Author's Note: although my original intention was to write a single-
chapter piece, I discovered that I was unable to prevent myself from
continuing this... It looks as though I may have yet ANOTHER novel to
write. However, I'm certain that, considering the large amount of praise
that I received for this piece, for which I'm more grateful than I could
ever articulate, quite a few will appreciate the effort. I hope that this
newest installment will not disappoint.
Disclaimer: Resident Evil is a copyright of Capcom, inc., and I assert no ownership of it. If by their request, I shall immediately remove this piece from fanfiction.net, and anywhere else that it may be posted and\or archived.
As usual, my life continues to become worse. Umbrella is becoming considerably more paranoid about everything, and they've begun to monitor all of their agents' behavior, particularly in communications with 'unauthorized' personnel... I couldn't even talk to my mother for more than five minutes without a 'mysterious' disconnect, although, really, I'm grateful for that. Along with just about everyone in my life, she's expressed a sudden interest in it, for the only reason of which I can think: I'm 'depressed.' Yeah, that's damn right, but not for the reasons that they may assume.
I seem to go off on tangents in my own diary, but not that it makes any difference; I don't even know why I'm bothering to keep this diary, anyway. No offense. Wait, did I just write that? Maybe I am less stable than I thought; I'm thinking of a diary as something sentient, now, after all. I don't know if I ever wish to remember this period of my life; no, unless he wants to read exactly what my thoughts at the time were, there's no true purpose for it for any future time. However, I think that I need something to communicate with, even if it's not human, or even if it's not organic. Maybe that's better; after all, you can't judge me, and you definitely can't harass me further or annoy me. You merely listen... Much like he did whenever I wasn't feeling well, or I was annoyed.
Anyway, suddenly, especially after Irons ordered a 'psychiatric evaluation' of the staff (the man's on Umbrella's payroll, so it's obvious that he's not interested in 'curing' their minds, but just insinuating that they're insane. I wouldn't mind it, but I was forced to listen to that simpleton prattle on for hours and hours about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and so many other painfully clear subjects.. Apparently, he doesn't realize, or just doesn't care, that I graduated university at age eighteen with honors, with a medical degree, which did include some more- than basic psychology, along with organic chemistry. Although, the bastard was more interested in his less-than-subtle tactics of soliciting a date with me... First Chickenheart, and now this menace.), and it was 'leaked' by a 'mysterious source' in the RPD (my wager is on Irons himself) to the press. Thus, everyone believes that the S.T.A.R.S are insane, and, unfortunately, I'm among them. My mother nearly had a panic attack when she learned what happened, and that I was supposedly 'on drugs,' but, fortunately, her tendency to think the best of every situation calmed her far better than I ever could... Irresponsible simpleton-she's only concerned with her own image. After all, for all of my life, 'Rebecca, no, don't date him; he'll interfere with your studies. No, Rebecca, you can't do this or that; it'll interfere with your studies. No, you can't go to Germany; you have to meet the dean with your father and I.' Well, ignore that; I'm incredibly glad that I didn't go to Germany, because, at that meeting, I met Albert Wesker.
As an interesting coincidence, Lord Spencer the Second, along with Spencer's 'brightest protegés,' Albert Wesker and William Birkin, had been invited to the annual alumni party at RCU, Raccoon City University (how ironic for one of America's smallest towns to have its own university) to meet the 'brilliant new graduate.' Naturally, my parents (well, my mother... Father could never refuse anything that she wanted. I truly pity the old man, but it's his own fault for being so easily dominated by something with a spine) caught wind of that, and demanded that I attend it, even though I hate parties, or anything social in general, because they would be allowed to come, and meet them. I didn't know anything about Lord Oswald Spencer the Second, except for that he'd followed in the far greater footsteps of his father, the creatively named Lord Oswald Spencer the First, who had shared the Nobel Prize in Genetics with Alexander Ashford years before; he was one of the largest shareholders in Umbrella, inc, as well. I didn't know anything about Albert Wesker, but I had heard about William Birkin, the brilliant young medical student that had made a name for himself in viral pathology during his university years.
