Lone Wolves: 02

Those Who Defy Death

Chapter by Asiera

October 22nd 2002, Wesker's Estate, England:

The door to his office was thrust open so loudly, Wesker didn't even have to turn around to know it wasn't Sherry. Albeit, her last entrance had been a rather enthusiastic one, in which she'd proudly showed off the Medusa costume—Raccoon City had stolen everything girly, sweet, and pretty from her imagination replacing it with all the monsters that went bump in the night—she planned on wearing next Thursday, even though she knew he had no intention of either taking her "trick or treating" or handing out candy from their estate to children who's ages better suited such activities. Regardless of how noisily she'd barged into his office twenty or so minutes ago, there was no mistaking the practical slam of the heavy wooden door against the wall or the heavy footsteps that followed for the sixteen year old girl he'd been looking after since the horrors of 1998.

Silence proliferated the small but rather grand looking office as Wesker refused to swivel his chair around from where he'd been looking out the window at the stormy sky to face the intruder. In the end it wouldn't make a difference anyway, and Wesker was content to allow this to play out as it would for the time being.

Obviously this hadn't been what the individual had been expecting because he heard him shift his weight uneasily from foot to foot before Wesker's lack of response finally forced him to speak, his deep voice coming out in baritone growl. "You're a hard man to track down, Albert Wesker."

Ah, someone who knew who he really was, interesting. And judging by the accent, he was American. This revelation could be somewhat troubling depending on who he worked for. As far as Wesker knew, Umbrella was convinced he was dead as well as any other entity that could make any sort of difference; well, aside from the Organization he was currently "working for." As such, this rather rude interruption posed enough of a conundrum that Wesker was bothered to turn the chair slowly around to face the man standing in his office.

He almost laughed, instead choosing to let a soft smirk pull at the corner of his lips. The individual before him looked as though he'd barely escaped a war with his skin attached...well, most of it anyway. His rather impressive form was covered in purpling bruises and wounds of varying severity and stages of healing. His left arm clung useless at his side, sheltered from the world by some form of makeshift splint. The man's face was a mess, swollen in several places and covered in several nasty cuts that were sure to leave a series of deep scars across his features should Wesker decide to let him live long enough to develop them.

Wesker almost lazily regarded the hand Jack kept firmly on his combat knife and the rather obvious sub machine gun hanging from his hip. They really wouldn't do him much good if conflict was in the near future.

The young man across from him regarded Wesker in a mix of caution and perhaps a bit of annoyance, most likely due to the fact his target had yet refused to acknowledge him aside from turning around.

"You're Albert Wesker, right?" he asked knitting his eyebrows together in a way that must have made his mess of a face sting.

Wesker's smirk deepened. "All the trouble you must have gone to in order to track me down and you still have doubts as to my identity? Interesting."

The man scowled, the action causing one of the nastier cuts along his lip to open up and leak a few beads of red which were quickly eliminated with a nervous swipe of his tongue. "I guess after everything I've heard about you and all the trouble I went through in order to find you...well, maybe I was expecting a little...more."

Wesker raised a thin eyebrow, expression unreadable.

"The place wasn't even guarded," he stated matter-of-factly.

"I don't need guards." The response was simple, as was the threat behind it.

"Is that so?" He blatantly sized up Wesker's smaller, presumably weaponless form relaxed with the same dangerous ease as a giant cat in the large leather chair.

Wesker slowly lowered his hands from when they'd been steepled beneath his chin to rest on the arms of his chair, noting how the other man's hand flexed around the hilt of his knife. "You are welcome to attempt it, but I wouldn't recommend such actions, it doesn't look as though you can stand much more abuse."

"Heh," he laughed humorlessly. "You've got no idea how much I can take."

The only thing that kept Wesker from killing his assailant then and there was his curiosity as to who this individual was working for and out of a desire not to make a bloody mess of his office. Despite the seasonal appropriateness of such a violent redecorating, Wesker had his office exactly the way he wanted it and he liked the present state of the currently stainless carpet.

Faster than the foolish young man could really see, Wesker had launched himself up from his seemingly relaxed position the second he'd unsheathed his knife and vaulted over the smooth surface of his desk, the movement sending papers flying to the floor and bringing him closer than his attacker could prepare for. Before the blade even became a threat, Wesker slammed the palms of his hands into the man's solar plexus, the nigh impossible strength of the blow robbing all the air from his body and probably shattering a few of his already bruised ribs.

