Resident Evil: How Gods Are Born

by Dark Glass Marionette

He learnt about his creation, his childhood and more importantly, about himself. Now, Albert Wesker is about to meet the man that was behind it all; the man who raised for only one purpose: to become a god. This is his past, his present and his future.

2. Chapter II

Author's Note: Finally I can upload this! I've been horribly busy this week, but it's weekend now and I've got free time. Anyway, onto the note.

Well... what can I say about this one? For me, it's been hard to write it but, at the same time, it hasn't been terribly complicated. Let's say I've already had some experiences, so I know how everything that happens here feels like. No, I haven't lost anybody; I want to make that clear. It's something else, something it's not worth mentioning ;)

Also, this chapter -in my opinion- is a little bit more... emotional, could you say? Nah, I don't think so, but I've delved too much into Wesker's character and ta-da! I've found a few things XDD Well, in here is my own personal take on his past and everything that happened, answers to questions like: how was he abducted? How was his family? Does he have any members left? That's what's intrigued me, and I've followed a system to explain it which has been hard for me to write through, not because of complexity, but because of the events themselves. I've felt terribly sad sometimes, but I don't think that matters much.

There's not much else to say; I think you'll like this chapter, which is divided into parts. Thanks to everyone who's sticking with me so far, I'm really grateful. Well, now, I leave you to read this new installment. Have fun and enjoy!^^

Disclaimer: I do not own... have I said it before? xDDDD

PS: You'll notice a few Latin words here; translations are right beside. It's my new favourite language, even if it's unused.

---

II

Blood of the Father

Wesker's promptness was expected. "I'm not your son."

Alexander's expression softened again, allowing his arms to fall to his sides.

"You were like one, though," he allowed himself to say. One last thought crossed his head before he saw Wesker disappear from in front of him, and he knew Death was coming to get him just like he'd requested a very long time ago.

If asked about life, Alexander would've said it was pretty much pointless —or, at least, his own. Right now, he thought, analytic retrospective on his life was as useless as a stick fighting a sword. He had his regrets, yet it was not the time to ponder about them and he certainly didn't want to; after all, the past can't be changed. He's remembered it many times and now more than ever before: it's because of it that he's going to die. He couldn't do much about it, right?

Well, so much for despondency.

Alexander could've had requested his death, but he himself had made a deal with it: Death could come to him sooner than expected, but Alexander wasn't going down without one last stand against it. He wasn't as careless and stupid to let his life slip away so easily; he had to have a way to die, another way to die, not just as simply as it was about to happen. He actually thought he deserved a better way to leave; some could consider it arrogance, others could consider it a sense of pride and dignity. Whatever the case, Alexander didn't care.

That is why, as soon as he saw Wesker's hand coming to impale his chest, Alexander gripped his wrist and quickly held it inches away from his heart, struggling with almost no difficulty.

"I won't go down so easily. I'm not leaving without one last fight," said Alexander, a small smile spreading across his face. Wesker was left somewhat impressed: Alexander had definitely modified his body in some way to preserve his youthful appearance, but the effects of whatever substance he had taken or process he had gone through couldn't be only limited to slowing down his aging. Judging by the speed of Alexander's hand, Wesker feared he was going to fight another human BOW waiting for its mutation to start.

But as the fight started, that didn't happen.

Instead, Alexander rapidly swung his leg and delivered a blow square in Wesker's side, focusing every ounce of strength possible in his foot. He delivered three more blows in a rapid succession, successfully holding Wesker in place, and then punched his face to finish his first round. Wesker was about to stagger due to the pain in his now spinning head, but he recovered his balance and counterattacked, ramming the butt of his hand right under Alexander's ribcage and thrusting him backwards.

Alexander, thanks to his good —and almost supernatural for a human being— physical condition, recovered from the blow with a back-flip in mid-air, landing on the floor with a skid of his shoes, unfazed by the attack. He kept a deadly and fierce glare fixed upon Wesker, who was now dashing forward once again in a very different way: he was zigzagging towards him, disappearing and reappearing with black blurs, and Alexander felt a bolt of surprise through his body, even though he had already seen those moves many times… or something akin to them.

The elbow in the stomach he received afterwards was like the strongest kick of the strongest horse in the world; it was like a thousand pins riddling the offended area. He groaned through gritted teeth, holding the wave of blood that threatened to spill from his lips, and a kick in the face from Wesker was what he needed for his killer sense to finally kick in. Alexander Wesker could be a cold-blooded and bloodthirsty individual once in a while… and that happened too often.