Upon arriving at the party, I was immediately struck with how incomprehensibly boring it was. Mother ran off, dragging Father behind her, to meet Spencer and the other 'high-class' guests. Although they were prominent chemists in their own right, my parents (again, my mother, but father never objected, per see) could never cope with their 'lower middle- class' upbringing. You wouldn't imagine that would be important in a small city such as Raccoon, but with the incredible wealth brought in by Umbrella, there were some very prominent members of society. I immediately recognized Birkin, and tried to speak with him, but, upon approaching him, I was just pushed-off by a curt nod and a grunted, 'hello.'
That was the second disappointment of the night. However, as I stomped-off, fuming, and not really watching where I was going, I struck a wall. Well, the wall was wearing a black suit, and sunglasses, and had a dazzling smile, along with an obviously handsome face, framed by a close- cropped blonde head of hair. The wall was Albert Wesker.
His first words to me were, 'Ms., are you all right? Do you need any help getting up?"
Realizing that I had been staring at his face, and not picking myself off of the marble floor as I probably should've, I just shook my head dumbly, and stood, feeling my face heat as I stared down at the floor. I'm petite; all right, I'm short. Well, compared to him, anyway. I continued to stare at the floor, but he also just stood there. Eventually, after a bit, I managed to lift my head, and, for the first time, caught a glimpse of his eyes. They were probably his most startling feature, cobalt blue, sharp and cunning, yet sympathetic. I didn't know why he was wearing those stupid sunglasses at all.
His sunglasses folded in his left hand, he extended his right toward me, and I eagerly took it, surprised by how gentle his grip was for such a large man. "My name is Albert Wesker," he began, "and your name is?"
"R-Rebecca Chambers." I managed to stutter, and I kicked myself for how much of a child I seemed to be.
"You're the newest graduate, aren't you? I've heard a lot about you, Ms. Chambers? Or may I call you Rebecca?" I was surprised at how smooth his voice sounded, without seeming oily, as most of the older people from the staff seemed to be.
"Rebecca's fine, Mr. Wesker."
"Please, call me Albert. I'm sorry that I was in your way; however, I can't really say that I'm not glad that I didn't block you. This party was so dull before you bumped into me." He smiled, and it nearly took my breath away.
I just nodded, since I really had no idea what to say. However, he seemed quite interested in pursuing the conversation, and just continued as though I'd answered with some brilliant witticism.
"Well, Rebecca, why did you run into me, if you don't mind my asking?"
"I was just a bit angry. William Birkin was more of a conceited jackass than I thought he'd be."
"I think that William's mind just isn't all here, right now."
"Do you know him?"
"Yes, I do. We're both researchers at Umbrella, inc. You've undoubtedly heard of his research, but I doubt that you know who I am."
"I'm sorry..." I cursed my luck once again that night.
"It's all right. I haven't been published before, after all. My doctoral thesis was patented, so no one's read it. I really haven't done any public work, either."
"Do you mind not getting any adulation?"
"No, not really. I've always liked working in the shadows." This piqued my curiosity.
"What do you mean?"
"I'd rather do something in secret, and really have it be worth something, than do it publicly, and have it be worthless. No one ever accomplishes anything in public. Private research is where everything that's important is done."
"So, Dr. Birkin's public work means nothing?"
He grinned, and nodded in acknowledgement of that. That grin of his was contagious, and I felt as though he'd let me in on some monumental secret; something that only he and I knew, and that I could feel proud to keep.
"Looks like Birkin and Spencer are occupied with that schmoozing couple over there," he was pointing to my parents, and I could barely hold back my laughter, "do you want to just leave and do something fun?" Somehow, the manner in which he spoke didn't make what would normally seem to be innuendo disgustingly and overtly perverted.
My parents weren't very pleased when they couldn't locate me when they wanted to introduce me to Spencer and Birkin. However, at that time, I didn't care; I still don't.