The next thing he knew, his footing was swept from underneath him and he was on the floor, Wesker's powerful, lithe body pinning him fast to the carpet. He didn't even have a chance to use his knife before it was twisted so roughly out of his hand that, if Wesker had put even the slightest bit more force behind the action, the supernatural creature above him would have snapped his wrist.

Wesker's quick fingers retrieved the fallen weapon in a flash of silver and pressed it just short of slicing against the sensitive skin of his throat so closely that even breathing was a dance on the razor's edge between living and spraying arterial blood over the office.

"If I were you," hissed Wesker face inches from his, "I would choose your next words very, very carefully." He wasn't even panting from the exertion he'd just put his body through in order to incapacitate his assailant.

"I...had to know," the pinned man whispered carefully, mindful of the sharp steel he'd personally honed to perfection pressed against his neck.

Wesker grinned wickedly and moved back from the man he'd later come to know as his best agent all the while keeping the knife firmly in place. He then slowly removed the sunglasses from his face revealing the smoldering, vertically slit pupils that looked like they'd been stolen from the devil himself. "And now you know."

The intruder gasped when he saw those unnatural eyes, momentarily forgetting about the blade in his surprise, the result being another injury happily exposing little rivulets of his blood to the world.

He actually thought he heard an annoyed "tch" from the man above him as the drops rolled down his neck and began to soak eagerly into carpet beneath them.

"Anything else?"

An emotionless request for last words.

"My name is Jack Krauser, and I want to work for you, Wesker."

Present Day, Organization Safe House, Unknown Location:

"Krauser's dead."

Ada's words shot through Wesker like a river of electricity arching through his spine. That...that was impossible. Krauser couldn't be dead. Not by some mundane mission to obtain a single parasite smaller than a speck of dust. No...no Krauser was like him, someone to whom death did not hold the same finality as it did to most individuals.

Wesker had known many people in his life who dodged death like it was a poorly aimed bullet; who skirted around it so the reaper's feted breath just brushed their skin. Chris was one of those people. He supposed Jill was too. The pair had a habit of continuing to avoid their, by now, highly justified ends. Ada herself seemed to have a cat-like tendency for taking out new loans on life. But Jack, Jack was different. Jack was like him. They hadn't just evaded their demises. No, they had faced them. They had felt Death's cold hands, been dragged through its vary door. Then, they'd both had the sheer audacity to shake off their reapers, turn around, and walk back into the realm of the living as if death meant nothing to them; a mere nuisance they were happy to live without, thank you very much.

So to claim that Krauser was dead...well, it was just as absurd as Chris believing he could end the existence of the man bearing the title Wesker, the man who had walked back from that dark path unscathed on multiple occasions.

Krauser wasn't dead. Such thoughts were folly. So the new question was, why did Ada want him to believe that Jack was?

Obvious lies dismissed, Wesker allowed an icy calm to settle onto his shoulder, wearing the cool confidence like a well worn cloak. "Really?" was his uncaring response to the woman he'd never really trusted and in whom he was losing more confidence by the second. Ada always played her own games, even when she was working for him—not that he was foolish enough to believe that the spy wasn't capable of having multiple employers simultaneously. Such was her way, and he be a fool to think she was loyal to him. Not like Krauser—the living and breathing individual that he'd sent along to make sure she didn't screw him over too badly. Krauser was the definition of loyal. How could he be anything else? Wesker was like a god to him—a title he rather enjoyed. Wesker had led him back through Death's doorway, had restored his value as a soldier and then had made him into so much more. But most importantly, Wesker had given him a purpose again. A purpose that solely involved serving him. It was a cozy little arrangement, far from the cat and mouse game he was playing with Ms. Wong.

"Hmm..." How to play this? He drummed his gloved fingers against his stereotypically large, black, leather, villain's arm chair. "Leon doesn't die easily..."

He'd sent Krauser after Leon, the rookie cop who miraculously survived Raccoon city six years ago. The same Leon that Ada had developed a soft spot for during her time in what was now being popularly referred to as "The City of the Dead." She'd intervened on his behalf multiple times in the past, it wasn't unthinkable that she'd done so again, perhaps even assisted him against Krauser; an encounter she wanted Wesker to believe, perhaps even believed herself, had ended in Krauser's death. Regardless, Kennedy was a weakness, a chink in the Red Butterfly's armor, and since she'd picked at one of his...