Before Wesker could do anything else to harm him, Alexander performed a reverse roundhouse with not as much success as he had expected. Wesker caught his foot inches away from his cheekbone —and that kick would've been nasty— but it was just what Alexander wanted: thrusting forward his other leg and swinging his body forwards, he hit Wesker's chest two times with unimaginable speed; he was so fast that those movements could've been considered one.

Now, if he was smart, he would let go of my leg.

But Alexander's thoughts were never heard —at least, not entirely. Wesker did let go of his leg but then he countered again with unbelievable skill: he jumped into the air, flipping his body around, and with a windfall kick in Alexander's ribcage he had him on the floor again. Wesker's hand closed tightly around the collar of his shirt and he effortlessly lifted Alexander up. He struggled to free himself, lashing out his legs but soon stopping as he saw he was wasting oxygen.

Alexander craned his neck to one side with a wince, and it was then when Wesker caught sight of the large scar that ran up from possibly his collarbone to the half of his cheek. Its paleness contrasted with Alexander's tanned skin, but Wesker wasn't focusing on that. Instead, he was trying to stop and organize the sudden rush of images through his mind, all blurred and bizarre. He also heard a scream and a gunshot, and everything left him momentarily disconcerted. In spite of that, the brown-haired Wesker didn't take advantage of his confusion, but he instead spoke to him in a low voice.

"Oh, so this rings a bell…" he remarked. "Well, it was actually you who inflicted this wound and, now that I remember, it wasn't very pleasant." He drew a sharp intake of air, the grip around his throat tightening considerably.

"I've never met you before; don't say such nonsense," Wesker's reply was prompt; he had quickly gathered his wits. Alexander scoffed.

"You'll find out about it eventually."

Ignoring the pain as much as possible, only coughing through clenched teeth, Alexander brought down his heel on Wesker's arm, a blow which only made him wince ever so slightly. Even though his legs were thrashed and literally burned, it was as if pain was an unknown concept to Alexander. His endurance was remarkable.

They exchanged fierce blows between one another and performed moves than only 'supernatural' people would be able to. With each moment that transpired, Wesker was surer and surer that Alexander wasn't anything close to human. His strength, his stamina, his reflexes: they were all unnatural. He couldn't dodge all of Wesker's movements, but Alexander could very well stand his ground against him for three more hours if he wanted to. At some points, Wesker could see there was no way to hit him; he avoided every single blow, which left one only choice: improvisation.

A doppelganger's demise is like a broken mirror: once it can't mirror your actions anymore, it's weak and vulnerable.

There came a point where Alexander showed the best —but not the last— of his moves: he dodged a powerful crescent kick from Wesker only bending backwards to the extreme, his face showing no actual strain or effort when performing the move. Then, he leaned his hands on the floor, performing the typical bridge, and focused all of his body's weight in the back of his hands as he lifted his legs from the ground. As he did that, they closed around Wesker's hip and Alexander impressively lifted him up and thrust him forward with a cry in pain and effort. Wesker landed on the ground soon; he wasn't pushed too far, but the force of the impact left him stunned when he bumped his head against the cold floor.

A slight sensation of nausea and queasiness overcame him for a few moments, and a bolt of surprise ran through his body as he noticed Alexander diving towards him, his feet straight ahead. Wesker stood up on one knee and stopped Alexander's feet a mere distance away from his face, but it was then when he realized he had grasped only one foot; the other one was already moving towards his face with an incredible speed and force. His face literally burned when he received the blow but it surprisingly disappeared in less than five seconds. Wesker was forced to let go of Alexander and he stood up, cursing the almighty pain in his whole head.

Out of precaution, Alexander jumped back, leaning against the wall as both he and Wesker rested for the little time they had before resuming the fight. In spite of not feeling tired, Alexander was panting, taking long and slow breaths as he tried to stop the blood flowing from his lip and nose. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, his knees threatening to buckle, and he took a hand to his injured stomach. When he withdrew it and glanced at it, it was stained with blood: his skin was bleeding profusely.

Wesker, on the other hand, looked mildly better than Alexander, although he too had received a good beating. Alexander was impossibly strong and agile, and it was the first time Wesker had had to fight with such focus, caution and vigour. He wasn't bleeding as much as Alexander, but the harsh blow to his face had left a bleeding mark along his cheekbone and his temple. It somewhat surprised him to feel warm blood flowing down his neck; when had it been the last time he'd seen something such as his blood?

Alexander chuckled. "You… haven't lost any of your faculties, Albert; I'm certainly impressed. Neither have I though, mind you," he remarked with a crooked smile. "You've already seen so."

