A/N: Hello, I truly appreciate writing for such a kind audience, and I have never had problems with the fanfiction community. I truly think that all of you are wonderful people, and I enjoy writing for you. However, in recent events, I have met with another set of fanfiction users in the vast community that we all take part in, and since they do not care for what people like me say, I would just like to tell people that I personally think that these kinds of groups are somewhat discouraging, but I love reading. I enjoy so many brilliant stories from so many talented people, and it kind of upsets me because now I see that fanfiction, a place of unique creativity, has become a place for vigilantes to play the moderator game. Anyway, I hope no one has to deal with these people and/or lose their work to their exaggerated regulation enforcement or just plain heckling.
ALONSI~! (to the chapter!)
Chapter 11.
Sherry lies next to me, and I don't remember falling asleep. There are slight signs of bags under her eyes; I wonder how hard it is to work in America, the country where they live to work. She pulls the comforter closer to her chin as she rolls over. My eyes are now resting on her blonde hair. She is an angel; I am a demon.
–xi–
Work is mind numbing, so to keep from going absolutely brain dead, I ponder how to go about the next step. Small towns like Raccoon City have horrible supplies of the luxury quality, and I keep wondering why the hell I ever came here. Oh, yeah, I thought Birkin would not fuck me over like the bastard he is. Anyhow, I finally procured a ring with blue sapphires, even though it took extensive lengths to get what I wanted. Now, how to present this like it matters?
Why isn't anything going to shit yet? Albert Wesker went slightly bat-shit crazy by the beginning of 1993, so why is he still as normal as the color gray?
Plans aside, I have the day off tomorrow. It will be a great day. How to go about asking such a question? Birkin has been nagging me since his wedding that I should propose to Anita, and I should have. It has been almost ten years; it normally takes five for people to 'fall in love.'
My mom was never married, so I guess this is where we all learn the truth.
I have decided that I will go the cliché way and bring her out to dinner. Anita dresses in a light blue, summer dress, and I wear a plain pair of black pants, a white, button up shirt, and a lightweight blazer. The restaurant that I have reserved a table at is down the street a few blocks, so we decide to walk. As luck would have it, the air is strangely warm. She holds my hand as we walk, and I can feel the little, square box press against my leg in my pocket. 'It's nice out.' She states happily. "It is, possibly, for the first time this year." A smile pulls at my lips. 'It's a lot warmer than Edonia.' That one proper noun irritates me; I can not explain why. "I hope so; it is insanely cold there." 'If you bundle up, it's okay.' She falls silent. 'Sorry, you probably don't like talking about a dump like Edonia.' "I will talk about whatever you want to talk about." I kiss her cheek. "We are here."
Clearly, he didn't like Edonia because he dragged her to America.
–xi–
"Jake," Sherry whispers as she sits up.
"Mornin', super girl." She rubs her eyes gently. "How did you sleep?"
"Better than I have in a long time, ha-ha." She stares at me as if she worries I will disappear.
"America seems to suck."
"It's not all bad; you should visit some time." She smiles and is clearly still in Sandman Land.
"So, I promised to tell you stuff." I fake a smile.
"You did." She confirms.
"So." I reach over and pick up my wallet. My hand flawlessly pulls out a picture and hands it to Sherry. "This is my mom." She stares at the worn out picture. A young woman with long brunette hair is holding a child, about five years old, and trying to get him to stay still.
"Wow, she's beautiful."
"She died when I was fifteen and is why I'm a merc." She rubs my back in a comforting manner. "It was a tumor."
"Jake."
"My great-grandfather died from the same thing; it's a hereditary thing."
"Then you –"
"I'm fine; remember, I've got Wesker genes." I laugh and flex my right arm as a symbol of strength.
"'Wesker genes?'" She questions in good humor. "Isn't the world lucky?"
"Nah, I'm lucky 'cause I met you."
"Me? The G-Virus incubator?" She gets me, and I like that.
"Seems like our parents just set us up with one another."
"You think?"
"Yeah."
–xi–
Anxiety is causing my forehead to sweat. Throughout the course of dinner, my mind races for both possible outcomes. Conversation has ended, and we revert into our respective silences. Now is the time, so what the hell? My hand reaches into my pocket and grasps the velor box. I inhale.
Who knew the man who tried to be god and enslave humanity would be nervous about proposing?
I stand up from my seat and gradually make my way to one knee. Everyone's eyes gravitate towards me, and for a second, everyone is holding their breath. "Anita Muller, would you do me the honor of being my wife?" Her hand is pressed over her mouth, and everyone else is watching intently. 'Albert, I – wow – of course, I would love to.' She confirms, and everyone else claps. I happily slide the ring onto her ring finger.
And they continued to be happy.
As we are exiting the building, a host taps my arm. "Yes?" He procures a gourmet grade cake. 'On the house and congratulations.' It takes a while for me to register what is going on. "Oh, thank you very much, sir." He hands the cake towards me, and I take it in my left hand as we walk out into the night. Anita shivers a bit; it has become a lot colder than it was before. I place the cake on the ground, slip off my blazer, and wrap it around her shoulders. 'Thank you.' I pick up the cake with my left hand and wrap my right arm around her waist. "Tonight has gone well." 'I couldn't imagine anything better.' Her hand rests on mine.