"That's fine, we can use him to clean up Saddler for us. We'll let them fight it out. Neither one of them will manage to come out unharmed." He'd practically purred the last word.

"Easier said than done..."

Judging by the way she looked away from the communication device, preferring to focus on something out of the visual field provided to him proved to Wesker he'd been at least partially right in his assumptions.

Now he was angry. Angry that the presumptuous woman had not only directly defied him, but that she'd done it in so obvious a manner and yet still thought that she could trick him into believing her story. Perhaps she put too much stock in their history. It was true that six years ago she'd been the only person he was able to turn to; that he'd actually needed her to get out of Raccoon City, out of Umbrella, and into the Organization. It could even be said that she'd helped to save his life. But that was over half a decade ago and it was a debt he'd long ago repaid in full. Now she was nothing more than a means to an end. A means he was growing quite tired of.

His voice suddenly developed a harsh edge; one that if she still had any common sense left to her should make her very, very wary of what her next move would be. "By the way it's your job to clean up what's left of them when the fight is over. Don't forget who is running the show. No matter what happens we can't let either of them live to see tomorrow. Our goal is to retrieve the sample. Take out anything that might interfere with our plans."

He abruptly ended the transmission. Let the disobedient little minx think on that for a bit. This was her finial opportunity to redeem herself in his eyes. He was almost assured what her choice would be—the wrong one—but, for old time's sake he'd give her the chance. Besides, right now he had other, vastly more important things to worry about, like what had become of his favorite little soldier.

Using the controls located conveniently on the arm of probably the most expensive chair he'd ever purchased, Wesker flicked aside the holographic window of Ada's now blank communication link and, with a few scrolls and taps of his gloved fingers, he brought up another virtual screen to the center of the room.

The holo-screen was quite a marvelous creation. The projected images it displayed hung mid air before him in the dark room, displayed in crystal clarity. Not only was arguably in much better taste than the computers of the everyday man, it strangely caused him significantly less headaches than the conventional methods of visual display devices. Albert didn't wear the dark lenses just for show, or for the anonymity they provided—though he wasn't complaining about either. Whatever the combination of Project W and the potent virus running through his veins had done to him, one of the results had been the glowing devil eyes that were extremely sensitive to light and left him prone to all manner of headaches.

Migraines were the least of his concerns at the moment, even though the results of this fiasco would no doubt end in a very nasty one. Right now he needed proof, incontrovertible proof that the woman in red had been lying; that Jack was still breathing. Proof that was only a simple button press away.

Long ago, once Jack had proven himself an invaluable asset to Wesker's cause, a fascinating experiment, and even more importantly, one of the handful of people in this world Wesker actually gave a damn about, Wesker had injected a tracking device beneath the skin of his neck.

February 16th 2003, Wesker's Estate, England:

"So what am I, your favorite dog now?" Jack grumbled begrudgingly sitting down on the metal examination table and eying the huge metal syringe in Wesker's hand warily.

Wesker chuckled, "I was going to say, 'valuable investment I'd prefer not to misplace,' but your description is much more...appealing."

Jack narrowed his eyes, though he hadn't missed the teasing in Wesker's voice...or the way he was advancing with that damned gigantic needle.

"Yeah, and what if I don't want to be your 'dog?'" he huffed, shying away from his grinning tormentor.

"Well then," Wesker laughed wickedly, "Then I suppose you'd find yourself a stray once more." His voice turned more harsh. "And may I remind you that strays don't last very long in your line of work." He began advancing menacingly with each insulting word. "They're dirty, flee-bitten, rabid, wild animals. It took a lot of work—or should I say grooming—to get you to where you are today and I'm not about to write that all off as a waste of my bloody time," Wesker finished, coming to stand directly before his current, shirtless experiment.

Jack let out an indignant "humph" to concede his defeat in the matter.

Wesker sighed and, none to gently, stopped Jack's inch by inch retreat across the metal surface beneath him with a firm, medically gloved hand on his shoulder.

"As amusing as this conversation is, I think it's high time we move on." Wesker shook his head, lining up the needle with Jack's neck. "Honestly Jack, I did the exact same thing to Sherry years ago and she barely flinched."

Jack stopped both his mental and physical complaining after that.