Then, Wesker was in front of him in less than the blink of an eye, something that caught Alexander off guard. He dodged the oncoming blow for only inches and he toppled over when his right leg failed him and caused him an ankle sprain. He winced inadvertently, fortunately being able to stand up with only a small effort of his injured leg along with the left one, and he quickly whirled around to keep Wesker in sight. The blonde couldn't help an inner chant of victory when he noticed the look of trepidation that had flashed across Alexander's normally confident features. It had gone as fast as it had come, but it was still clearly seen.

Even now, he's still afraid of dying.

"What have you done to yourself?" asked Wesker.

"Referring to what, exactly?" Alexander countered, trying to calm the burning pain in his lower body. Wesker adopted a stance that reflected his nonchalance and he shrugged his shoulders.

"In 1968, you were twenty-five and you still look like it, possibly a few years older, no more than thirty-four. If I'm not wrong, you must be in your sixties now, correct?" He posed. Alexander allowed himself a faint smile.

"Oh, you mean that… Well, it was a stupid yet quite useful gift from Spencer. It was a reward due to the success of the 'Wesker Children'. It was a modified T-virus sample; of course, modified by me." He shrugged. "If not, I would've mutated, my body would've decayed and I believe I would've had a bullet in my skull and would've been buried a good bunch of feet underground… and that wouldn't have been nice."

When Wesker didn't say anything, he finally realized the intention of his question.

"Exactly," intervened Wesker now with a small nod. "It seems you have seen the point of my question."

Alexander nodded sadly.

"Yes, I have. To put it simply, all my abilities are unrelated to the virus' effects. I learnt and developed my skills as I acted as a trainer for a few children. As you might expect, I wasn't a match for their amplified capabilities, so I trained as hard as I could. This is the result… and with my current age, it isn't easy getting used to it again." He smirked. "Don't fret; I'm still no match for you. You won't have any difficulties beating me."

"I had no doubts about that, Alexander."

Alexander chuckled again, almost bitterly. "Ha, now you're going to attack with the typical 'It-was-just-a-warm-up' comeback?"

Wesker shook his head.

"I would've said so in another occasion; not now, though."

Alexander would've smiled, but he laughed instead. "A tone as arch as always, eh?" He grinned. "Although it's nice to see you show the little sense of humour you have. Well, you're in your right to be confident now; I'm an easy prey for you to kill, after all."

He sighed.

"I can't move; my leg muscles are completely thrashed and I think a good bunch of fibres are torn in both legs. I don't know why I'm still standing, certainly; must be sheer willpower. You have your chance now; don't waste it."

Wesker stole a short glance at Alexander's feet, and the man's words were true: a pool of blood was forming at his shoes. Judging by the speed of its formation, Alexander's legs had to be bleeding pretty badly.

Even his skin has been torn apart. Such strain and he still kept fighting… truly commendable, but it's useless now. I am going to kill him after all.

Wesker wasted no time: with one quick movement, he had appeared in front of Alexander and had impaled his chest with his hand; Alexander deserved no other death. Alexander's eyes widened and he groaned through gritted teeth again, the groan having menaced to transform into a hearty cry as the pain coursed through his body and made it feel as if it was on fire. Alexander made the huge effort of holding on to what little life he had left and his expression became sombre.

"O…kay, this… this is what I… asked…f-for," He breathed, trying not to choke on his own blood. "Lemme tell you… s-something… Don't… fall… into the… sea… Be wary…"

His voice trailed off, weak and hoarse. With the last energies he had, he quickly glanced at Wesker, who kept his gaze firmly fixed up ahead, his expression one of impassive serenity.

Before touching the ground, before Wesker pulled his hand away, Alexander Wesker was dead, a faint smile touching his lips.

Albert kept still, not even bothering to shake the blood off his sleeve, not even flinching when he heard Alexander's lifeless body fall to the floor. He felt joyful, impassive and despondent, all at the same time, all the emotions clashing between one another to finally declare the winner which would be what he felt. He felt joyful: he had finally killed one of the main dampers; he felt impassive: why would he have to care about that?; and he felt despondent: why had he done that? He had killed his father after all, the father that had raised him for most of his life.

What importance was there in that fact?

Wesker answered that question.

All the importance the fact has, and even more… if I may add, he thought as he looked one last time at the fallen Alexander.

In silence, with no thoughts crossing his mind, he spun on his heels and left the building. There, he was leaving his life: who he had been, what he had been, what he'd done and what he'd felt; it was his past, and there would be no more pondering about it. He had decided to bury it, to lock it away and throw the key so that no one would even find it. It would be like ashes scattered in the wind.

In spite of his intentions, Wesker decided to keep a little bit in mind, something he soon found himself cherishing. Fortunately, having gone through that horrible —and many other times, traumatic— experience hadn't affected him in the least. Sure, it could've possibly caused bizarre nightmares or painful flashbacks, but everything had nurtured the other thing he cherished most: that burning hatred and strong aversion towards the world that surrounded him. It was his strength, what had and would help him to carry on, undeterred.

