JACK KRAUSER

"Ungh…" Krauser's eyes fluttered open, visions of a deadly dance and bloodied blades swimming behind his eyes. He tried to sit up and failed, his chest burning fiercely. He bent his neck to look down at the gaping knife wound there, his breath flitting brokenly. He tried to lift his monstrous arms, but found them to be heavy as lead.

He was dying.

He sighed, smiling to himself. The rookie did a damn good job after all. Just seems to have missed his heart by a few inches, but he'd still die all the same. The closed drawbridge and stale air could tell him that much.

Not that he particularly wanted to live anyways. What had his life amounted to anyways? Betrayal after betrayal, the worst betrayal being that to himself.

He closed his eyes, letting the pain overtake him. It's what a dirty dog like him deserved.

And then–

Footsteps.

The Major's ears perked up then, but he kept his eyes closed. It would likely be Saddler's men. If he played dead long enough, they'd just leave him and let him die and eventually rot here.

"He doesn't look to be alive, sir," A voice spoke into a radio. "Shall we still retrieve the body for you? There's a fatal chest wound."

"Yes." A threatening voice sounded through the radio. "Bring him to me."

Krauser's eyes shot open. This wasn't Saddler, no, this was something else. He opened his mouth to speak, probably to argue, but nothing came out.

"Never mind, sir." A man clad in black tactical gear said. "He's alive. We might be able to save him. Still mutated."

"Good. We can make good use of him. Bring him in."

Krauser rolled his eyes. Of course. Just another man who wanted to use him as a dog. Just when he was ready to die.

He felt hands shifting him, lifting his body up. The sound of a chopper. Lights. Everything began coming to him in pieces, broken up by color and static.

Soon, there was only sway of being in a helicopter, the sound of rotating blades

Then nothing.

XXX

Krauser awoke in a blank white room, his chest feeling significantly better. He struggled to sit up for a few moments, but managed, resting his hands on his knees and breathing heavily. He had been stripped of his clothing and gear, wearing nothing but a hospital gown.

Now that he was awake and breathing properly, bandages wrapped around his chest, he…felt lucky to be alive. Leon had been merciless, and followed his final request with grace. For all intents and purposes, he should be dead. And yet, here he was.

Maybe it was for a reason. What that reason might be refused to be seen, so Krauser just focused on steadying his breathing, preparing for the next step.

Soon, the room's door slid open and revealed a sharp dressed and intimidating older man. He was tall and lean, with combed back blonde hair and sunglasses. Sunglasses, indoors? With a suit? Krauser fought back a chuckle despite himself.

"What do you want?" Krauser said bitingly. "I'm a little busy here."

"I'm sure." The man raised his brow. "Jack Krauser, I have a proposition for you, if you'll allow me."

Krauser leered at the man, remaining silent as he tried to map the room and just how much force it would take to knock the man on his ass and if his body still had that force–

Wait.

His arms.

He hadn't realized upon waking up, but his arms were human again. His left arm ached painfully like normal, the same scar still present. He blinked, confused and shocked by this development.

"Ah, have you realized that your arms have reverted to normal? It took you long enough." The man smirked cruelly before him.

Krauser felt foolish, but didn't let it show. "I was more focused on not being dead."

"Fair." The man straightened his sunglasses. "My name is Albert Wesker, and I'm offering you quite the deal. It would be a shame if you didn't take it and wasted my time."

Krauser leaned forward, his voice bitter. "And what is this deal of yours?" His mind was racing. The name, Albert Wesker, sounded familiar. His mind was still so cloudy though, he couldn't quite place it.

"I saved your life, repairing that dreadful wound in your chest. And then, I took it upon myself to examine that Plaga of yours. It couldn't be removed, but it could be modified–and so I modified it."

Krauser put a hand to his chest gently, feeling the bandages and soreness there. He imagined this man rooting about in his insides and had to suppress a sudden shiver. He wasn't exactly a personable or intimate man, and the idea of it made him sick.

"In modifying your Plaga, I was able to ensure that you could shift between your human and mutated forms at will." Wesker said. "Though your…disabilities are still present. Unfortunately those injuries are so old that we could not find a way to fix them. Not that it matters, since your body will only count when transformed. I modified the Plaga for your convenience, you see."

"Thanks." Krauser said dryly, the word dripping with sarcasm.

"I've dedicated a lot of time and resources to this project." Wesker smiled thinly. "Saving you, and making you into a new sort of B.O.W. It would be good for you to lose the attitude."

Krauser remained silent, his cold blue eyes glaring into the black void of Wesker's sunglasses.

"Hm. Nothing is better than something, I suppose." Wesker chuckled. "I want to offer you a job as one of my agents… I have big goals, you see, and am allying with a company by the name of Tricell. This world will be born anew, and I want to bring you with me. You'll complete missions for me, retrievals and executions. I had watched you in Spain, and was very impressed with your prowess, and had to have you for myself."

Krauser snorted. "And what's in it for me?"

"I'll pay you handsomely." Wesker tilted his head. "And I'll let you live."

Krauser looked away, considering. If there was one thing he was good at, it was following orders. The first time he had ever made a decision for himself was having Leon finish him off–and that had failed pretty miserably since he was here now.

What did he have now, after all? He was just a broken man with a broken, mutated body. He never fit into society, never had a family, never even really had friends. He had always been a shell, just a dog for someone, hadn't he?

What else was there to do? What was there to lose?

Leon's pleading during their battle, his admonishments, echoed in his head.

He shook them away.

"Deal." Krauser finally muttered. "I'll be your dog."

"Very good." Wesker smiled genuinely now. "Glad to hear it. I'll have dinner brought in for you then, your body must be famished after only being on a feeding tube for a few weeks."

Krauser shrugged. "I feel fine."

Wesker chuckled again, and Krauser got the sense that the man was usually not like this–he must've been very pleased with their arrangement. "How lovely for you. I think you and I will have a very good time as we pursue my new world, indeed."

He swiftly left the room, leaving Krauser all alone in the cold, stale air again. He stared down at his hands, turning them over. His eyes traced the scar that lined his left arm, his muscles aching tenderly. He flexed his hand, and found that he still had negligible grip strength in that hand. His right was fine though.

He was practically back to normal, at least as normal as he could be after he became disabled. And now, he could actually be useful to someone again. That meant something, right?

What am I doing?

XXX

Krauser settled into his new role quite nicely. After he had fully healed, he found that while shifting into his mutated form was painful, it happened smoothly. It made work easy. He always caught his prey off guard with that little party trick.

And catch prey he did. He hunted for Wesker like a true hound dog, hunting down those Wesker commanded him to without question and retrieving samples of viruses, money, or DNA. He fetched and was rewarded handsomely, living at the same complex Wesker did. He didn't have much use for the money, but he was thankful for a decent place to live. After his discharge from the military, he had struggled with homelessness before connecting to Los Illuminados. After living as a disabled veteran on the streets, he knew it would be a fear and pain that haunted him forever. Abandoned by the government and Army he had so cherished.

It made sense that he was a bioterrorist on two accounts now–an eye for an eye, that was the saying, right?

He settled into his new life easily, the hunting and retrievals honestly becoming monotonous. He let his mind go numb as he slashed and hacked, blood covering his body. He would hear Leon's voice echo in his ears and force it out. He would never be a good man. He was meant to be a slave.

And so that was what he would be. A servant of Wesker's carefully constructed chaos, and nothing more.

It was all he was good for.