Present Day, Organization Safe House, Unknown Location:

Wesker felt relief trickle through his tainted veins when Jack's tracker—moving tracker—came up on the screen. Then that relief turned to bitter poison. Something was very wrong.

It was clear that Jack was alive, but that's not all the tracker was telling him. It did far more than just relay the movements of its host. It also displayed Jack's heart rate—significantly elevated but that wasn't outlandish considering what the mission might be forcing him to do. More importantly, it gave him a clear picture of Jack's viral load. The Veronica Virus was completely unstable within him, the levels fluctuating before him eyes, trending upwards at a dangerous rate. This was even more disturbing because never in the past—aside from a few purposeful alterations—had Jack's infection level ever varied.

A remarkable feat. There were few people on this earth that could boast a natural immunity to one of Umbrella's viruses. Add in having a symbiotic relation to the virus and being able to bend the affliction to their will, and only around four came to mind. He was one of them—and by default that included his twin, Alex Wesker—Sherry was another, and Jack the fourth: the miraculous individual born with immunity to Alexia's nasty little creation, T-Veronica.

Neither he nor Jack had even known that the injury he'd received in South America from the B.O.W. previously known as Javier—the same injury that had taken away the usefulness of his left arm and his purpose as a mercenary all in one fell swoop—had caused him to become infected with T-Veronica and given him a whole new lease on life. The results of the blood tests Wesker had run a few weeks after Jack had joined him had certainly been a surprise to the both of them.

Now things were different. Jack's T-Veronica levels had skyrocketed from where they usually sat. Wesker couldn't imagine that such an increase hadn't caused some sort of mutation, his body couldn't keep the virus under control when it was replicating so quickly. As far as he knew, Jack might not even be remotely human anymore. He'd seen it happen so many times before...

Wesker closed his eyes and massaged him pounding temples. This was not acceptable. He could not lose Jack. Not after...after everything...

Wesker wanted so very badly to enlarge the communication window and make contact with Krauser, to ensure that he was still alright—if Jack was even capable of still doing so that is—but he couldn't even attempt to.

Saddler was an exceedingly paranoid individual—what madman bent on thoughts of world domination wasn't? After Wesker had helped Krauser arrange Ashley Graham's kidnapping, he'd had to cut all contact to ensure that Jack could gain the cult leader's trust and settled for using Ada as his means of contact into that remote corner of the world.

But just because he couldn't talk to him didn't mean he couldn't see him.

Wesker had gained many things since the Umbrella Corporation had begun to fold, including a fair few of the toys they no longer had any use for. Like the satellite he was using to zoom in on Jack's location. Just a few more minor adjustments and...

Wesker's breath froze in his lungs. It was as he'd feared. Jack wasn't even close to alright and a far cry from what most would have considered human. The virus had begun to mutate his body, transforming his left arm into something out of the nightmares Wesker refused to admit he had. Nightmares of horrific bloodthirsty monsters, twisting mansions, and hideous disfigured faces pressed up against the test tube glass. Or even worse, the nights when it was him looking out of the test tube, past his own mutated reflection, at the merciless scientists in their white lab coats.

Wesker stood. He needed to act now. If Jack wasn't helped, if the virus within him was not halted in its rapid take over of his twisting body, Wesker would lose him. That was something he wouldn't—couldn't do. There was still time.

As Wesker stalked out of the room, he didn't even bother to close the image of the monster as it launched itself effortlessly from rooftop to roof top, entire virus ridden form throwing itself towards some goal Wesker couldn't even begin to fathom.

In Wesker's haste to do something, anything to stop reality's relentless chain of events, he practically ran over the petite young blonde as they rounded the same corner. The sudden collision caused her to slam up against his chest and drop her arm full of documents inked with complex chemical equations and experimental data that would have made some of the world's top scientists scratch their heads in confusion but was just typical "helping-out-Wesker-work" to Sherry Birkin.

"Ouch..." she muttered, briefly lamenting whatever minor injury she'd just sustained. "Sorry, Al, I..." she stopped when her bright blue gaze fell on his face and shielded unnatural eyes, somehow reading past all the walls and the dark lenses that kept all but a very select few out.

"What's wrong? Did something happen in Europe?" Her voice was suddenly miles away from what would be expected of your typical eighteen year old girl in the areas of strength and comprehension. Then again, Sherry was far from your typical teenager, Raccoon City and subsequently living with and being raised by Wesker had assured that.

