A/N: Welcome back! It's about to earn the M rating. You have been warned.
DarkGothElegantGirl22: As my favorite reviewer I am very glad you like it! Seriously, Wesker has a blond chick in a catsuit with her boobs hanging out at his beck and call. Excella had to be pissed! She's a sort of predatory Juliet isn't she? Frighteningly single minded. Macbeth is like watching a train wreck but you can't look away. Madness at its best. I think Dream!Brad and Dream!Joseph will be back, but I'm not sure how yet.
The Wild One
A wise ruler ought never to keep faith when by doing so it would be against his interests.
-Niccolo Machiavelli
Red soles. Artificial bloody footprints.
A smirk tugs the corners of his mouth. The shoe sits on the table in front of him, her clothes strewn haphazardly about his booted feet.
Fashionable expensive bloody footprints. So like her.
Only the best for an heiress brought by the Old Country. Still a disappointment. From Italy homeland of Machiavelli he had expected a more devious mind. Not one so easy to manipulate with promises of power and eternal youth. Such naivete was so unexpected.
He who wishes to be obeyed must know how to command.
Long hands slip a dark shirt over a muscular chest. Wesker doesn't look twice Excella's age but he feels the gap of understanding like language barrier. She is the brightest, crudest bit of coloring he has ever seen. A painter's muse. Fiery and tempestuous. Without much subtlety.
Gods paint in blood and flesh. Not oil and color.
The wrong muse. Too overt.
He turns the shoe over in his hands. From the bed comes the sound of Excella's even breathing.
In his mind he sees the bloody footprints of a real warrior, not the princess in her tower playing dress up. A pale warrior. He fights the impulse to scowl out of principal.
Across the room the girl turns restlessly. Never still even in sleep.
A book sits beside her left shoe. Romeo and Juliet. An odd counterpoint to the red soled black stiletto.
Her favorite. A girl's unrealistic fantasy.
For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo. Like us she says.
Dead white teeth peek between pale lips. How can she confuse a lust-driven boy with him? Foolish girl.
So sincere. So single minded she is in this "love." She chose a poor Romeo.
He has no intentions of dying over one so lowly as her.
Hellfire eyes watch her movements from behind dark lenses. Thoughtful.
It was the wrong love story for Excella.
Cleopatra or Titania maybe. Arrogant seductive women. But Juliet?
Juliette would be innocent, fragile, helpless. Nothing like the body laid out before him. Tan skin glowing, dark rumpled hair loose on her pillow a sheet merely emphasizing her figure without any illusion of modesty. A woman to make blood flow to forbidden places. Sensual and cruel.
Wesker is unmoved.
What is the beauty of women compared to the beauty of creation?
Being officially dead was becoming tiresome. The woman before him was becoming tiresome. Her desire to make changes to his plans irked him. Especially recently.
P30 is just an aside. Why can't she understand that?
Long pale fingers drop the shoe in disgust. He can smell the odor of humanity, of her. The stink is overpowering. Silently he heads for the door.
To wash the stench off. The smell of decay, of lingering death.
Of mortality.
Musk and decay.
Sex and corpses.
Disgusting. Necrophiliac he is not. Breaking in a new pharmaceutical CEO at this stage is a waste of precious time though. He will have to make the sacrifice.
So many things he has endured for his vision. This is just a small sacrifice. He could change her with his virus but he has no desire to. Pretending to be a closet hopeless romantic for eternity is as repulsive as her stench.
She will die.
The Queen of Hearts flashes in his mind.
Excella is not worthy.
A thought rises. Unbidden.
Half a building away is a blue eyed girl who still carries the ironic air of innocence, of fragility despite her strength.
A blue eyed girl who does not smell of mortality. The one who had moved him long ago.
He is too surprised to stifle the hissing intake of breath.
R.P.D. coffee tasted like thick black day old hell. An acquired taste. Wesker scrubs his mug while it slowly finishes brewing. The rest of the station doesn't brew it right. Somehow they make it worse.
Light footsteps down the hall. The smell of tuna. An impatient meow.
Damnit.
She is feeding the cat again.
"Al. Albert. Al. Come here Al!"
Albert the cat. Her station "boyfriend."The cat doesn't like anyone else. Just her.
The males in R.P.D. completely understand why Al likes her. Wesker understands most.
A frustrated hiss threatens to crawl out his throat.
