, hadn't heard the thunder crack of the gun as it had fired, he probably would had never realized he'd been shot in the first place. The thought had been mildly disconcerting.
Gradually, over the years, Wesker began to notice the absence of other things as well. Not long after the pain disappeared he realized that other kinds of external stimulus were also beginning to fade. His bodily responses to heat and cold diminished into non-existence, to the point where he could submerge his hand into a pot of boiling water and leave it there until he could smell his own flesh beginning to cook, and he could pull it out and see his skin and flesh slowly melting away in great chunks and watch as the virus knitted it all back together and he would still feel nothing. And then the warmth of a bright summer's afternoon ceased to exist for him, and the same way too went the chill air of a winter's evening, the caress of a gentle breeze, the dry leather of his favourite chair, the soft touch of another human being. And when Sherry had come to him on her eighteenth birthday, her eyes sparkling with affection, and had planted a kiss on his cheek and whispered "Thank you, Uncle, for the present" he had nearly jumped, startled as he was, because despite the fact that he could see and smell and hear her she was little more than a ghost, wispy and vague. And he had been almost to afraid to return her embrace because he knew that if he attempted to touch her she would slip through his fingers like so much smoke and vanish and once again he would be left holding nothing, feeling nothing and then something small and broken and human would unfurl and writhe inside his chest and a voice would whisper over and over the price you have paid is not worth what you have gained
Wesker now sits at the head of his empire. Umbrella belongs to him. The chance to make history is now his.
All that glitters is not gold.
Albert Wesker knows this. Part of him just wishes that he had known this sooner.