Wesker hated how she could understand him so easily, like she didn't even have to try. For while there was the rare occasion when the girl's nigh unrivaled ability to read past his carefully constructed masks was a welcome relief, most the time he just viewed these lapses as a weakness on his part and right now was no exception.

Though, in his pride's defense, she had known him since she was born and he'd basically become the little orphaned girl's (highly dysfunctional) father figure since the G-Virus had devoured everything she'd ever know. Sherry had known him as the man he'd used to be, before the powerful virus he now harbored had transformed him into Umbrella's deadliest creation to date. And what was more, Sherry was like him. She too had become irrevocably bonded to a virus that probably excluded her from being part of "Club Humanity."

If anyone could see through his walls it was Sherry, and Sherry knew that something was terribly wrong. She could see it in his tightly drawn lips, the way his left eyebrow almost imperceptibly twitched from time to time, how his back was stiffer that usual, and in the tight clench of his fists. Usually she didn't get so many signs, so this must be really, really bad.

Wesker considered lying to her, thought about trying to blow it off as inconsequential; a problem with an experiment—he mentally winced at the thought—but he knew she wouldn't buy it. He didn't have the time to waste anyway. That and she'd probably kill him later if he didn't tell her what was currently happening to Jack. Ever since the ex-mercenary had joined their strange little family of B.O.W.s Sherry had taken quite a shine to the gruff individual.

"It's Krauser." His words were ice but Sherry heard the fear and worry hidden under the smooth accent. "T-Veronica is completely out of control. He's mutating."

Sherry's face remained stoic, a trait she'd picked up from him over the years, but he could see the same panic he was hiding reflected in her eyes.

"I'm going to Europe to retrieve him," Wesker finished, intending on pushing past her and leaving their Spartan conversation at that.

He should have know that he wasn't going to get rid of her that easily. She had the same stubborn tenacity her father had displayed when trying to unravel the secrets of some deadly pathogen he had pinned beneath the exposing stare of his electron-microscope. "I'm going with you," she stated firmly, grabbing his arm and using the same tone Wesker took on when he was making it clear that he would entertain no arguments.

"No," he ordered just as sternly back, pulling his arm free and moving quickly down the hall.

"Al, come on! You could use my help!" She glared when his only response was to continue stalking away. "He's important to me too you know!"

Wesker shouldn't have paused but he did.

Sherry of course took this as an incentive to continue her argument. "What's the point of training me for all this stuff, of having Jack train me, if I'm never going to use it! I'm more than ready for the field and you know it!"

Wesker sighed heavily. As much as he hated to admit it, she had a good point, several in fact. And he really could use her assistance. He'd never say it out loud, but facing this catastrophe alone might not be his most brilliant idea. He growled angrily as he gestured roughly for Sherry to follow. This is why he hated getting close to people. It just screwed everything up.

Sherry quickly bounded along behind him, thankful and somewhat surprised that he'd caved so easily.

"You will do exactly as I say, with no questions or arguments. If you make a nuisance of yourself and slow me down you could very well ruin our only chance of retrieving Krauser alive. Do not make me regret this Sherry Birkin."

She nodded grimly. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Good, he was regretting entirely too much at this moment already.

Asiera's AN: There, second chapter is finally up (sorry for the wait). I hope you enjoyed the first chapter written from Wesker's perspective. Oh and some more good news? My sister already finished the next chapter! We just have some editing to do, so that means next post in a few days. Hope that made somebody grin.

Just something to note, I suppose if we're getting "technical" and going by chronological order, this chapter should have come first since it obviously takes place before Ada and Krauser's epic battle (which, by the way, still rates as one of the hardest Resident Evil battles I've ever had to do) and my sister's first chapter takes place during the aftermath. However, seeing as Jack is the star of this little number we decided to go with the current posting arrangement.

Something else that's important to realize is that we're writing this story as if it takes place in the same Resident Evil world as my other Resident Evil fic, Project W. Hence the mentioning of Albert's twin, Alex Wesker and a few other minor details. You won't be missing out on anything too important if you're not also reading Project W though, so no worries (although I'm never opposed to more readers. ...Okay, yeah Sis, I'll stop with the shameless plugs...sorry.)

Anyway, I'm kinda behind so I best get started on chapter 4. Thanks for reading. Reviews and ConCrit are always greatly appreciated!

-Asiera & Mehrune

Those who Defy Death