Now, it was time to face the future.

'Don't fall into the sea', huh? My wings are unbreakable. They're strong, stronger than anything in this world, and powerful; they will help me reach the sky and, with that, my goal. I am the new Icarus, one that will not suffer the same fate. I will keep flying, with nothing to stop me.

Too bad he didn't know the consequences.

Even if Icarus had been wary and had listened to Daedalus, his greed and his eagerness would have come before his inevitable fall.

*

Animus Sollicitus (Confused Soul)

He didn't notice the small package until he examined the room more thoroughly. He had come through the door expecting to find the room as untouched as he'd left it. Everything was perfectly in place, at the same time it wasn't; he had noticed something strange, something at first he couldn't quite describe. At first, he had found nothing wrong so he then proceeded to make himself comfortable in the hotel room again, leaving his mind empty of all thoughts.

He felt uneasy. He didn't want to think, he didn't want to feel, he didn't want to do anything, and he meant it quite literally. On the contrary to his nature, he now felt somewhat weak and despondent, things which he berated himself inwardly for. It was completely unnatural of him to feel so negative; he had such pessimism invading his being that any normal person would've fallen into depression or would've most likely turned to something like masochism.

But he, Albert Wesker, couldn't not allow it.

He was strong, incredibly strong, and not only physically. He had endured many of the things life had thrown in his way, overcoming them with no kind of 'collateral damage' to himself, something which he was proud of. He had shielded himself from even life itself, protecting his feelings —what he truly was— from the many people and events that had tried to harm it, to destroy it, to make it collapse like a fragile tower of cards, never to be lifted again.

He was strong, incredibly strong, and not only physically.

Then why the hell was he feeling like this all of a sudden? Why was that front he had struggled to strengthen over the years feeling like it was about to break into tiny pieces? Why was there no explanation or reason to why that hate he'd kept alive and burning in his soul was starting to extinguish itself like a feeble flame? There were so many whys and so scarce answers, almost practically none. Well, he was a patient man and he had obtained everything he wanted because of that patience and persistence, so why would he doubt about those answers coming? Why would he, when he doubted it in those same instants?

Up until now, even after those thirty minutes of silence and thorough pondering, he still hasn't figured it out.

He shifts in the armchair, crossing his arms and letting out an audible sigh; he's alone, so he doesn't have to refrain from doing so. He's alone, engulfed by a darkness which is solely slightly disturbed by the city lights from the other side of the big window and which is thanked by his tired and sensible gaze. Then, he does nothing, he says nothing; he only keeps thinking, literally racking his brains harder than ever before. Whoever said that science or anything in this world was much more difficult than understanding a human soul, was telling a lie.

Right now, he understands nothing about himself. Everything seemed so clear before, as clear as the crystalline surface of a river until its calmness was disturbed and the bottom of that river is lost from sight. Now, he finds himself like a cracked mirror, once intact and perfect. The mirror is about to shatter and the pieces about to scatter and, if they do, it'll be very complicated to put them all together again. He's just like that… although he doesn't want to see the mirror shatter, of course.

Finally, he stands up and mildly lights up the room, only the necessary for him to see his way around the elegant room. Surprisingly, it is then when he finds a small rectangular package resting on top of the bedside table. He nears the table and picks the package up, reading the addressee —himself— and the sender, which is not specified; he finds that section completely blank. Suspicious, he opens the envelope and peeks inside it, only to find a small book.

With no words and no thoughts about it, he takes it out and examines it, taking out a folded sheet of paper that is sticking out from the pages. Once he glances at it, his eyes instinctively skim over the paper and stop at the end, only to find a few initials —some kind of code— as the sender's signature.

WCS01/AW

At first, he ignores the code and proceeds to read the letter; of course, the code would certainly help him afterwards. The handwriting was clear and elegant, as if whoever had written it had thought about it carefully, without any spontaneity. It read like this:

Right now, there is no need to introduce myself, since you've already met me and I'm more than dead at this point (thank goodness, by the way). Well, what are we going to do about it? It was inevitable, really, though maybe not so. I could've never called you; then I could've kept on living until my days were finally over as I died of old age. If I had chosen that though, you would've been kept in the dark for the rest of your life, and you yourself would've died with a nagging feeling if it wasn't for my initiative; something I've always lacked, mind you.

To get to the point —and please forgive my rant above—, I planned on giving you this once I learnt that you were still alive after the Arklay mansion incident, but you went into hiding; you almost disappeared. It was then when I decided to make plans of my own to meet you after a good while. I've met you now, and I'm glad I have.