Jill Valentine talks to the cat like a lover. Like a fucking phone sex operator, breathy and low. A voice belonging to sinful dreams. His cock is like Pavlov's dog when she uses that voice. Twitching, eager.
Dripping.
He hates it. Hates the cat with a fiery passion. Hates fighting the urge to put her mouth to good use, to feel pink lips savoring something besides his name.
She is murmuring his name in that soft voice that turns him inside out. Without even talking to him. Sounding like she should be describing secret things. How wet she is, how she wants it, how bad she wants it...
A muscle twitches in his jaw. She will not do this to him.
Damn cat.
Long pale fingers scrub the coffee stains harder. Blue eyes flicker to the coffeemaker. Still brewing.
Slowly.
The urge to violently throw the mug into the wall rises.
She keeps on crooning meaningless pleasantries.
He wonders how much she can swallow. Stares at pink lips. Thankful of the shades hiding his eyes.
No way to escape without her noticing something. Fuck.
"Hey handsome. How are you today? Doing good Al? You've got the most beautiful eyes..."
Hands tighten on the mug. It obscene how wound up it makes him, how his mind brings up images of her stroking something else, how he can almost feel her little hand wrapped around aching flesh. Her eager lapping tongue.
Blue eyes stare at her hand running over the Al's back from behind dark lenses. Small hands. Capable hands.
Fuck.
He shuts his eyes, pushes the images away harshly barely breathing. If she notices he'll rip her goddamn blue eyes out of their sockets. No one has power over him unless he says so. Especially not some nothing rear security officer hired to be fucking combat data fodder. He's not a teenager unable to control his urges.
The breathy voice fades.
Black coffee burns his throat, the pain a welcome distraction as her footsteps fade down the corridor.
Red-gold eyes stare back at him, expression smug.
If cats could smile...
He considers poisoning the cat for the hundredth time. Or damaging Valentine's vocal chords.
No matter how many times he tries to master the urges, it never seems to work.
Wesker does not accept defeat.
Ever. He dreams of ripping out her tongue.
He buys a coffeemaker for his office the next day.
Buries the memory as deep as he can.
In an alabaster room unnaturally bright Albert Wesker stares at the card.
The Queen of Hearts.
Slams it face down on the table.
A variable. It will effect his plans. Too dangerous.
Pauses.
Or is it?
His coffeemaker is broken. Its a bad omen.
"Hey Alpha-Boss did you hear?" Forest Speyer should have been a gossipy old woman. Nose in everyone's business, mouth flapping to any ear that will listen. Half his information invariably wrong.
He has found another captive audience. Blue eyes glance at the coffeemaker. Still brewing. Perhaps the thing hates him.
What crazy new girlfriend does Frost have now? Or had Brad actually managed to bed the college girl he'd been basically stalking?
Wesker fights the urge to twitch. The station is almost a glorified frat house. Hiring Chambers and Valentine had toned it down. Some. Not nearly enough.
And stirred other things.
Forest doesn't wait for an answer. Stopping him once he's started is almost impossible.
"The pool's at four hundred now. Barry has the money in evidence. I'm betting she does the walk of shame in a month."
"Forest-" Quiet.
"Joe and Kevin are thinking three tops. -"
"Forest."Louder.
" Becca laughed her ass off and said he was friend-zoned -"
"Forest."Louder.
"And Enrico bet you'd put a stop to it -"
"Speyer." Hiss.
"Uh yes sir?"
"You realize it is completely unethical to gamble on the..er...liaisons of your fellow employees?"
"Uh is it sir?"
"Yes Forest. It. Is."
Silence.
"Who is the pool about?"
"Redfield and Valentine Sir."
"Ah." Irritation. Face carefully blank.
Wesker pours coffee, headache growing behind his eyes. The day couldn't get much worse.
Three days later one member of Bravo squad remains. The surviving S.T.A.R.S. are scattered.
The pool was never collected.
Wesker is disproportionately pleased by this.
It would destroy Redfield.
The Queen smiles enigmatically at him.
Dead white teeth grin back.
He will be death. She will be his pale horse.
A wild ride for his new world.
Love me or hate me both are in my favor...if you love me I'll always be in your heart...if you hate me I'll always be in your mind.
- William Shakespeare
Whew. Y'all are a tough crowd to get reviews from. Hopefully this will inspire some.