His definition of 'fun' definitely was fun, albeit a bit unusual. Not that I was complaining, mind you. We spent the entire night exploring Raccoon Forest. Despite having lived in Raccoon for all of my life, I'd rarely been in the forest, and on the few occasions that I did visit it, I didn't travel deep into it. That night, however, we just spent the night ruining our clothes, walking in the crisp autumn air, his jacket placed around my shoulders, and a pilfered flashlight (hey, I think that I deserved to take that from the janitor's closet. After all, I boosted the credibility of that university quite a lot) lighting our path. We alternated between chatting, I complaining about my overbearing parents, and the annoyances of school life, and he telling me about his life, and just listening to the beautiful noises that one can only experience fully in the quiet, cavernous depths of a forest.
He told me so much about himself, about how, after his parents died the year that he graduated from high school, he enlisted in the Army for tuition, about his experiences in the service, as well as his schooling at RCU. Eventually, he came to the point at which he said that, if I wanted him to continue, I had to accept the request that would surely follow. At that point, I said yes. I still don't regret it.
He explained to me what his Doctoral thesis was about: controlled, DNA mutating 'smart' DNA viruses. His research was initially intended to treat cancer, HIV, and so many other 'untreatable' conditions, but soon attracted the interest of Umbrella, inc., and he immediately accepted their employment offer. After working with Birkin for some time, he learned to what it could really be applied: weapons. Not only weapons directly against humans, but true, thinking weapons. BOWs: the BioOrganic Weapons. I thought that I would've been appalled; I was fascinated. I was convinced that this could benefit humankind more than any 'benign' research ever could; that, through this, all of humanity's faults could be erased. I knew that, to quote a clichéd phrase, 'you can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.' Everyone's always surprised to learn that I'm such a cynical, objective person. However, as I said before, I'm not innocent.
After that, he offered me a position as a researcher beside he and Birkin in Umbrella, inc. I really had no choice in the matter; after all, I'd already promised him that I would. Regardless, I wanted to do so, anyway.
After I agreed, he smiled that radiant smile of his, and, for the first time in my life, I really gave into my emotions; I kissed him. However, his response surprised me far more than my own spontaneity: he grasped me, and deepened the kiss, until we were both lying on the soft, leaf-padded forest ground, tentatively parted for a moment, and gasping for air as we looked upward toward the star-speckled night sky, before returning our attention to each other..
Well, this is just great. I'm going to stop remembering these things, because, whenever I go far enough, I can't stop. I'm already crying, and I really don't want to ruin this entire diary. Tomorrow, it'll just be the same: I'll report to the precinct, even though, technically, we're not supposed to be 'on-duty' (it still seems to mean that we're entrusted to file paperwork... Just great. Even if Irons is an Umbrella subservient, I really want to kill that man), ignore Chickenheart's advances as calmly as I can, play the 'traumatized new recruit' for Chris, Jill, and Barry, and try to not shoot myself and\or everyone else in the department from sheer boredom. Maybe I'll manage to lose myself in the mundane routine; I'm lying to myself again. I can't stop thinking about him, and it takes all of my strength not to breakdown when I see his desk.
Albert, come back to me soon. I miss you so much.
Author's note: I truly hope that this thoroughly belated (relationship complications, combined with dual-enrollment puts a crimp in your writing schedule, I'm afraid...) chapter has met (hopefully exceeded) the expectations of those wonderful fans of my 'first chapter.' If not, please, be honest, and tell me that it's not adequate. I'm not that confident in it myself, and, if it's mediocre, I'd really appreciate a very blunt review. I hope that Rebecca's narration seemed adequately subjective for a diary description, and not too prose-like (even though it was). Also, if she seems too longing and depressed, simply chalk that up to my current state, and just inform me that it didn't seem concurrent with the rest of the piece (which happens to just be the first chapter...). To everyone that's read (suffered?) through this piece: thank you! I truly appreciate any readers, and reviewing is a gift for which I'm eternally grateful. I can't express enough gratitude to all of those wonderfully kind reviewers of the first chapter, and I truly, truly hope that this is as well-received. I'm dragging myself away from the word-processor, now, so that I don't expand this author's note into its own chapter. Guten Nacht, Alles!