This book is... hm, I'm not quite sure I want to reveal the secret but I have to: this book is you diary, Albert. Impressive, isn't it? To think someone like you would write something like this… Well, do believe me because it is quite true.

This is the last piece of information you need to examine; it'll give you the rest of the answer you've sought all these years. I thought it would do as a nice —though early— Christmas present. I am quite a joker, so don't take that seriously; of course, I didn't expect you to. Take your time to read it and please, don't throw it as if it were something worthless. I didn't get to say any last words, so do take these into account, just as my last request.

These are your memories, Albert, and though you're not an amnesiac, you sure seemed to have lost everything. I suggest you remember and relive them; it'll do you some good, trust me. At least, it was good for me… but you're not like me, so…

Well, with nothing else I say goodbye for the last time. I hope to see you in a better place.

Take care, Aaron.

P.S: Along certain entries, you'll find some more notes from me; you need the explanations, you deserve them.

His interest piqued, he proceeds to having a glance at the first page of the book. It's blank, so he moves on to the next, which is full this time. He quickly turns the pages, finds there are a lot of entries and photographs glued to some sides of the papers. One of the entries catches his attention, so he reads it carefully. It is all written in German, a language he understands perfectly.

I am German, after all, he thinks, and starts reading.

**

Contemptus (Despised)

January 10th, 1965.

It's really nice to write here. I don't care if I repeat myself: this is like the friend I'll never have.

School hasn't been good today —'Kindergarten', just like mom tells me to call it. The other kids there aren't nice. I'm not asking for them to be of course, but at least they could save their smart and cruel remarks they make about me and my family. They think I'm only there to brag about how much I know; they're just jealous and they look down on me. It's their problem: I have a privileged intelligence and I don't plan on wasting it on stupid reasoning. Well, I don't care about what they say: I'll show them! I'll be even better than I am now and then it'll be me who'll look down on them! They will not despise me anymore!

I am getting angry because I can't stand the lies. I was a new boy in school and everybody was gentle with me —that, of course, was just a cover. Then, when I started showing my talents, I was treated like a smart-ass and an arrogant brat. I talked to the teachers at first and they helped me a little bit: they scolded those who wanted to pick fights with me, but they don't do anything anymore. I'm going to handle this myself, my own way. I will show them, I swear. I won't let them get away with this.

**

Amor (Love)

February 20th, 1965 (Night)

Such amazing news I have! My gosh, I'm having a little sister! Right now I'm in the hospital in the waiting room; I'm brimming with anticipation and nervousness. Papa told me being a big brother was something very special and important and, as such, I have to be a responsible boy. I'm going to do my best, that was my promise to him. Papa is as anxious as I am, even more!

Well, the doctor's coming with news, I'll write more afterwards!

**

Next to that entry there's a photograph. He glances at it, examining the people in it with care, and sadness slowly invades his heart. It's a very weak feeling, but it still nags him.

He sees a blonde boy —Aaron, himself— with a faint but joyful smile on his youthful and handsome face, and he is holding a pretty five month old baby in his arms. She is holding his fingers in one hand and the collar of his T-shirt in another, and her bright blue eyes stare curiously at his. She's pouting, a mild scowl on her pale face very similar to his brother's.

Their parents are standing behind him, a kind and warm smile on both of their faces. His father was brown-haired, his hair cut short, and his brown eyes shone warmly with affection. His mother was very alike: her hair was also brown and it reached under her chin, with a wavy fringe bordering her eye. Albert notices the similarity between him and her: their eyes are exactly the same.

'Your eyes are just like your mother's, kiddo, but you look more like me though. There, the answer's useful, right?'

Now, he focuses on himself again, staring at the young boy. Aaron —It's me; I still have to remind myself— looks happy and pleased with his life, but his eyes tell quite the opposite. The gleam in those blue hues is the one of a sad child's, a child who's bottled everything up within him, rarely letting anything show. It was because of the exhibition of his emotions that he had been teased and bullied and looked down upon —he remembers— and he knows that situation hasn't changed at all. Throughout his life, many people have looked down on him, some have even tried to kill him —not only his nemesis, but many more before him— but he had never given up. He always rose again, overcame the obstacles and placed himself above them.

Now, knowing this, he finds himself unwilling and unable to tear away his gaze from the photograph, noticing how his awe grows and tugs at his heart. For the first time in years, he feels like that. His chest is heavy and there's a knot in the pit of his stomach. No matter many times he spun the coin around, the faces were always going to be same; the same was with his life. No matter how he tried to approach it and find out more about it, he always saw the same: the world hated him.