They were happy.
'Who knew it would take so long for Wesker to grow a pair?' Birkin jokes as he is handed two beer bottles. "Well, if you keep drinking those Stellas, you will not have a pair for much longer." I hiss. 'Right, well, it took you long enough. What's she gonna say anyway? No? Then, it's straight back to Edonia for her, isn't it?' His face is decorated with a smug grin at his own humorous ingenuity. "Don't say that." He frowns a bit. 'If it were me, I would've sent her back a while ago.' "Good thing that I am not you then, correct?" He rests his hand on my shoulder. 'Just some friend-to-friend advice, don't do it; she'll ruin your reputation and credibility.' I wave him off. "Who are you anyway? Your wife has gotten into your head! Anita is a fine, young woman; you said so yourself." He pauses for a moment. 'Yeah, but think about her past; do you really think that you can trust her of all people?' Anger and frustration boil beneath my calm facade. "Says the ex-co-worker, who was going behind my back to get his way. Do not lecture me on trust with Anita, when you broke your trust with me." 'Right, I should've talked with you about it, but now that you bring it up, Lisa Trevor turned out to be worthless after all.' "Really?" 'Yes, however, I did procure the G-Virus.' Birkin reminds as if trying to protect his ego. "Congratulations." 'Yes, well, Liza Trevor will be disposed of as soon as possible; Spencer organized it and everything.' "Great, no more suffering, it is about time."
It seems like Birkin was just one of those people who Wesker kept around because he could, not because he wanted to.
I often find Anita staring at the ring on her finger as if it is an alien, and it concerns me a bit. "We can go get another ring, if you would like a different one." 'No, it's wonderful.' She always replies with that and continues on with her daily schedule. She hums her little tune now and then. I would not be able to repeat it for anyone because I have not truly listened all that well to it. We try new things on my days off. She tries to teach me piano, but I believe music is something that will never agree with me. I have an immaculate thought processing system, but when it is left up to my hands to represent it, it comes out sounding like something sat on the piano. It is repulsive. And it further confirms that a man of science cannot also be a man of art.
She always sang the same song, hummed it too, but I cannot quite replicate it. Perhaps, it is because I am a man and she is a woman. I will never know.
–xi–
Sherry is in the shower, and I still can't find a reason as to why I'm still here. She never asked me to stay but never told me to leave. The water turns off, and I can hear the faint sound of humming. The tune is quite mesmerizing and familiar. She opens the door, and steam flees the small confines of the bathroom. She is still humming.
"What song is that?" I ask casually.
"I honestly don't know; I've just heard it before. I forget where. Why?" She asks as she slips on her jacket.
"Never-mind."
–xi–
A long day's work of repressed boredom has ended. Pretending to be enthralled by communication services and clients is painstakingly dull. However, work has let out early, so I make a detour on the way home and buy a few flowers. Perhaps seeing Anita in a great mood will help my own. Flowers in hand, I open the apartment door to find all the lights off and lingering silence. Perhaps she has already gone to bed. I turn on the lights in the bedroom, empty; bathroom, empty; closet, empty. A feeling of emptiness is beginning to well in my mind, and it is completely unnecessary. Maybe she went out with friends; I am home earlier than usual. I place the flowers in a vase and take a shower. Upon leaving the bathroom, a piece of paper catches my eye, along with a ring encrusted with sapphires.
Must have been a blow to the chest.
'Albert,
I love you, and I'm sorry.
Anita Muller.'
So blunt, it must have been painful.
I do not know whether to be infuriated or depressed. I could be tearing apart this letter or closing the curtains and myself from the world. My body is cold, but I can feel little pricks of reality breaking throughout my skin. I leave the letter where it is and lie in bed. I realize that this bed was made for more than just one, or perhaps I have grown too used to it being shared. I do not know where to go from here, but perhaps that is a problem best saved for tomorrow.
He would never know why she left, would he? There is no record of why she left. She never told anyone.
Nothing gets completed at work. Nothing. My mind is absent and wandering through all the possibilities on what I could have possibly done wrong. Where could I have changed? Why did she leave?
He never would have gotten back on track.
To my surprise, I am greeted with a manila folder with 'S.T.A.R.S.' stamped in red ink. Underneath the stamp, 'Special Tactics and Rescue Service' is scrawled in handwriting. I open the folder to find a peculiar page that has my personal information, well, falsified personal information.
'Name: Wesker, Albert J.
D.O.B: August 28th, 1960
Gender: Male
Height: 6'3"
Weight: 186 lb
Blood type: O
Marital Status: Married
Spouse: Nurik, Madeline R.'
There are pictures of me from four prominent angles, and more falsified documentation. Following the false information is a packet entailing the details of S.T.A.R.S., what it will be and how it will work, and after that, my own information from Umbrella on why S.T.A.R.S. pertains to me.
Exit, Anita Muller; enter, Chris Redfield.
–xi–
Things have cleared up well with Sherry, but now, I have to deal with Ms. Alexandria Schey.
~FromPrussiaWithLove.