Disclaimer: Resident Evil is a copyright of Capcom, inc., and I assert no ownership of it. If by their request, I shall immediately remove this piece from fanfiction.net, and anywhere else that it may be posted and\or archived.
As usual, my life continues to become worse. Umbrella is becoming considerably more paranoid about everything, and they've begun to monitor all of their agents' behavior, particularly in communications with 'unauthorized' personnel... I couldn't even talk to my mother for more than five minutes without a 'mysterious' disconnect, although, really, I'm grateful for that. Along with just about everyone in my life, she's expressed a sudden interest in it, for the only reason of which I can think: I'm 'depressed.' Yeah, that's damn right, but not for the reasons that they may assume.
I seem to go off on tangents in my own diary, but not that it makes any difference; I don't even know why I'm bothering to keep this diary, anyway. No offense. Wait, did I just write that? Maybe I am less stable than I thought; I'm thinking of a diary as something sentient, now, after all. I don't know if I ever wish to remember this period of my life; no, unless he wants to read exactly what my thoughts at the time were, there's no true purpose for it for any future time. However, I think that I need something to communicate with, even if it's not human, or even if it's not organic. Maybe that's better; after all, you can't judge me, and you definitely can't harass me further or annoy me. You merely listen... Much like he did whenever I wasn't feeling well, or I was annoyed.
Anyway, suddenly, especially after Irons ordered a 'psychiatric evaluation' of the staff (the man's on Umbrella's payroll, so it's obvious that he's not interested in 'curing' their minds, but just insinuating that they're insane. I wouldn't mind it, but I was forced to listen to that simpleton prattle on for hours and hours about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and so many other painfully clear subjects.. Apparently, he doesn't realize, or just doesn't care, that I graduated university at age eighteen with honors, with a medical degree, which did include some more- than basic psychology, along with organic chemistry. Although, the bastard was more interested in his less-than-subtle tactics of soliciting a date with me... First Chickenheart, and now this menace.), and it was 'leaked' by a 'mysterious source' in the RPD (my wager is on Irons himself) to the press. Thus, everyone believes that the S.T.A.R.S are insane, and, unfortunately, I'm among them. My mother nearly had a panic attack when she learned what happened, and that I was supposedly 'on drugs,' but, fortunately, her tendency to think the best of every situation calmed her far better than I ever could... Irresponsible simpleton-she's only concerned with her own image. After all, for all of my life, 'Rebecca, no, don't date him; he'll interfere with your studies. No, Rebecca, you can't do this or that; it'll interfere with your studies. No, you can't go to Germany; you have to meet the dean with your father and I.' Well, ignore that; I'm incredibly glad that I didn't go to Germany, because, at that meeting, I met Albert Wesker.
As an interesting coincidence, Lord Spencer the Second, along with Spencer's 'brightest protegés,' Albert Wesker and William Birkin, had been invited to the annual alumni party at RCU, Raccoon City University (how ironic for one of America's smallest towns to have its own university) to meet the 'brilliant new graduate.' Naturally, my parents (well, my mother... Father could never refuse anything that she wanted. I truly pity the old man, but it's his own fault for being so easily dominated by something with a spine) caught wind of that, and demanded that I attend it, even though I hate parties, or anything social in general, because they would be allowed to come, and meet them. I didn't know anything about Lord Oswald Spencer the Second, except for that he'd followed in the far greater footsteps of his father, the creatively named Lord Oswald Spencer the First, who had shared the Nobel Prize in Genetics with Alexander Ashford years before; he was one of the largest shareholders in Umbrella, inc, as well. I didn't know anything about Albert Wesker, but I had heard about William Birkin, the brilliant young medical student that had made a name for himself in viral pathology during his university years.