No worries though: I'll make sure I hate the world as much as it hates me.

He turns the page, stumbling across an entry dated much later: January of the next year. Whatever had caused him to stop writing for so long? He soon finds out and his jaw clenches tightly.

**

Solum (Alone)

January 31st, 1966

Jenell, my little sister isn't here with me today. She's gone with mom and papa to the doctor's office again; I don't know how many times they've gone there this month. This last year has been horribly busy; we've had to look after Jenell very carefully. Two months ago, she was diagnosed with tuberculosis, a disease she's inherited from papa. She's okay for now, although the doctor's think she won't live a long time. I have to protect her and take care of her; I won't let her die.

Note: I'll tell you something, Albert: your sister is still alive. You'll find something more on ahead; don't worry.

**

Then, he starts feeling something else, a nagging feeling just like the type Alexander had described: now, he needed to know about her, about Jenell. How could he ignore something such as his family? Of course, he hadn't been conscious of their existence until now but, now that he knew, that he knew he had parents and a sister, how could he leave them aside? Normally, he wouldn't have minded but after waiting for so long and being so patience, the first thing he wished for was an answer, and a good one.

He keeps on reading with a certain amount of awe, predicting that something bad was going to happen.

**

Diluo (Resolve)

March 1st, 1966 (Night)

Today's been a nice day: I've turned six, and it feels nice to be older. Now, I'm one step closer to my goals. I didn't get many things, but it's alright. Considering the conditions we live in, I've always been very modest; the sensation of selfishness is not something I want to experience. At least, Jenell's still here, so that's fine; I think that's my present today. I don't want her to leave us; I won't let anything or anyone take her away from me. She's my sister and I love her. There's nothing I wouldn't do for her.

Note: Ask yourself, Albert: why did you love her? I mean, there's nothing wrong with that kind of emotion, correct? Love is something natural, whether it's towards something or someone; you yourself must've experienced that by now, right? Think about it.

**

Albert stops reading and blinks as he lets out a long sigh, somewhat crestfallen. 'I love her'… Why did those words mean so much to him now? It was so strange: what did love, for that matter, mean to him? It was something he'd barely experienced in his life, something almost nonexistent for him. But now, he feels wistfulness: to be honest, he's missed her, he wants to see her —at least, one more time.

The next page shows another photograph with Albert and Jenell in it. She's sleeping in his arms with a hand clutching his black sweater, her expression peaceful and relaxed. Seeing Jenell again makes his anticipation grow, and he takes his clenched fists to his lips as he purses them, as if trying to keep himself from speaking.

Now that he notices, he can't speak: the words had died long ago in his throat, and there were none to say. His chest keeps feeling heavy, and he despises the sensation. He's even embarrassed with himself, but he can't avoid it. If emotions were useless, he asks himself, why hatred and anger weren't? Didn't they also make a person weak? This is the dilemma going on in his head. He stays silent for a few more seconds until he glances at the diary again.

He skims through the pages until he sees another date which calls his attention: December 19th, 1967. And then he doesn't need to read the contents: the glance at the date is the only thing he needs to remember everything. Somehow, he feels queasy and his stomach clenches. Images flash through his mind almost painfully in a rapid, bizarre succession but everything is clear. He closes his eyes and finds himself reliving a scene he didn't think that existed in his memories. It all transpires very quickly, but he can recall all of it: every sensation, every detail, every movement.

Note: This is what I was talking about. Read it, Albert: this was your past, this was your rebirth as a new person. Find out about it; maybe you'll grant me a second death once we see each other in Hell.

**

Cruentus Noctem (Blood-red night)

When he comes through the door, he hears Jenell squeal in happiness as she crawls near him. She attempts to stand up and she barely keeps her balance, those little legs of hers still unable to support her weight. Before she falls, he picks her up in his arms and pinches her nose with a faint smile as he and his mother, Erika, walk inside the dining room and their father greets them there. The boy knows he's been the whole afternoon fixing an old armchair, so he quickly kneels next to him to see if he can help. Ludwig dismisses him with a smile, and he goes up with Jenell to his room.

Then, just moments later, Erika bursts inside room, her expression one of horror, and the boy jumps in surprise. As Erika closes the door behind her, he hears his father's yells from the lower floor and the strong noises of falling furniture and breaking glass. He fears for his life, for his family's, and the cruelty of the situation is that he cannot do anything for them. Erika's blue eyes search for Jenell, despair and true horror in her gaze.

"Mom, what's happening?!" The boy's voice quivers with the same horror that's present on his mother's features. His mother doesn't reply to his question but picks Jenell up in her arms and yanks at Aaron's wrists, pulling him out of the room and heading downstairs to the back door. Through the door, they rush outside, away from danger.