Upon arriving at the party, I was immediately struck with how incomprehensibly boring it was. Mother ran off, dragging Father behind her, to meet Spencer and the other 'high-class' guests. Although they were prominent chemists in their own right, my parents (again, my mother, but father never objected, per see) could never cope with their 'lower middle- class' upbringing. You wouldn't imagine that would be important in a small city such as Raccoon, but with the incredible wealth brought in by Umbrella, there were some very prominent members of society. I immediately recognized Birkin, and tried to speak with him, but, upon approaching him, I was just pushed-off by a curt nod and a grunted, 'hello.'
That was the second disappointment of the night. However, as I stomped-off, fuming, and not really watching where I was going, I struck a wall. Well, the wall was wearing a black suit, and sunglasses, and had a dazzling smile, along with an obviously handsome face, framed by a close- cropped blonde head of hair. The wall was Albert Wesker.
His first words to me were, 'Ms., are you all right? Do you need any help getting up?"
Realizing that I had been staring at his face, and not picking myself off of the marble floor as I probably should've, I just shook my head dumbly, and stood, feeling my face heat as I stared down at the floor. I'm petite; all right, I'm short. Well, compared to him, anyway. I continued to stare at the floor, but he also just stood there. Eventually, after a bit, I managed to lift my head, and, for the first time, caught a glimpse of his eyes. They were probably his most startling feature, cobalt blue, sharp and cunning, yet sympathetic. I didn't know why he was wearing those stupid sunglasses at all.
His sunglasses folded in his left hand, he extended his right toward me, and I eagerly took it, surprised by how gentle his grip was for such a large man. "My name is Albert Wesker," he began, "and your name is?"
"R-Rebecca Chambers." I managed to stutter, and I kicked myself for how much of a child I seemed to be.
"You're the newest graduate, aren't you? I've heard a lot about you, Ms. Chambers? Or may I call you Rebecca?" I was surprised at how smooth his voice sounded, without seeming oily, as most of the older people from the staff seemed to be.
"Rebecca's fine, Mr. Wesker."
"Please, call me Albert. I'm sorry that I was in your way; however, I can't really say that I'm not glad that I didn't block you. This party was so dull before you bumped into me." He smiled, and it nearly took my breath away.
I just nodded, since I really had no idea what to say. However, he seemed quite interested in pursuing the conversation, and just continued as though I'd answered with some brilliant witticism.
"Well, Rebecca, why did you run into me, if you don't mind my asking?"
"I was just a bit angry. William Birkin was more of a conceited jackass than I thought he'd be."
"I think that William's mind just isn't all here, right now."
"Do you know him?"
"Yes, I do. We're both researchers at Umbrella, inc. You've undoubtedly heard of his research, but I doubt that you know who I am."
"I'm sorry..." I cursed my luck once again that night.
"It's all right. I haven't been published before, after all. My doctoral thesis was patented, so no one's read it. I really haven't done any public work, either."
"Do you mind not getting any adulation?"
"No, not really. I've always liked working in the shadows." This piqued my curiosity.
"What do you mean?"
"I'd rather do something in secret, and really have it be worth something, than do it publicly, and have it be worthless. No one ever accomplishes anything in public. Private research is where everything that's important is done."
"So, Dr. Birkin's public work means nothing?"
He grinned, and nodded in acknowledgement of that. That grin of his was contagious, and I felt as though he'd let me in on some monumental secret; something that only he and I knew, and that I could feel proud to keep.
"Looks like Birkin and Spencer are occupied with that schmoozing couple over there," he was pointing to my parents, and I could barely hold back my laughter, "do you want to just leave and do something fun?" Somehow, the manner in which he spoke didn't make what would normally seem to be innuendo disgustingly and overtly perverted.
My parents weren't very pleased when they couldn't locate me when they wanted to introduce me to Spencer and Birkin. However, at that time, I didn't care; I still don't.
His definition of 'fun' definitely was fun, albeit a bit unusual. Not that I was complaining, mind you. We spent the entire night exploring Raccoon Forest. Despite having lived in Raccoon for all of my life, I'd rarely been in the forest, and on the few occasions that I did visit it, I didn't travel deep into it. That night, however, we just spent the night ruining our clothes, walking in the crisp autumn air, his jacket placed around my shoulders, and a pilfered flashlight (hey, I think that I deserved to take that from the janitor's closet. After all, I boosted the credibility of that university quite a lot) lighting our path. We alternated between chatting, I complaining about my overbearing parents, and the annoyances of school life, and he telling me about his life, and just listening to the beautiful noises that one can only experience fully in the quiet, cavernous depths of a forest.
He told me so much about himself, about how, after his parents died the year that he graduated from high school, he enlisted in the Army for tuition, about his experiences in the service, as well as his schooling at RCU. Eventually, he came to the point at which he said that, if I wanted him to continue, I had to accept the request that would surely follow. At that point, I said yes. I still don't regret it.
He explained to me what his Doctoral thesis was about: controlled, DNA mutating 'smart' DNA viruses. His research was initially intended to treat cancer, HIV, and so many other 'untreatable' conditions, but soon attracted the interest of Umbrella, inc., and he immediately accepted their employment offer. After working with Birkin for some time, he learned to what it could really be applied: weapons. Not only weapons directly against humans, but true, thinking weapons. BOWs: the BioOrganic Weapons. I thought that I would've been appalled; I was fascinated. I was convinced that this could benefit humankind more than any 'benign' research ever could; that, through this, all of humanity's faults could be erased. I knew that, to quote a clichéd phrase, 'you can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.' Everyone's always surprised to learn that I'm such a cynical, objective person. However, as I said before, I'm not innocent.
After that, he offered me a position as a researcher beside he and Birkin in Umbrella, inc. I really had no choice in the matter; after all, I'd already promised him that I would. Regardless, I wanted to do so, anyway.
After I agreed, he smiled that radiant smile of his, and, for the first time in my life, I really gave into my emotions; I kissed him. However, his response surprised me far more than my own spontaneity: he grasped me, and deepened the kiss, until we were both lying on the soft, leaf-padded forest ground, tentatively parted for a moment, and gasping for air as we looked upward toward the star-speckled night sky, before returning our attention to each other..
Well, this is just great. I'm going to stop remembering these things, because, whenever I go far enough, I can't stop. I'm already crying, and I really don't want to ruin this entire diary. Tomorrow, it'll just be the same: I'll report to the precinct, even though, technically, we're not supposed to be 'on-duty' (it still seems to mean that we're entrusted to file paperwork... Just great. Even if Irons is an Umbrella subservient, I really want to kill that man), ignore Chickenheart's advances as calmly as I can, play the 'traumatized new recruit' for Chris, Jill, and Barry, and try to not shoot myself and\or everyone else in the department from sheer boredom. Maybe I'll manage to lose myself in the mundane routine; I'm lying to myself again. I can't stop thinking about him, and it takes all of my strength not to breakdown when I see his desk.
Albert, come back to me soon. I miss you so much.
Author's note: I truly hope that this thoroughly belated (relationship complications, combined with dual-enrollment puts a crimp in your writing schedule, I'm afraid...) chapter has met (hopefully exceeded) the expectations of those wonderful fans of my 'first chapter.' If not, please, be honest, and tell me that it's not adequate. I'm not that confident in it myself, and, if it's mediocre, I'd really appreciate a very blunt review. I hope that Rebecca's narration seemed adequately subjective for a diary description, and not too prose-like (even though it was). Also, if she seems too longing and depressed, simply chalk that up to my current state, and just inform me that it didn't seem concurrent with the rest of the piece (which happens to just be the first chapter...). To everyone that's read (suffered?) through this piece: thank you! I truly appreciate any readers, and reviewing is a gift for which I'm eternally grateful. I can't express enough gratitude to all of those wonderfully kind reviewers of the first chapter, and I truly, truly hope that this is as well-received. I'm dragging myself away from the word-processor, now, so that I don't expand this author's note into its own chapter. Guten Nacht, Alles!