We can't leave papa alone! He cries in his mind as he desperately runs behind his mother. Why was she leaving him behind? What was happening? Jenell cries in Erika's strong and protective arms, and her mother keeps the baby girl's face hidden in her shoulder, and Aaron also feels the tears stinging at his eyes. They sting, and one of them spills and runs down his cheek.

Then, a gunshot.

"Papa!!" Aaron skids to a stop and returns inside the house, calling for his father at the top of his lungs. His mother screams his name but he doesn't listen. He keeps running, but he falls down. He slips and he hits his head against something very hard, and his vision blurs with tears. He only hears a cacophony; there are no distinguishable sounds. Still stunned, he stands up, staggering, and he heads into the dining room. There, he finds the scene that would haunt his mind for the rest of his days.

And he starts crying, unable to keep his shoulders from convulsing with his shaky sobs.

His father is lying on the carpet, a pool of his own blood forming under him, and a bullet hole piercing the right side of his chest. His eyes are open, staring lifelessly at one side; his skin is ghostly white and his chest doesn't rise or fall with his breathing. Aaron suddenly knows his father is dead; there is no other way around it.

He shouts his father's name as he kneels beside him. As his knees and hands touch the ground, he lets out a cry in pain as the bits and shards of sharp glass he hadn't seen pierce his flesh, drawing blood instantly. He tries to ignore the pain but it feels like fire and the wounds keep bleeding, the amount of flowing blood gradually increasing. His hands tremble without any kind of control, and his pride hurts as much as the wounds. Then, a part of his mind tells him to stand up, look for the murderer and kill him, but another one —the most rational and sensible—orders him to remain still and think reasonably: what chances does he have against the murderer?

He hears footsteps approaching, the splinters and glass cracking underfoot, and Aaron lifts his blue tear-filled eyes to the stranger. His grey gaze bores into the boy's, who feels an incredible fit of rage run through his body, the adrenaline and the anger running through his veins. He can't control the emotion; it brims and it becomes clear: his eyes reflect it, gleaming fiercely. Though he can't speak; the words have died in his lips and his throat is parched. The stranger doesn't speak either, only stands ominously in front of him.

Erika barges inside in a hurry, her face contorting with shock and horror once again as she catches sight of her husband's body. To the boy's horror, Jenell isn't in her arms anymore and a pang of fear assails his heart, feeling as if he'd just been stabbed.

"Where's Jenell?!" he shouts, his voice hoarse and forced. But Erika ignores him, her gaze fixed upon the stranger. She only stands quiet and very, very still, as if she was standing before Death itself and watching it deliberately make its decision very slowly. Who would he take: Aaron or her? Her legs are shaking in spite of her self-control and then, what Aaron was fearing.

The stranger reaches into his long black coat and slowly pulls out a gun, and Erika sees everything unfold in slow motion. She knows who's he going to shoot, who's he going to take away from her, and she makes her decision without thinking it through.

As the man trains the gun on a defenceless and injured Aaron who is about to stand up and run, Erika runs towards her son and becomes an obstacle in the bullet's predestined path. The bullet leaves the gun and pierces Erika's shoulder, and she shouts in pain. In spite of that, she kneels in front of Aaron and protects him, shielding his body with hers, and he stares at his mother's tired face in utter shock.

Her breathing is laboured and almost deliberately slow, and the realization harshly dawns upon him. He calls her name, offers his protection, but Erika doesn't allow him to stand and she stays there, her face low and sombre as she keeps on breathing as much as she can. The stranger doesn't move, the gun still trained on Erika, and she turns her head around, fixating him with a cool, icy stare that sends chills through Aaron's spine.

"You won't take my son," she tells the stranger fiercely. Both the stranger and Aaron are genuinely surprised at the edge in Erika's voice, which is cold as ice and sharp as a blade.

This is why Aaron has always admired his mother beyond the point of loving her: she is strong and determined; love is what drives her to do what she does, nothing else. And this is why Aaron also has to be strong, to live like her. Erika is like an impenetrable wall, sometimes being able to be heartless and cold, being able to numb her soul from any kind of emotion. At the same time, she's kind and impossibly loving, but all those emotions are very frequently locked up and away. The times she displays them, she does it to the extreme and shows the person she truly is.

The wound in her shoulder keeps bleeding, but she pays no attention to it. Slowly, one hand closes around Aaron's and the other leans his head against her chest. Aaron is numb with fear: everything he loves is about to be taken away from him; why doesn't his mother allow him to do anything? He swore on his soul that he'd protect his family if they were in danger; why had they sacrificed themselves? Why was his mother about to die when he could've done something about it? He still can! He has to fight!

But the kiss in the forehead he receives from Erika only leaves him frozen in his place, understanding, the realization being to hard to accept. At the same time, it only makes a hidden killer instinct awaken and flourish; the anger in his soul starts to run through his veins. He's going to stand up but Erika stops him, her eyes looking straight into his. Both mother and son understand: she's not going to live; her life ends right here, right now.

Aaron tries to say his mother's name again, but the lump in his throat only allows him to mouth it. His blood runs cold now, and his innocent eyes are filled with fear as she stares at his mother's sad eyes for one last time.

The stranger finally talks.

"Then there is no point in keeping you alive. Since you won't turn him in, there's nothing else you're useful for; I'd take him myself," he says, and his finger squeezes the trigger.

The bullet hits Erika's neck, blood gushes out as it breaks the flesh, and she drops dead beside him.

Then, there is rage, anguish, despair, fear, anger, irrationality; every kind of emotion washes over Aaron like a tidal wave, and he opts to act out of irrationality and rage.

As such, almost allowing himself to be blinded by them, he springs forward and tries with all his might to hit the stranger but he's not able to land a blow. He shouts, desperately fighting to control himself, but everything is unleashed now; it's unstoppable. He blinks away the tears in his eyes; he won't give the stranger the pleasure of seeing him cry.

Then, as the man bends forward, Aaron slaps his cheek and leaves gashes across it; the glass in his hand was still handy, after all. The man lets out a short cry in pain but he soon recovers, knocking Aaron down with a single blow.

He stumbles to the ground, forcing himself to stay awake and conscious. Even so, his ears suddenly feel plugged and all he hears is an undistinguishable cacophony, suddenly noticing he is slowly slipping into unconsciousness. Try as he might, he cannot keep his eyes open…

And the last thing he sees is flames engulfing and destroying his house. They were burning his past, his present, and his future. Now, there was no turning back. From now on, he feels -he knows- nothing will be the same.

**

As he remembers, he realizes he's broken.

His heart has never been so racked with pain, sorrow and renewed hate; he doesn't know what to do now that he's found out. He repeatedly tells himself to calm down, that it's all useless, the sentence feeling just like a precious karma he's never abandoned. He would've never cared about matters like this; they would've just been harmless to the hard wall of ice that shielded his heart. Even so, the revelations, one after another, have finally scratched the wall's surface, until it's been right from the inside through where the wall has cracked and collapsed.

He takes slow and paused breaths in an attempt to control the wave of emotions that washes over him; he has to keep them on a leash. It's the first time it happens and, as such, he's not used to the pain it causes.

He leans on his knees, the attempts to calm down completely futile. He clenches his fists until his knuckles are completely white and he lets his head hang limply. He's more than furious; he swears revenge on the world. Yes, Spencer was dead, Alexander was also, but he knows there are still more people left, people who had helped both of them to take away the humanity which humans can't live without.

In any case, he's always known he's been all but human, virus or not, project or not. He's been ambitious, he's been power-hungry, he's been egocentric and all those personas according to which a personality is crafted.

Somehow, now his humanity returns, only to make him more inhuman than ever.

And he remains alone in the dark, tearlessly grieving and mourning a life he considered his own no more. It's all gone; everything he was and has been is gone forever, like smoke into the air. Aaron Geller, Albert Wesker… they're two people he'll forget but will keep in his mind; they are his foundations, his beginning and his end, his alpha and his omega. They are evolutions, Wesker that of Geller's, but they are also the same; there are no differences. They are all driven by the same thing.

And that is hate.

Albert Wesker accepts the truth, no hesitation or doubt to impede him from doing so. The humour and the anticipation of a madman take over him, and he chuckles. His anticipation grows; he can't wait any longer! He's anxious and impatient; it's all coming to an end, only to start again! His chuckles transform into laughs, laughs he can't control no matter how much he tries. Is he insane? He doesn't know, and he certainly doesn't care. It was all so very hysterical; right now, he was laughing in front of everyone's face: the world's, Death's, God's!

It's all hate and madness, revenge and resent. The new Albert Wesker is born out of this, like a phoenix rising again from its ashes. This is how he is born.

This is how gods are born.

---

A/N: We've almost reached the end of this story; the only thing left is the alternate ending. From the end of this chapter, you can guess what happens next: RE5. This turned out to be pretty long, huh? But I hope it was worth it. Stay tuned for the next!^^ Oh, you can also follow this in DeviantArt.

Reviews are appreciated!^^

A/N#2: Chapter has been edited, many mistakes have been corrected all thanks to Maiafay. Thank you!^^